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Updated: June 28, 2025
Within the week every crossroads store in the county had tacked to it a placard offering a reward of five thousand dollars for the man who had killed Homer Webb. No applications for it came in at first. "Wait," said Goodheart, smiling. "More than one yellow dog has licked its jaws hungrily before that poster. Some dark night the yellowest one will sneak in here to see you."
Not till he was safe in his own shop two blocks away did he stop running. A shrill whistle rang out from the side of the train farthest from the station. The wheels began to move slowly. There was a rush for the engine. Jack Goodheart stood in the door of the cab ready for business. "No passengers allowed here, boys," he announced calmly. "Take the coaches in the rear." A dozen revolvers cracked.
Pierre Roubideau came round the corner of the house and joined Brad. The guard made room for him on the bench. If Roubideau sat down, the man in the shadow knew he was lost. They would sit there and chat till Goodheart came back and discovered his absence. The rancher hesitated while he felt for his pipe. "Reckon I left it in the kitchen," he said. Brad followed him round the corner of the house.
It is the sixth, ain't it?" he jeered, turning to the handcuffed man on the lounge. "The sixth is correct," answered Jim coolly, meeting him eye to eye. "You wouldn't talk that way if Clanton was free," said Goodheart. "You're taggin' yoreself a bully an' a cheap skate when you do it." "Say, is that any of yore business, Mr. Deputy Sheriff?" "It is when you talk to my prisoner.
Goodheart assented. To go blindly out into the mesquite after the young outlaw would have been as futile as to reach a hand toward the stars with the hope of plucking a gold-piece from the air. "Watch the men he trains with. Keep an eye on the Elephant Corral an' check up on him when he rides in to Los Portales. Spot the tendejon at Point o' Rocks where he has a hang-out.
He is an indescribable compound of brilliant swashbuckler, splendid gentleman and winning Goodheart. Barry Lyndon, Tarascon, Don Quixote and Septimus go into his making and yet he is not explained; an absolute original. The scene where, in a German park on an occasion of great pomp, he impersonates the statue of a Prince, is one of the author's triumphs never less delightful at a re-reading.
He knew that Goodheart would pursue, but he knew, too, that the odds were a hundred to one against capture if he could put a mile or two between him and the Roubideau ranch. A man could vanish in any one of fifty draws. He could find a temporary hiding-place up any gulch under cover of the matted brush. Therefore he turned toward the mountains.
Perhaps all she wanted now was to ask some favor for Clanton, but hope leaped in his heart. He made arrangements for the night in his usual careful way. It was not pleasant to have to watch the prisoner as a cat does a mouse, but Goodheart was thorough in whatever he undertook.
Goodheart had charge of the first party that went out. His duty was to swing round and close the gulches to the north. Here he would wait until the hunted men were driven into the trap he had set. Old Reb, with a second posse, started next morning for the head-waters of Seven-Mile Creek. An hour later the sheriff himself took the road.
Goodheart, with the first kiss of his sweetheart almost on his lips, flung Pauline aside and ran to the house. The other guard met him at the front steps. "By God, he's gone!" the man cried. "Clanton?" "Yep." "Can't be. He was handcuffed, tied to the bed, and locked in. I've got the key in my pocket."
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