The medicine-man

Bud Daley sat humped over on his wash-bench near the kitchen door of his unpretentious little ranch-house, staring with moody blue eyes across the hills. The wash-bench was sloppy with soap-suds, plain evidence that Bud had performed his ablutions in a violent manner.

And as he sat looking moodily into space, he dangled a none-too-clean towel in his hands. Just behind him, leaning against the side of the kitchen door, stood Mrs. Daley, a thoughtful frown on her pretty face. She was dressed in a plain calico dress, faded from many washings; a girlish looking woman, whose crown of glorious auburn hair tumbled in unruly fashion about her face.

Bud’s visible attire consisted of a battered sombrero, a thin blue shirt, wide open at the neck, a pair of bat-winged chaps, boots and holstered gun. His thin face was decorated with several days’ growth of beard. Down in the little corral, which was hooked to the long, low barn, a roan horse, sweat-marked, rolled wearily.

Bud’s eyes turned from the panorama of low hills, which swept away across the Modoc ranges, and his fingers searched his pockets for tobacco and cigaret papers.

“Bud, are you sure?” Mrs. Daley spoke softly, a trifle hopefully.

“Yeah,” Bud nodded and licked the edge of the paper, “I reckon it’s a fact, May.”

“Then it means that we’re--broke?”

“Broke?”

The match burned Bud’s fingers, and he snapped it away as he turned and looked at her.

“May, we’re worse than that. I still owe Cleve Lavelle five thousand dollars.”

“As much as that, Bud?”

There were tears in her voice. Bud laughed shortly and got to his feet.

“Just that much, May.”

“But--but where have the cattle gone? Surely----”

“They’ve been stolen!” said Bud savagely. “Somebody has rustled every head of Triangle-D stock in the Modoc country. By ----, we haven’t even got a hide nor a horn to show.

“I told Cleve Lavelle. He was at the round-up, May. They were all there; every puncher in this country. I tell you, we combed every inch of the county, and there wasn’t a cattleman there, except me, that wasn’t satisfied.”

“Was Uncle Jimmy Miller there, Bud?”

“Yeah, he was there. He exploded over it. Just the same as told me I was a ---- liar. But he found out that I was right. Oh, we’re broke; that’s a cinch.”

Bud threw the towel aside and backed against the wall.

“But, Bud, we must have had close to five hundred head,” said Mrs. Daley. “Why, you can’t lose five hundred head of cattle.”

“Can’t we?” Bud laughed bitterly. “I wish you was right, May. I kept sayin’ the same thing--until I had it proved to me. Somebody just--well--” Bud shrugged his shoulders wearily--“they took ’em, thassall.”

“Well--” Mrs. Daley sighed deeply and patted him on the shoulder--“we’re not very lucky, Bud. Dinner is ready.”

“I’m not hungry, May. It kinda hits me in the pit of m’ stummick.”

“Starving won’t help you any, dear.”

“I s’pose not.” Bud grinned and shook his head. “I reckon I’ve got to keep m’ head up and m’ stummick full. I wish----”

Two riders swung around the corner of the cottonwood clump beyond the barn and came toward the house, causing Bud’s wish to go unfinished.

“It’s Uncle Jimmy Miller and ‘Sody’ Slavin,” said Mrs. Daley.

“Two of the toughest old pelicans that ever wore a boot,” remarked Bud as they rode up and dismounted.

Uncle Jimmy Miller was only five feet four inches tall, thin of frame, thin of voice, with the whiskers of a gray old bob-cat and an explosive disposition.