Part 41 (1/2)
”Nonsense!” said Wade. ”You don't mean to resist arrest? That's foolish.”
”Oh, I dunno,” said McHale. ”Depends on how you look at it. I ain't goin' to resist to speak of; I'm just lyin' low for a spell. I reckon I'll pack old Baldy with a little outfit, Casey. 'Bout two days from now you'll find him out by Sunk Springs if you ride that way.”
”I don't get the idea.”
”It's this way,” McHale explained. ”This Cross is one of a bad bunch.
They'll be out for my scalp. They don't want no law in this. I been hearin' 'bout Cross and this old-timer, Dade. They're great tillik.u.ms, and Dade is the old he-c.o.o.n of the bunch. I ain't takin' a chance on some little tin-starred deputy standin' them off. Furthermore, I figure it ain't unlikely they'll come after me some time to-night. If it was just you and me, Casey, we could stand the hand, and whatever hangin'
there was would come off in the smoke. But with women on the place it wouldn't be right. So I'll just point out for a little campin' spot somewheres, and save everybody trouble. If any of these here sheriffs or deputies gets nosin' around, you tell 'em how it is. I'll come in when the signs is right, and not before. Tell them not to go huntin'
me, neither, but to go ahead and get everything set for a proper trial.
I'll send word when I'll be in.”
Wade chuckled. ”They can't arrange a trial without somebody to try, Tom.”
”They'll have to make a stagger at it, or wait,” McHale responded seriously.
It was dusk when he headed westward, old Baldy, lightly packed, trotting meekly at the tail of his saddle horse.
Casey, coming back from a final word with him, met Clyde strolling toward the young orchard. He fell into step.
”Nice evening.”
She regarded him quizzically. ”I won't ask a single question. You needn't be afraid.”
”Did you think I meant to head off your natural curiosity? Not a bit of it. You want to know where Tom is going at this time of night, and why?”
”Of course I do. But I won't ask.”
”You may just as well know now as later.” He told her what had happened, omitting to mention McHale's real reason for leaving the ranch. Even in the darkness he could see the trouble in her eyes.
”You really mean it?” she questioned. ”You mean that he has killed a man?”
”Either that or shot him up pretty badly.”
”I can scarcely believe it. I like McHale; he's droll, humorous, so cheerful, so easy-going. I can't think of him as a murderer.”
”Nonsense!” said Casey. ”No murder about it. It was a fair gun fight--an even break. This fellow came at Tom, shooting. He had to protect himself.”
”He could have avoided it. He had time to get on his horse and ride away. But he waited.”
”He did right,” said Casey. ”This man would have shot him on sight. It was best to settle it then and there.”
”That may be so,” she admitted, ”but life is a sacred thing to me.”
”No doubt Tom considered his own life tolerably sacred,” he responded.
”As an abstract proposition life may be sacred. Practically it's about the cheapest thing on earth. It persists and repeats and increases in spite of war, pestilence, and famine. The princ.i.p.al value of the individual life is its service to other life. Cross wasn't much good.
That old Holstein over there in the corral, with her long and honourable record of milk production and thoroughbred calves, is of more real benefit to the world. You see, it was Tom or Cross. One had to go. I'm mighty glad it was Cross.”
”Oh, if you put it that way----”