The Message to Buckshot Jim/Chapter 11

was a short period of silence. The convict was thinking. After some time, Gilmore, reflecting upon old newspaper files, remembered that the public library would have been absolutely safe and just as effective. It was not a comforting conclusion.

"When I found that out," continued Buckshot John solemnly, "it nearly knocked me off my feet. It made me sick all over. I never let on, but I was sick. I shut up. I wanted to get away somewhere and think what I must do. Then I began to understand a lot of things." He paused reflectively, for he had been talking more to himself than to his hearer. There was a trace of bitterness in his tone as he continued. "I was pretty easy, wasn't I? Pretty easy for your fake trance, and for the voices that you got out of the newspapers! Now, you keep your lying tongue quiet a while. Think all you want to, but don't say nothing!"

Buckshot John arose, and passed about the room with a catlike tread, examining the Great Gilmore's traveling wardrobe. The convict was dressed in a tattered pair of overalls and a jumper.

"This big coat will do," he said quietly; "and these pants, if I can get into 'em. And I want this soft hat."

"Help yourself," said the owner savagely. "I'll promise you you won't get very far. I'll have every officer in the State after you before daylight!"

Buckshot John dropped the clothes in a heap and stared incredulously. Then he picked up the revolver and walked slowly back to the bed.

"You don't think I expect to get away, do you?" He paused, struggling for words. "I ain't trying to do anybody any wrong. I'm trying to do right!"

Gilmore sneered. Buckshot John continued to talk in a low, heavy monotone.

"It won't be nothing new to have 'em all on my trail," he said. "They been after me ever since I got loose, dogs and all. I don't know how I ever got this far, unless it was because I prayed. I could have stayed back there at Sand Creek and let you get away. I could have set officers on you and then what would have become of all this money? The wrong people would have got it!"

He paused, wrestling with the explanation of his motive.

"There wasn't only the one thing to do, and I did it. If I can't find an honest man to take this stuff back, I'll have to do it myself. I ain't had bite nor sup for two days, except water."

He paused again, and fingered the revolver thoughtfully.

"You want to give me up. All right, go ahead! It won't help you much, and it won't harm me no more'n I've harmed myself. I had a lot of good conduct credits coming to me down there. I lost 'em by coming here; now I got to serve my full thirty years—maybe more; I don't know."

He sat down on the edge of the bed and passed his hand over his face. Gilmore wriggled uneasily, but Buckshot John calmed him into quiet with an impatient jerk of the revolver.

The convict was thinking. After a long time he raised his head.

"You're doing a pretty good bunco-steering business up in Denver?" he inquired. "You're making a good living?"

"What's that to you?" asked the founder of Purified Thought sullenly.

"Answer me!"

Gilmore wriggled again.

"I suppose so," he said weakly. "Yes, I've been very—successful."

Buckshot John nodded his head as if relieved.

"That's good," he said. "Maybe I oughtn't to let you run loose, but I'll make a bargain with you. You let me alone, and I'll let you alone. You keep quiet, and inside of three days I'll be back in Canyon City of my own free will—in the cells again. Solitary confinement, they'll give me for this! Well, no matter! I've broke the law; they got the right to punish me for it. Now, I've got reasons for wanting to give this stuff up, rather than have it took. It's got to go to the right people, and if it's took from me, I'll never be easy in my mind about who got it. And they wouldn't believe me if I said I was only carrying it back. They'd say I was trying to steal it again."

The man's mind was working slowly.

"You give me the chance to get to Denver, and I'll let everybody think I went and got the stuff myself, and I'll never mention your name. You set 'em on me to-night, and as sure as there's a God in heaven, I'll tell what kind of a rat you are, and, what's more, I'll name the man who can prove it! You'd do a fine bunco-steering business after that got out on you, wouldn't you? If they didn't jail you, you'd have to jump the State and change your name."

Buckshot John paused and watched Gilmore's face. There was no answer to that argument. The doctor was thinking hard, and he saw every sharp tooth of the trap into which he had fallen.

"Figger it out any way you like," said the convict earnestly, "and there ain't no way you can ever get a cent of this money. Whether they get me here, in this room, or somewhere else, not a splinter do you get! All I want is the chance to leave to-night. I promise you that if I'm taken before I get to Denver, I'll tell all about your part of this. That'll keep you from sending any telegrams, I reckon. Now, then, will you keep your hands off, or won't you?"

He paused for an answer. The Great Gilmore shoved one open hand down the blanket, as if scraping something away.

"Take the pot!" he said. "You win!"

Buckshot John jumped to his feet. He took off his overalls, and carefully inserted himself into Gilmore's trousers. They were inches too long, but he turned them up and ripped the rear seam until they met in front. He tucked the buckskin bag inside his jumper, and slipped on the heavy ulster, turning up the high collar and buttoning it in front.

The whistle of a locomotive sounded in the distance. Buckshot John crammed the soft hat on his head. The Great Gilmore then made his first really sensible suggestion.

"There's a name inside that coat," he said. "You'd better rip it out."

Buckshot John smiled as the tailor's tag fluttered to the floor. Then he broke open the revolver and pocketed the cartridges.

"You'll find your gun outside the window," he said. "There's a freight-train due here in a few minutes. If I make it all right, I'll be in Denver some time tomorrow. The next day," he added grimly, "I'll be on my way back—to serve my full time. The cells again! They won't trust me no more."

He shook his head and muttered to himself. The engine whistled once more—nearer this time.

"Anyway," said Buckshot John, as if arguing with himself, "I'll be able to sleep nights!"

He picked up the canvas bag and blew out the lamp. For some time there was silence in the room. Gilmore thought that Moran had gone. He was mistaken. A low voice came from the window.

"I don't hold nothing against you," it said. "The Book says I got to forgive you, and I do. You didn't mean to help me do the square thing, but you have, just the same. I reckon you've been one of the Lord's instruments the chaplain talks about so much."

There was another brief silence, and then the Great Gilmore caught the last words he was ever to hear from the lips of Buckshot John Moran, train-robber, murderer, and repentant sinner—a benediction, a farewell, and a speculation, all in one short sentence.

"Maybe," said the voice reverently, "He can't be too particular; like as not He has to use what instruments He can get."

Then silence shut down. A sudden gust of cold air swept into the room, tossed the curtain for a few seconds, and ceased.

Later a freight-train roared up the grade and came clanking to a standstill. After a time the engine hooted forlornly, coughed a few times, and went wheezing on its way, carrying one soul nearer to its expiation, and leaving another one, the unpremeditated and accidental instrument of a worthy deed, to purify its surging thoughts at the fierce fires of bitter humiliation and regret.