Burnt Creek Stories – Complete Collection. Ernest Haycox

later the fugitive was at the front door, gunny sack on his shoulder. "Don't you birds be in too much of a hurry," he advised. "As long as I'm in the clearin', you'll make good targets. I don't aim to be taken." The gust of wind struck them again, the door slammed, and he was gone.

      Emmons stepped to the stove. The deputy rushed to the rear door. "I'll cut around the side of the house," he whispered.

      The sheriff was surprisingly calm. "No. Never mind, Buck. He'll be gone, and there's a hundred places in the trees he could hide. It's pitch dark...and snowin' like blazes. The mornin's soon enough to follow. He won't get far." He looked toward Budd and clucked his tongue in sympathy. There was something so bitterly sorrowful on his friend's face. The storekeeper raised his head.

      "It wasn't a trick, Cal," he protested. "I didn't know he was comin' back. Didn't think he'd have the nerve. But you couldn't expect me to take sides with you when he did come in. You couldn't expect that, could you, Cal? I'm his paw, and I could have walked up and took that gun right from him. But you wouldn't expect that...would you?"

      "That's all right, Dave. I know how it is. Never mind that."

      "I'm his paw. I couldn't do that," muttered Budd. His eyes caught sight of the tin box. He walked to it and stared. A shadow passed over his face, and he turned the receptacle open side down. There was nothing left.

      "I told him to leave a little. And he didn't." A long minute later when he had moved back to the stove, he added slowly: "I don't begrudge it. The poor little fellow just ain't got the sand in him. But he didn't kill that fellow in the pool room, Cal. He said he didn't, an' I believed him."

      "That's mebbe what he told you," replied the sheriff. "It wasn't in no pool room. He an' Toots Billmire an' Mike Reilly held up a homesteader who was supposed to have a little money, twenty miles north of Bend. Homesteader put up a scrap, and Dan shot him, cold blooded. They got his money and pulled stakes. The poor devil lasted long enough to tell a passing neighbor. Cold blooded, Dave. I'm sorry, but it was that."

      Budd's head came up, and the mildness forsook his face. "Then he lied? There was no fight in the pool room?"

      "Dave, it was like I told you. Toots and Mike went south on the Prineville Road. I got a couple men scoutin' that a-way. I figger Dan'll join 'em tonight or tomorrow."

      Still the storekeeper was unbelieving. He had placed a last faith in the boy, and he could not see it so abruptly shattered. He turned to question the deputy, but he saw no different story in that officer's face, and a shudder of distaste moved his big shoulders.

      "Murder, was it? Out-an'-out murder. 'Thout givin' a man a chance to help himself? Oh, Cal!" And the storekeeper was utterly stricken, utterly ruined of spirit. A pinched, bleak look settled in his mouth; a misery inhabited his eyes. "A plain murderer!"

      "'Twa'n't your fault, Dave," protested the sheriff. But his friend would not be comforted.

      "He is my son," he muttered. "My son. An' he did that." The sheriff got up. "Well, we'll stay here overnight. Got some blankets extra, Dave? We'll flop by the stove."

      "Take my bed."

      "Oh, no. That'd put you out. Just give us a blanket an' we'll do fine."

      "Take it," persisted Budd. "You think I could sleep, Cal? Reckon I won't move from that chair tonight."

      So the two officers turned in while the storekeeper stoked the stove, extinguished the light, and settled in his chair. The rising wind howled about the corners of the house. Through the window could be seen the relentless, diagonal sweep of the snow, increasing in fury each hour. It was very bleak, very cold out there, and the warm rays of the fire rendered it all the more uncomfortable to look upon. But such a storm, with blasts that were equally devastating, shook old man Budd's mind, drained the ruddy blood from his face, and left it very, very tired. From time to time his paw-like hands clutched the chair. Again he would lean forward, and the glare of the flames revealed lines that were savage, unrelenting. Once, during such a movement, he muttered: "I'll have to do it, so help me God." And thereafter he seemed to find a rest of spirit.

      When morning came, the sheriff and deputy found breakfast before them, with Budd wrapped in his Mackinaw and smoking imperturbably.

      "Two foot of snow on the ground," he announced. "But we can travel just the same."

      The sheriff protested immediately. "Now don't be foolish, Dave. We'll do this alone. I promise we won't shoot him down. We'll bring him back."

      "Aim to go," answered Budd. There was no more argument. They saddled and set off down the Bend-Klamath Road, toward the California line. There were, of course, no tracks left in the snow, but Emmons seemed quite sure of his way and pressed on. "Dan ain't goin' to turn back," he said. "He'll meet up with the others and scoot over the desert. Wouldn't be surprised if they'd holed up in some cabin overnight."

      So they traveled for two hours or more, breaking a trail in the crusted snow. The sun came out but brought no warmth. Dead silence pervaded the cold, crisp air. The earth seemed wrapped in peace; the men, when they spoke at all, hushed their words, conscious of the bell-like echo which floated in crystal clarity down the ribbon of road and rebounded from the pines. There was no place along the first part of the route, any lesser way or by-path, no break in the trees. But, around mid-morning, the glittering highway suddenly thrust two branches from its main course into a startled forest. The sheriff halted here to arrange his tactics.

      "Main way is shortest to the border," he said. "If a man traveled alone, that'd be his path. But Toots an' Mike went by the Prineville Road an', if Dan aimed to meet them, he'd switch to the left here. Guess we'd better split. You go straight ahead, Buck. I'll take the left road. Dave, you do like you want."

      "Take the right," said Budd. "If I find him...I ain't likely to shield him."

      They split. Budd pursued the narrow, tortuous trail that was hardly wide enough to accommodate a wagon as it ran away from the central highway, lost vigor, and curved back again like a truant finally become afraid of its freedom. Budd went steadily for better than half an hour and at a fault in the trees struck to the left, leaving the road.

      He seemed to have some plan or some knowledge which had been withheld from the officers for, when a few moments later he came to the main way, he was cautious enough to stop and sweep the vista with his shrewd eyes. The snow told of the deputy's already having passed by, and Budd urged his animal across the road and into the forest again, still maintaining his direction due east. This would bring him, in time, to the left fork of the Bend-Klamath Road and within shouting distance of Cal Emmons.

      The pines grew smaller here, and the underbrush became very scanty. Budd picked his route without hesitation. He seemed on familiar ground.

      Finally he stopped and dismounted, going on with remarkable celerity of movement for one possessed of so much avoirdupois. Within a hundred yards the pines gave way to a natural clearing fifty feet in circumference in the center of which huddled a small shanty. From and to the door of this place ran the fresh trail of men and horses. The forehoofs of one such horse was even then visible from a rear corner of the place.

      Budd leaned against a sapling and drew his revolver. There had been a sort of rugged determination on his face all during the ride. It was, at this moment, even stronger, although he held the pistol in his hand for a long interval, staring at the dull metal very somberly. This was Christmas morn, the day on which men gave and received holiday greetings and presents—were happy. And he, Dave Budd, held a revolver in his hand and hunted his son.

      A certain intuition had brought him to this cabin in the woods. Many years before he and his son had stopped overnight here on one of their camping trips. It had become a regular resting spot, and he knew that, if Dan had sought refuge in the storm, this would be the place. The footprints indicated more than one man, and it behooved the storekeeper to be watchful. He stepped forward, gun advanced, regarding the door.

      He had gone ten feet when a shot broke the silence of the jack pines, coming from nearby on his right. The deputy, then, had met one of the desperadoes. A shout of pain followed at a close interval, and Budd stepped quickly forward. But, if he