Friar Tuck Part 24

"Aw rot!" sez Badger-face. "Come on, now, an' finish it. Every one knows how they hated each other; and it's plain enough that when the Swede here got the chance, he just put Bud out o' the way, an' Bud was one o' the finest boys the' ever was in the world-always full o' fun an' frolic; while Olaf has allus been sour an' gloomy."

Most men are as sappy as green grain, an' they bow whichever way the wind blows. The Cross brand punchers all looked extremely sad when Badger-face spoke o' what a royal good feller Bud Fisher had been, an'

when he stopped, they all glared at Olaf as friendly as wolves, especially a skinny feller by the name of Dixon, who had the neck and disposition of a snake.

"If you thought 'at Olaf an' Fisher hated each other, why did you make 'em work together?" asked the Friar; and the Cross brand punchers p.r.i.c.ked up their ears an' looked pointedly at Badger-face.

"I thought they had made it up," sez Badger-face, surprised into takin' the defensive.

"I have noticed that you are likely to jump hasty at conclusions," sez the Friar, speakin' with tantalizin' slowness. He was a fisher of men, all right, the Friar was; and just then he was fishin' for those Cross brand punchers. "Did Bud speak before he died, Olaf?" he asked impartially.

Olaf hung his head: "All he said was, that she hadn't never cared for him, an' that he didn't know one thing again' her," said Olaf.

"Aw, what's the use o' stringin' it out," sez Badger-face. "Let's hang him and have it over with."

"Hanging a fellow-bein' is a serious matter, Mr. Flannigan," sez the Friar. "I am a party to this now, and shall have to a.s.sume my share of the responsibility. I shall never consent to swingin' a man on such evidence as this. Let us go and examine the spot. The hammer may have left a scratch, or something. If you convince me that Olaf committed the murder, I pledge to a.s.sist in hangin' him. That's certainly fair, men," he sez to the Cross-branders, an' they nodded their heads that it was.

So we clumb up to the spot where Olaf claimed to have handed the gun; but the' wasn't any scratch on the rock. "Did he fall from the ledge when he was shot?" asked the Friar.

"No," sez one o' the punchers. "He fell on the edge an' hung on."

"Did the bullet go clean through him?" asked the Friar.

"Yes, it went clear through," sez the feller.

"Point with your finger just where it went in, an' just where it came out," sez the Friar.

The feller pointed with one finger in front, an' one behind. The Friar took a rope an' had me hold it behind the feller at just the level of that finger an' then he made Spider stretch the rope so that it pa.s.sed on a line with the finger in front. The whole crowd was interested by this time. "Now, then," sez the Friar, "where could Olaf have stood to shoot such a line as that. He could not have shot while he was climbin' up, nor he couldn't have reached high enough while standin'

below."

"He could, too," sez Badger-face, "for Bud would have been leanin'

over, reachin' for the gun."

"If he had been shot while he was reachin' over, he would have fallen from the ledge," flashed the Friar.

"Maybe he did," snapped Badger-face, just as quick. "Olaf here is as strong as a horse, an' maybe he put him back on the ledge. He had blood on his hands an' you can still see it on his shirt. A man don't bleed much when shot in the belly."

Olaf's queer blue eyes turned from one to the other, but his face didn't change expression much. He had about give up hope in the first place, an' his face had the look of a hoss, after he's been throwed four or five times an' just keels over on his side an' sez to himself: "Well, they've put the kibosh on me, an' I don't intend to make a fool of myself any more by tryin' to break loose." The rest of us was more excited about it than Olaf was himself.

"Which one of us is the nearest size to Bud Fisher?" asked the Friar.

They all agreed that Spider Kelley was; so the Friar had him c.o.o.n up on the ledge. Then he had Olaf take the empty rifle just as he had held it when he pa.s.sed it up; but made him give it to Badger-face himself to pa.s.s up. Badger-face pa.s.sed it up, Spider Kelley reached for it, took it, and started to straighten up-The hammer caught on the precise k.n.o.b that Olaf had said it had, an' snapped hard enough to set off a cartridge. "There," sez the Friar, sweepin' his hands wide.

We could all see that the bullet would 'a' gone through just where it did go.

"Hand back the rifle, an' I'll show ya how he pa.s.sed it up," said Badger-face. Spider pa.s.sed it down, an' we all watched intent. It had become like a real court o' law; we had forgot what the case was about, we was so interested in seein' the sc.r.a.p the lawyers were puttin' up.

Badger-face c.o.c.ked the rifle so slick we didn't see him, called out to Spider to catch it, an' tossed it up to him. It came just short o'

Spider's hand; and without thinkin' o' what he was doin', Spider reached for the gun. This brought him squattin' just the time the gun dropped back into Badger's hands, and quick as a wink, he pulled the trigger-and hanged if that bullet wouldn't have traveled through the same hole the first one had made.

I never saw circ.u.mstantial evidence give such a work-out before. If we had all been fair-minded, it would have puzzled us; but as it was, we sided accordin' to our prejudices; an' the Cross brand fellers chose Badger-face to Olaf, Badger-face bein' foreman. The Friar saw he was stumped.

"Are there any marks up there?" he asked of Spider.

"There's some blood streaks on a stone," sez Spider.

"Did you notice 'em?" asked the Friar of Badger-face.

"Yes," sez he; "but they don't mean nothin'."

"Let's go up an' look at 'em," sez the Friar, so we all clumb up.

They pointed out just where Bud Fisher had laid when they found him; and close beside him was a smooth white stone with blood marks on it.

The Friar examined the lay o' the ledge; but it didn't tell nothin', so finally he got down on his knees an' studied the blood-stained stone.

Presently he nodded his head and straightened up. "Examine that stone," he said, pointin' with his fingers. We all crowded about an'

studied it. The' was finger an' thumb prints all over it; but if you looked close, you could make out the rude image of a man pullin' up a gun which had exploded on the edge of a ledge. It was a smudgey, shakey affair, but if ya looked just right you could make it out. Yet, even this didn't floor Badger-face.

"The Swede there did that himself," he growled; "and this makes him out sneakier 'n we thought him. Let's hang him, and get rid o' this foolishness."

"Flannigan," sez the Friar in cold, hard tones, "you have gone too far this time. If you had hung Olaf at first, you might have done it from a proverted sense o' justice; but to do it now would be murder; and your own men wouldn't help. Do any of you men chew tobacco?"

If he had asked for a can o' face-paint, we wouldn't 'a' been more surprised; but to show the hold the Friar had gained over that crowd, every feller there but Badger-face held out his plug to him.

"Make some tobacco juice, Olaf," he said.

Olaf bit off a hunk the size of a walnut from his own piece, an'

proceeded to make juice, as though his life depended upon the amount of it. "Wet your thumb and fingers with it, and make marks on the white stone," commanded the Friar.

Olaf did so; and when we saw the difference in size and shape, we savvied the game.

"Olaf took Bud's hand and made the marks with Bud's own blood," sez Badger-face.

"Did any one here ever try to handle a dead man's hand?" asked the Friar; and that settled it. We all nodded our heads, except Badger-face, an' he had sense enough to see 'at he had lost the deal, so he didn't say nothin'.

"What I can't see is, why he didn't write," sez the Friar.

"He couldn't write," chirps up two punchers at once, an' then they took the rope off Olaf's neck.

They talked it over and decided that the best thing to do was to bury Bud Fisher right there in the canon. The' was a little cave on the ledge back o' where we were standin' so two o' the punchers went down where they had him laid out under the slickers, an' brought him up. We had to hoist him on ropes, an' the Friar looked a long time into his face.

It was just a lad's face: not bad nor hardened; just the face of a mischievous boy, weary after a day's sport. We all took a look, an'

then put him in the little cave an' heaped clods over him an' piled stones on until the door was blocked shut again' varmints.

The Friar sat down on a big rock-he had worked as hard as any of us-and sat thinkin' with his chin in his hand. The Cross brand fellers muttered among themselves for a moment, an' then one of 'em took off his hat, an' sez, "Don't ya think ya'd ought to speak somethin' over him, parson?"

"Do you want me to?" asked the Friar. And they all nodded their heads.

So the Friar, he took off his battered hat and stood up before us an'

spoke a sermon, while we took off our hats, an' sat around on stones to listen.