Happy Jack, butt of all their jokes and jibes; Happy the croaker, the lugubrious forecaster of trouble; Happy Jack, the ugliest, the stupidest, the softest-hearted man of them all. He had “betched” there would be someone killed, over these Dot sheep; he had predicted trouble of every conceivable kind; and they had laughed at him, swore at him, lied to him, “joshed” him unmercifully, and kept him in a state of chronic indignation, never dreaming that the memory of it would choke them and strike them dumb with that horrible, dull weight in their chests with which men suffer when a woman would find the relief of weeping.
“Where’s he hurt?” asked Weary, in the repressed tone which only tragedy can bring into a man’s voice, and knelt beside Big Medicine.
“I dunno—through the lungs, I guess; my sleeve’s gitting soppy right under his shoulder.” Big Medicine did not bellow; his voice was as quiet as Weary’s.
Weary looked up briefly at the circle of staring faces. “Pink, you pile onto Glory and go wire for a doctor. Try Havre first; you may get one up on the nine o’ clock train. If you can’t, get one down on the ’leven-twenty, from Great Falls. Or there’s Benton—anyway, git one. If you could catch MacPherson, do it. Try him first, and never mind a Havre doctor unless you can’t get MacPherson. I’d rather wait a couple of hours longer, for him. I’ll have a rig—no, you better get a team from Jim. They’ll be fresh, and you can put ’em through. If you kill ’em,” he added grimly, “we can pay for ’em.” He had his jack-knife out, and was already slashing carefully the shirt of Happy Jack, that he might inspect the wound.
Pink gave a last, wistful look at Happy Jack’s face, which seemed unfamiliar with all the color and all the expression wiped out of it like that, and turned away. “Come and help me change saddles, Cal,” he said shortly. “Weary’s stirrups are too darned long.” Even with the delay, he was mounted on Glory and galloping toward Flying U coulee before Weary was through uncovering the wound; and that does not mean that Weary was slow.
The rifle cracked again, and a bullet plucked into the sod twenty feet beyond the circle of men and horses. But no one looked up or gave any other sign of realization that they were still the target; they were staring, with that frowning painfully intent look men have at such moments, at a purplish hole not much bigger than if punched by a lead pencil, just under the point of Happy Jack’s shoulder blade; and at the blood oozing sluggishly from it in a tiny stream across the girlishly white flesh and dripping upon Big Medicine’s arm.
“Hadn’t we better get a rig to take him home with?” Irish suggested.
Weary, exploring farther, had just disclosed a ragged wound under the arm where the bullet had passed out; he made no immediate reply.
“Well, he ain’t got it stuck inside of ’im, anyway,” Big Medicine commented relievedly. “Don’t look to me like it’s so awful bad—went through kinda anglin’, and maybe missed his lungs. I’ve saw men shot up before—”
“Aw—I betche you’d—think it was bad—if you had it—” murmured Happy Jack peevishly, lifting his eyelids heavily for a resentful glance when they moved him a little. But even as Big Medicine grinned joyfully down at him he went off again into mental darkness, and the grin faded into solicitude.
“You’d kick, by golly, if you was goin’ to be hung,” Slim bantered tritely and belatedly, and gulped remorsefully when he saw that he was “joshing” an unconscious man.
“We better get him home. Irish, you—” Weary looked up and discovered that Irish and jack Bates were already headed for home and a conveyance. He gave a sigh of approval and turned his attention toward wiping the sweat and grime from Happy’s face with his handkerchief.
“Somebody else is goin’ to git hit, by golly, if we stay here,” Slim blurted suddenly, when another bullet dug up the dirt in that vicinity.
“That gol-darned fool’ll keep on till he kills somebody. I wisht I had m’ thirty-thirty here—I’d make him wisht his mother was a man, by golly!”
Big Medicine looked toward the coulee rim. “I ain’t got a shell left,” he growled regretfully. “I wisht we’d thought to tell the boys to bring them rifles. Say, Slim, you crawl onto your hoss and go git ’em. It won’t take more’n a minute. There’ll likely be some shells in the magazines.”
“Go on, Slim,” urged Weary grimly. “We’ve got to do something. They can’t do a thing like this—” he glanced down at Happy Jack— “and get away with it.”
“I got half a box uh shells for my thirty-thirty, I’ll bring that.” Slim turned to go, stopped short and stared at the coulee rim. “By golly, they’re comm’ over here!” he exclaimed.
Big Medicine glanced up, took off his hat, crumpled it for a pillow and eased Happy Jack down upon it. He got up stiffly, wiped his fingers mechanically upon his trouser legs, broke his gun open just to make sure that it was indeed empty, put it back and picked up a handful of rocks.
“Let ’em come,” he said viciously. “I c’n kill every damn’ one with m’ bare hands!”
CHAPTER XV
Oleson
“Say, ain’t that Andy and Mig following along behind?” Cal asked after a minute of watching the approach. “Sure, it is. Now what—”
“They’re drivin’ ’em, by cripes!” Big Medicine, under the stress of the moment, returned to his usual bellowing tone. “Who’s that tall, lanky feller in the lead? I don’t call to mind ever seem him before. Them four herders I’d know a mile off.”
“That?” Weary shaded his eyes with his hat-brim, against the slant rays of the westering sun. “That’s Oleson, Dunk’s partner.”
“His mother’d be a-weepin’,” Big Medicine observed bodefully, “if she knowed what was due to happen to her son right away quick. Must be him that done the shootin’.”
They came on steadily, the four herders and Oleson walking reluctantly ahead, with Andy Green and the Native Son riding relentlessly in the rear, their guns held unwaveringly in a line with the backs of their captives. Andy was carrying a rifle, evidently taken from one of the men—Oleson, they judged for the guilty one. Half the distance was covered when Andy was seen to turn his head and speak briefly with the Native Son, after which he lunged past the captives and galloped up to the waiting group. His quick eye sought first the face of Happy Jack in anxious questioning; then, miserably, he searched the faces of his friends.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed mechanically, dismounted and bent over the figure on the ground. For a long minute he knelt there; he laid his ear close to Happy Jack’s mouth, took off his glove and laid his hand over Happy’s heart; reached up, twitched off his neckerchief, shook out the creases and spread it reverently over Happy Jack’s face. He stood up then and spoke slowly, his eyes fixed upon the stumbling approach of the captives.
“Pink told us Happy had been shot, so we rode around and come up behind ’em. It was a cinch. And—say, boys, we’ve got the Dots in a pocket. They’ve got to eat outa our hands, now. So don’t think about—our own feelings, or about—” he stopped abruptly and let a downward glance finish the sentence. “We’ve got to keep our own hands clean, and—now don’t let your fingers get the itch, Bud!” This, because of certain manifestations of a murderous intent on the part of Big Medicine.
“Oh, it’s all right to talk, if yuh feel like talking,” Big Medicine retorted savagely. “I don’t.” He made a catlike spring at the foremost man, who happened to be Oleson, and got a merciless grip with his fingers on