Part 19 (1/2)

The Butcher, heavy with wonderment, obeyed mechanically--and P. Walton drew a rat-tail file from his pocket.

”I saw you in the express car this afternoon, and I went to the roundhouse for this when I left the office,” P. Walton said, as he set to work on the steel links. ”But I was feeling kind of down and out, and was going to leave you till to-morrow night--only I heard they were going to lynch you at midnight.”

”Lynch me!” growled the Butcher. ”What fer? They don't lynch a fellow 'cause he's nipped in a hold-up--we didn't kill no one.”

”Some of the cowboys are looking for amus.e.m.e.nt,” said P. Walton monotonously. ”They've distributed red-eye among the Polacks, for the purpose, I imagine, of putting the blame--on the Polacks.”

”I get you!” snarled the Butcher, with an oath. ”It's de Bar K Ranch--we took their payroll away from 'em two weeks ago. Lynchin', eh? Well, some of 'em 'll dance on air fer this themselves, blast 'em!

Dook, yer white--an' you always was. I thought me luck was out fer keeps to-day when Spud--you saw Spud, didn't you?”

”Yes,” said P. Walton, filing steadily.

”Spud always had a soft spot in his heart,” said the Butcher. ”Instead of drilling that devil, Nulty, when he had the chance, Nulty filled Spud full of holes, an' we fluked up--yer gettin' a bit of my wrist, Dook, with that d.a.m.ned file. Well, as I said, I thought me luck was out fer keeps--an' _you_ show up. Gee! Who'd have thought of seein'

de Angel Dook, de prize penman, de gem of forgers! How'd you make yer getaway--you was in fer twenty s.p.a.ces, wasn't you?”

”I think they wanted to save the expense of burying me,” said P.

Walton. ”The other wrist, Butch. I got a pardon.”

”What's de matter with you, Dook?” inquired the Butcher solicitously.

”Lungs,” said P. Walton tersely. ”Bad.”

”h.e.l.l!” said the Butcher earnestly.

There was silence for a moment, save only for the rasping of the file, and then the Butcher spoke again.

”What's yer lay out here, Dook?” he asked.

”Working for the railroad in the super's office--and keeping my mouth shut,” said P. Walton.

”There's nothin' in that,” said the Butcher profoundly. ”Nothin' to it!”

”Not much,” agreed P. Walton. ”Forty a month, and--oh, well, forty a month.”

”I'll fix that fer you, Dook,” said the Butcher cheerily. ”You join de gang. There's de old crowd from Joliet up here in de mountains. We got a swell layout. There's Larry, an' Big Tom, an' Dago Pete--Spud's cashed in--an' they'll stand on their heads an' yell Salvation Army songs when they hear that de slickest of 'em all--that's you, Dook--is buyin' a stack an' settin' in.”

”No,” said P. Walton. ”No, Butch, I guess not--it's me for the forty per.”

”Eh!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Butcher heavily. ”You don't mean to say you've turned parson, Dook? You wouldn't be lettin' me loose if you had.”

”No; nothing like that,” replied P. Walton. ”I'm sitting tight because I have to--until some one turns up and gives my record away--if I'm not dead first. I'm too sick, Butch, to be any use to you--I couldn't stand the pace.”

”Sure, you could,” said the Butcher rea.s.suringly. ”Anyway, I'm not fer leavin' a pal out in de cold, an'----” He stopped suddenly, and leaned toward P. Walton. ”What was it you said you was doin' in de office?”

he demanded excitedly.

”a.s.sistant clerk to the superintendent,” said P. Walton--and his file bit through the second link. ”You'll have to get the bracelets off your wrists when you get back to the boys--your hands are free.”

”Say,” said the Butcher breathlessly, ”it's a cinch! You see de letters, an' know what's goin' on pretty familiar-like, don't you?”

”Yes,” said P. Walton.