Project Gutenberg's The Rider of Golden Bar, by William Patterson White

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Title: The Rider of Golden Bar

Author: William Patterson White

Illustrator: Remington Schuyler

Release Date: January 2, 2011 [EBook #34826]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIDER OF GOLDEN BAR ***




Produced by Al Haines








[Illustration: Cover art]





[Frontispiece: The girl seized his stirrup to save herself from
falling.  FRONTISPIECE.  See page 55.]





THE RIDER OF GOLDEN BAR


BY

WILLIAM PATTERSON WHITE



WITH FRONTISPIECE BY

REMINGTON SCHUYLER




TORONTO

THE RYERSON PRESS

1922




_Copyright, 1922,_

BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.


_All rights reserved_

Published January, 1922



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




TO

MY POINT O' WOODS COUSINS

LAURA, CHARLOTTE, JULIA, AND DOROTHY




By William Patterson White


  THE OWNER OF THE LAZY D
  LYNCH LAWYERS
  HIDDEN TRAILS
  PARADISE BEND
  THE HEART OF THE RANGE
  THE RIDER OF GOLDEN BAR




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

     I  BILLY WINGO
    II  A SAFE MAN
   III  WHAT SALLY JANE THOUGHT
    IV  HAZEL WALTON
     V  JACK MURRAY OBJECTS
    VI  CROSS-PURPOSES
   VII  RAFE'S IDEA
  VIII  THE NEW BROOM
    IX  THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY
     X  A SHORT HORSE
    XI  THE TRAPPERS
   XII  THE TRAP
  XIII  OPEN AND SHUT
   XIV  WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT
    XV  THE BEST-LAID PLANS
   XVI  OBSCURING THE ISSUE
  XVII  WHAT HAZEL THOUGHT
 XVIII  THE BARE-HEADED MAN
   XIX  THE PERSISTENT SUITOR
    XX  A DISCOVERY
   XXI  THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY'S NIGHTMARE
  XXII  THE HUNCH
 XXIII  THE GUNFIGHTERS
  XXIV  CONTRARIETIES
   XXV  JONESY'S ULTIMATUM
  XXVI  THE FOOL-KILLER
 XXVII  THE LONG DAY CLOSES




THE RIDER OF GOLDEN BAR




CHAPTER ONE

BILLY WINGO

"But why don't you _do_ something, Bill?" demanded Sam Prescott's
pretty daughter.

Bill Wingo looked at Miss Prescott in injured astonishment.  "Do
something?" he repeated.  "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't want you to do anything," she denied with unnecessary
emphasis.  "Haven't you any ambition?"

"Plenty."

"Then use it, for Heaven's sake!"

"I do.  Don't I ask you to marry me every time I get a chance?"

"That's not using your ambition.  That's playing the fool."

"Nice opinion of yourself you've got," he grinned.

"Never mind.  You make me tired, Bill.  Here you've got a little claim
and a little bunch of cows--the makings of a ranch if you'd only work.
But instead of working like a man you loaf like a--like a----"

"Like a loafer," he prompted.

"Exactly.  You'd rather hunt and fish and ride the range for monthly
wages when you're broke than scratch gravel and make something of
yourself.  You let your cows run with the T-Up-And-Down, and I'll bet
when Tuckleton had his spring round-up you weren't even on the job.
Were you?"

"Well, I--uh--I was busy," shamefacedly.

"Fishing over on Jack's Creek.  That's how busy you were, when you
should have been looking after your property."

"Oh, Tuckleton's boys are square.  Any calves they found running with
my brand, they'd run the iron on 'em all right."

"They'd run the iron on 'em all right," she repeated.  "But what iron?"

"Why--mine.  Whose do you suppose?"

"I don't know," she said candidly.  "I'm asking you."

"Shucks, Sally Jane, those boys wouldn't do anything crooked.
Tuckleton wouldn't allow it."

"Bill, don't you ever distrust anybody?"

"Not until I'm certain they're crooked."

"I see," said the lady disgustedly.  "After you wake up and find your
hide, together with the rest of your worldly possessions, hanging on
the fence, then and not till then do you come alive to the fact that
perhaps all was not right."

"Well----" began Bill.

"Don't you see by that time it's too late?" interrupted the lady.

"Aw, I dunno.  I--I suppose so."

"You suppose so, do you?  You suppose so.  Don't you know, my innocent
William, that there are a sight more criminals outside of jail than
there are in?"

"Why, Sally Jane!" said the innocent William, scraping a fie-fie
forefinger at her.  "Shame on you, shame on you, you wicked girl.  I am
surprised.  Such thoughts in a young maid's mind.  No, I ain't either.
I always said if your pa sent you away to school you'd lose your faith
in human nature.  He did; and you did.  And now look at you, talking
just like a district attorney.  And suspicious--I'd tell a man!"

"Oh, darn!" wailed Sally Jane.  "I hate a fool!"

"So do I," concurred Bill warmly.  "Tell a feller who's the fool you
hate and I'll hate him, too.  One pair of haters working together might
do said fool a lot of good."

"Sometimes, Bill, my fingers simply ache to smack your long and silly
ears."

He nodded soberly.  "I know.  I often have the same feeling about
people.  But don't let it worry you.  It don't mean anything."

"Bill, can't you understand that I like you, and----"

"Easily," he grinned.  "Of course you like me.  So do lots of other
people.  It comes natural.  And that is another thing you mustn't let
worry you, Sally Jane.  Just you take that liking for me and tend it
real careful.  Put it on the window-sill between the pink geraniums and
water it morning, noon and night, and by and by that li'l liking will
wax strong and great and all that sort of thing, and you won't be able
to do without me.  You'll have to marry me, I'm afraid, Sally Jane."

"I will, will I?  And you're afraid, are you?  You big, overgrown, lazy
lummox!  I wouldn't marry you ever."

"I'm not so sure, but you needn't stamp your foot at me anyway.  It
ain't being done this season.  People slam doors instead.  I'm sorry
there isn't a door near at hand.  It must have been overlooked when
Linny's Hill was made."

"Bill, don't fool.  This is not any joking matter.  This
come-day-go-day attitude of yours is bad business.  It's ruining you,
really it is."

"Drink and the devil, huh?"

"Oh, you're decent enough far as that goes.  You never have been
beastly."

"I thank you, madam, for this good opinion of your humble servant."

"Shut up!  I mean to say--  What I'm trying to beat into your thick
head, you simple thing, is that in this world you don't stand still.
You can't.  You either go ahead or you slip back.  And--you aren't
going ahead."

"If not, why not, huh?  I know you mean well, Sally Jane, and----"

"And it's none of my business?  Oh, I know you weren't going to say
that but you think it.  You're quite right, Bill--but can't you see I'm
talking for your own good?"

"Sure, yes.  My pa used to talk just like that before he'd go out
behind the corral with a breeching-strap in one hand and my ear in the
other.  I've heard him many's the time.  I used to hurt most unpleasant
for two-three days after, special if he'd forget which end of the strap
carried the buckle.  Old times, old times.  Now, I take it you were
never licked, Sally Jane.  That was a mistake.  You should have been--
What?  You don't mean to say you're going home?  And we were getting
along so nicely too.  Well, if willful must, she must.  I'll hold your
horse for you.  Again let me offer my apologies for the lack of a door."

He sagged down on his heel and watched her ride away along the side of
Linny's Hill.

"I've often heard a woman's 'no' doesn't mean what it says," he
muttered, fishing out the makings from a vest pocket.  "But Sally Jane
is so persistent with it, I dunno.  I wonder if I really love her, or
do I only think I do because I can't have her?  I suppose I'd feel
worse'n I do every time she turns me down if I did.  Lord! she said, I
said, he said, and may Gawd have mercy on your soul!"

When his cigarette was going well he lazed over on his side, supporting
his head on a crooked arm, and gazed abroad between half-shut lids.

The view from Linny's Hill was all that could be desired.  At the base
of the hill the Golden Bar-Hillsville trail, a yellow-gray ribbon
across the green, led the eye across flats and gentle rises through
shady groves of pine and cedar westward to where Golden Bar, a
collection of toy houses, each one startlingly clear and distinct in
that rarefied atmosphere, sprawled along the farther bank of Wagonjack
River.

The stream itself, a roaring river in the spring of the year, was now
but a poor thing.  Shrunk to quarter-size, and fordable almost
anywhere, it flowed in sedate and midsummer fashion between its
cut-banks and miniature bluffs.  Bordered throughout its length by
willows and cottonwoods, Wagonjack River meandered and wound its way
southward from the blue and hazy tumble of peaks that was the main
range of the Medicine Mountains to where the wide and pleasant reaches
of the Peace Pipe watered the southern section of the territory.

From Golden Bar to the Medicine Mountains was a long two hundred miles.
From Golden Bar to the Peace Pipe was twice that distance.

Crocker County, four hundred miles long by three hundred miles wide,
bounded on the east by the Wagonjack, ran well up into the Medicine
Mountains before giving way to Storey County.  Across the river from
Crocker were two counties, of which Tom Read County was the northern
and Piegan County the southern.  Shaler County ran the whole length of
the southern side of Crocker, whose western line was the boundary of
the neighboring territory.

There you have Crocker, a county three hundred miles wide by four
hundred miles long, and Golden Bar was its county seat.

Political pickings in Crocker, which pickings the neighbors called by a
much worse name, were consistently good.  A small Indian reservation
lay partly in Crocker and partly in Shaler, but somehow the Crocker
citizens always secured the beef contracts.  Crocker laws, provided the
suspected person or persons were friendly with the county officials,
were not administered with undue severity.  Coarse work was never
tolerated, naturally; but if one were judicious and a good picker, one
could travel far and profitably.  Thus it may be seen that Crocker was,
as counties go, fertile ground for easy consciences.

But, like Gallio, Bill Wingo cared for none of these things.  He
watched the moving pencil-end that was Miss Prescott and her mount
descend to the trail and ride along it in the direction of Golden Bar.

Another pencil-end was riding the same trail,--away from Golden Bar.
Traveling at their present rate of speed, the riders would meet not far
from the scattering grove of cedars marking the entrance to the
low-walled draw that led to the Prescott ranch house.

Bill Wingo intently scrutinized the way-farer from Golden Bar side.

"Looks like Jack Murray's sorrel," he mused, holding the cigarette in
the corner of his mouth and rocking it up and down.  "If they stop,
it's Jack."

The pencil-ends drew together at the lower end of the grove.  They
stopped.

"Shucks," Mr. Wingo muttered mildly.  "I never did like that man."


Said the first pencil-end to the second pencil-end, "Hello, Sally Jane."

"Morning, Jack."

"I was just a-riding to your place."

"Don't let me stop you."

"I'll ride along with you."

"It's a free country."  She lifted her reins and "kissed" to her horse.
"And at times I've known you to be amusing, Jack.  It's four miles to
our ranch and you'll help to brighten the weary way."

He spurred alongside and turned in his saddle to stare at her.

"Is that all I'm good for--to help pass the time?"

"What else is a man good for?"

"Don't be so flip, Sally Jane.  You know----"  He stopped short.

She waited a moment.  Then, "I know what?"

"You know I've been loving you a long, long time," he said abruptly.
"I didn't want to tell you till I had something to offer you besides
myself.  And now I've got something--Rafe Tuckleton has promised to
make me sheriff."

"I thought the voters usually decided such things," said she.

He laughed cynically.  "Not in Crocker.  _We_ know the better way.
Well, I've told you, Sally Jane.  What do you say?"

She looked at him coolly.  "What is this--a proposal?"

"Sure, I want you to marry me."

"No, you don't."  There was no hint of coquetry in either her tone or
the direct gaze of her violet eyes.

He crowded his horse almost against hers and dropped a hand on top of
her hand where it lay on the saddle horn.  She did not withdraw her
hand at his touch.  She simply suffered it impassively.

"Don't you understand?" he said earnestly.  "Don't you understand that
I love you, Sally Jane?  And I want you."

Sally Jane continued to look at him.

"I understand that you want me," she told him calmly.  "Why not?
You're dark and tall and thick-lipped and headstrong.  I'm slim and
red-haired and my mouth is full, too--but I'm headstrong, thank Heaven.
My type appeals to your type, that's all.  Appeals physically, I mean.
You'd like to possess me, but you don't love me, Jack Murray."

"I tell you----" he began passionately.

"You don't have to tell me," she said calmly.  "I know."

"How do you know?"

"By your eyes."

"My eyes!"

"Your eyes.  Love is something besides desire, Jack.  I know that lots
of men don't think so; but women know.  You bet women know.  And I, for
one, don't intend to risk my happiness on a twenty-to-one-shot."

"What you talking about?" he demanded, scowling and withdrawing his
hand.

"You--and me--us.  If I married you, it's twenty to one our marriage
would be unhappy.  There's too much of the animal in you, Jack."

"You listen to me, Sally.  I tell you I love you and I'm going to have
you."

"I said you only wanted to possess me," she observed placidly.

"Dammit, I tell you----"

"That's right, swear," she interrupted.  "A man always does that when
he can't think of anything else to say."

"I'm gonna marry you," he persisted sullenly.

"If it does you any good, keep right on thinking so.  It can't hurt me."

"Has Bill Wingo----" he began, but sensed his mistake and stopped--too
late.

"You mean am I in love with Billy Wingo?" she put in helpfully.  "My
answer is, not at present."

"Meaning that you may be later on, I suppose."

"I didn't say so.  Lord, man, haven't I a right to bestow my heart
anywhere I like?  I intend to, old-timer."

"You ain't gonna marry anybody but me," he insisted stubbornly.

"There you go again.  Leave the melodrama alone, can't you?  This isn't
a play.  It's real life."

"I said I was gonna have you and I am," he said slowly.  "Neither Bill
Wingo nor anybody else is gonna get you.  You were always intended for
me.  You're mine, understand, mine!"

Jamming his horse against hers he pinioned both her hands with his
right, swung his left arm round her waist and crushed her gasping
against his chest.  Be sure she struggled; but he was a man, and
strong.  Forcing the back of the hand that confined her two hands under
her chin, he tilted her head up and backwards.  Tightly she screwed up
her mouth so that her lips were invisible.  Once, twice and again he
kissed her compressed mouth.

"There," he muttered, releasing her so abruptly that she almost fell
out of the saddle and only saved herself by catching the saddle horn
with both hands.  "There.  I've heard you boasted that no man had ever
kissed you.  Well, you're kissed now and you won't forget it in a
hurry."

She settled her toes in the stirrups and faced him, her body shaking.
Her hat had fallen off, her copper-colored hair hung tousled about her
ears.  Violet eyes sparkling under the black eyebrows, lips drawn back
revealing the white, even teeth--her features were a mask of rage--a
rage that seethed and boiled in her passionate heart.

Never in her life had she been so despitefully used.  Had she had a
gun, she would have shot the man.  But she did not have a gun--nor any
other weapon.  She had even dropped her quirt somewhere.

"Oh!" she cried, striking her fists together.  "Oh!  I could kill you!
You dog!  You beast!  Faugh!"  Here she wiped her mouth with the back
of her hand and wiped her hand on her horse's mane.  "When I get home,"
she raved on, "I'll try to wash the touch of your mouth off with soap,
but I don't believe even ammonia will ever make my lips feel clean
again!"

He laughed.  She began to cry as her rage overflowed her heart.

"When I tell my father," she sobbed, "he will kill you!"

"Here, stop crying," he directed, stretching forth an arm and leaning
toward her.

At that she came alive with startling suddenness and with a full-armed
sweep scored his cheek with her finger nails from temple to jaw.

"Don't touch me!" she squalled.  "Don't touch me!  When my father gets
through with you----"  She left the sentence unfinished and wheeled her
horse.

But he was too quick for her and seized the bridle rein and swung her
mount back.

"Listen," he said, his voice quiet but his eyes ablaze, "don't say
anything to your father."

"Afraid now, are you?" she taunted sneeringly.

"Not for me, for him.  I don't want any trouble with your pa, not any.
But if he jumps me, I'll have to defend myself.  And you know your pa
was never very quick on the draw, Sally Jane.  So long."

He let her bridle go and moved aside.  She snatched her horse around
with a jerk and flew homeward at a gallop.




CHAPTER TWO

A SAFE MAN

"We gotta be careful," cautioned Tom Driver, the local justice of the
peace.

"Careful is our middle name," Rafe Tuckleton said reassuringly.

"I know, I know," persisted Driver.  "But you can't fool all the people
all----"

"Abe Lincoln said it first," Felix Craft interrupted impatiently.  "But
he didn't live in Crocker County."

"Or he wouldn't have said it, huh?" flung in Tip O'Gorman.  "Don't you
fool yourself, Crafty.  Tom's right.  Human nature don't change any."

"I s'pose you mean give the people a square deal then," sneered Felix.

"If he does, he's crazy," said a lanky citizen named Shindle.

O'Gorman grinned a wide Irish smile.  "No, I ain't crazy, but we'll
give 'em a square deal alla same."

"He is crazy," declared lank Shindle.

"A square deal," repeated O'Gorman.  "A square deal--for us."

"I thought so," nodded plump Sam Larder, speaking for the first time
since the beginning of the discussion.  "A square deal--for us.  Let's
hear it, Tip."

O'Gorman sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.  "When a dog is
hungry it ain't sensible to feed him a whole juicy steak.  He'll gobble
it down an' come pesterin' round for more in five minutes.  But give
him a bone and he'll gnaw and gnaw and be a satisfied dog for quite a
long while."

"What kind of a bone were you figuring on giving our dog?" inquired Tom
Driver.

"Sheriff."  Thus Tip O'Gorman with finality.

Felix Craft shook a decided head.

"Guess again.  Too much meat on that bone."

"Not if it's the right kind of meat," said O'Gorman blandly.

"Stop walking in the water," grunted the impatient Felix.  "Say it
right out."

"A sheriff with a ring in his nose," explained O'Gorman.

"A weak sister, huh?" put in Tom Driver.

"Or words to that effect," smiled O'Gorman.  "Can't you see how it is,
gents?  To shove our ticket through we gotta give 'em one good man.  If
we don't, the four legislators are a stand-off.  We may elect them.  We
may elect our three justices, county clerk and coroner.  You can't tell
what will happen to them.  Folks will scratch their heads this election
and they'll vote their own way.  Take my word for it.  And when it
comes to sheriff, folks are gonna do more than scratch their heads.
They're gonna think--hard.  That's why we gotta give 'em a good man."

"One of themselves, for instance?" said plump Sam Larder, locking his
hands over his paunch.

"Sure," O'Gorman drawled.  "Do that.  Give 'em somebody they trust and
like for sheriff an' they'll be so busy thinkin' about electin' him
that the rest of the ticket will slide in like a greased pig through a
busted fence."

"To tell the truth.  I'd more than half-promised the job to Jack
Murray," remarked Rafe Tuckleton, incidentally wondering why Jack had
not yet turned up at the meeting.  "He should have been here an hour
ago."

"You half-promised it to Jack Murray, huh?" exclaimed the lank citizen
Shindle.  "Lemme tell you that I was a damsight more than half-counting
on that job myself."

"Neither of your totals is the right answer, Skinny," explained
O'Gorman pleasantly.  "Nominatin' either you or Jack would gorm up the
whole ticket."

"Aw, the party is strong enough to elect anybody!" protested Felix
Craft.

"Not this year," contradicted O'Gorman.  "You ain't been round like I
have, Felix.  I tell you I know.  Gents, if we go ahead and nominate
either Skinny Shindle or Jack Murray, we'll all have to go to work."

"Who you got in mind?" queried Rafe Tuckleton.

"Bill Wingo."

Dead silence for a space.  Then Rafe Tuckleton looked at Sam Larder and
whistled lowly.  Sam's eyes switched to Tip.

"I don't see the connection," said Sam Larder.

"Me either," concurred Rafe.

"I should say not," Shindle declared loudly.

"I'll tell you," said Tip O'Gorman, beaming impartially upon the
assemblage.  "Take Skinny Shindle.  He----"

"Aw right, take me!" burst out the gentleman in question.  "What about
me!  What----"

"Easy, easy," cautioned Tip O'Gorman, his smile a trifle fixed.  "I
ain't deaf in either ear, and besides ain't we all li'l friends
together?"

"But you said----" Skinny tried again.

"I ain't said it yet," interrupted Tip, "but I'm going to--gimme a
chance.  It won't hurt.  It's only the truth.  Take Skinny and look at
him.  He buys scrip at three times the discount anybody else does, and
there was a lot of talk about that beef contract the agent gave him."

"What of it?  Folks don't have to bring scrip to me if they don't
wanna, and suppose there was chatter about the contract.  It's the
government's funeral."

"It came near being the agent's," slipped in Sam Larder, with a
reminiscent grin.  "Some of them feather dusters like to chased him off
the reservation when they saw the kind of cattle he gave 'em.  I saw
'em.  They were thinner than Skinny.  No exaggeration.  Absolutely."

"Well, that's all right, too," said Skinny.  "A feller's got to make
money somehow.  Who ever heard of giving a Injun the best of it?  Not
in Crocker County, anyway."

"That's all right again, too," declared Tip.  "But that last deal with
the agent was a li'l too raw.  Taking that with your prices for scrip,
Skinny, has made a heap of talk.  You ain't a popular idol, Skinny, not
by any means."

"Damn my popularity!" snarled the excellent Skinny.  "I wanna be
sheriff."

"Like the baby wants the soap," said Tip.  "Well, you'll never be happy
then, because you'll never get it."

"Lookit here, Tip----"

"You lookit here, Skinny," swiftly interjected Rafe Tuckleton.  "Is
this campaign your own private affair, or is it the party's?"

"The party's, I guess," Skinny reluctantly admitted.  "But I want my
share of it."

"You can have your share without being sheriff," Rafe told him.
"You'll be taken care of, don't fret.  This here's a case of united we
stand, divided we tumble.  Suppose any li'l thing upsets our plans, and
our ticket don't go through?  What then?  What happens?  For one thing
you won't get the contract for furnishing the lumber for the new jail
and town hall that's gonna be built next year.  And for another, that
land deal you and I put through last month will be investigated.  How'd
we like that, huh?"

"Rafe's right," said Tom Driver.  "This is no time for taking any
chances.  It ain't a presidential year, and you can gamble there ain't
gonna be a thing to take folks' eyes off the county politics.  We've
all gotta give up something for the sake of the party."

"I don't notice you givin' up anything," snapped the disgruntled
Skinny.  "I seem to be the only one that loses."

"And Jack Murray," supplemented Rafe Tuckleton.  "Hell's bells, Skinny,
why didn't you say something sooner?  To-night's the first I ever heard
you even wanted an office.  That's why I told Jack he could have it.
He's a good man, but if I'd known----"

"What difference does that make?" interrupted Skinny, bitterly.  "You
couldn't give me the nomination anyway."

"You could have had another office--say county clerk."

"Wouldn't take it on a bet--not enough opportunity.  Aw hell, it's a
dead horse!  Let it go, Rafe.  Tip, you've had a lot to say about me,
now let's hear what you got against Jack Murray."

"Yep," said Rafe Tuckleton, "let's have it.  I'll have to give Jack
some reason for going back on him, and I don't see exactly----"  He did
not complete the sentence.

"Speaking personal," observed Tip, again on the broad grin, "I ain't
got a thing against Jack.  Him and me get along fine.  But when Jack
was first deputy two years ago he managed to kill four men one time and
another."

"That was in the line of duty," said Rafe.  "They all resisted arrest."

Tip O'Gorman nodded.  "I ain't denying it.  And we've got Jack's word
for it besides; but the four men all had friends, and when, as you
know, each and every one of 'em turned out to be more or less innocent,
why the friends got to talking round and saying Jack was too previous.
Ain't you heard anything a-tall?"

"I've heard it said he was a _leetle_ quicker than he maybe needed to
be," conceded Rafe.  "But folks always talk more or less about a
killing.  It didn't strike me there was enough in it to actually keep
Jack from being elected."

"There is.  They're only talking now, but nominate Jack and they'll
begin to yell."

"You must have been mighty busy these last few weeks, Tip," sneered
Skinny.

"I have," declared Tip.  "Seems like I've talked with every voter in
the county.  I've gone over the whole field with a finetooth comb, and
I tell you, gents, the bone for our dog is Bill Wingo.  Most everybody
likes Bill.  He's a damsight more popular than the opposition
candidate.  Bill will get a lot of the other feller's votes, but if we
put up anybody else the other feller will get a lot of ours--and so
will the rest of his ticket."

Tip O'Gorman sat back in his chair and eyed his friends.  It was
obvious that the friends were of two minds.  Rafe Tuckleton, his
fingers drumming on the table, stared soberly at the floor.

"Are you sure, Tip," inquired Larder suddenly, "that Bill Wingo is the
breed of horse that will _always_ drink when you lead him to water?"

Tip O'Gorman nodded his guarantee of Mr. Wingo's pliability of
character.  "Bill is too easy-going and good-natured to do anything
else."

"I'd always had an idea he was a good deal of a man," said Sam Larder.

"Oh, he'll stand the acid," Tip said.  "He'll go after anybody he
thinks he oughta go after; but if we can't manage to give him the right
kind of thoughts we're no good."

"You needn't start losing flesh, Sam," slipped in Tom Driver.  "Bill
would never go back on his friends.  H's just a big overgrown kid,
that's all."

Rafe Tuckleton leaned back in his chair and stared dubiously at Tip
O'Gorman.  "All right for Bill, but how about Tom Walton?"

"I'll bite," Tip averred blandly.  "How about him?"

"Nothing, oh, nothing a-tall.  Only Tom Walton has been one too many
round here for a long time."

"He does talk too much," admitted Tom Driver, his bright little eyes,
like those of an alert bird, fixed on Rafe Tuckleton.

"He's a very suspicious man," said the latter.  "He like to broke Simon
Reelfoot's neck last week over a horse of his he said Simon rustled."

"Serve Simon right," said Tip promptly.  "Simon's a polecat.  Always
was.  Felt like breaking his neck more than once myself.  Good for
Walton."

"But Simon's one of our crowd," Rafe reminded him, "and he's been
mighty useful.  We gotta consider his feelings."

"Oh, damn his feelings.  The old screw ain't got any right to feelings."

"Yes, but there wasn't any real actual proof about the horse--only some
tracks in Simon's corral that Walton thought he recognized."

Tip quirked a quizzical mouth.  "Between us, Rafe, what did Simon do
with the horse?"

"Sold him to a prospector who was leaving the country.  So it couldn't
be traced."

"Good horse was it?"

"It was that chestnut young Hazel rides."

"Hazel's own pony?  Lord!  Man alive, Simon is worse'n a polecat.  He's
a whole family of them.  Why couldn't he have rustled some other horse?"

"I ain't Simon, so I can't tell you," said Rafe dryly.  "But if you
don't want anything done on Simon's account, how about this: yesterday
one of my boys was shot at while he happened to be doing a li'l
business on the Walton range."

"What did your boy happen to be doing?" smiled Tip.

Rafe attempted to excuse himself and his cowboy.  "It was a long-ear."

"Branding it on the Walton range?"

"Yes."

"With its mammy?"

"Yes."

"Serve the boy right."  Tip gave judgment.  "You and your outfit are
getting too reckless for any use, Rafe.  The territory is not a
Sunday-school.  You can't pick a man's pocket openly any more.  It
isn't safe.  And you know it isn't safe.  Who was the boy and what time
of day was it?"

"Ben Shanklin; and it was round noon."

"Worse and more of it.  My Gawd, Rafe, you gimme a pain!"

Sam Larder shook a fat-cheeked head.  "Dangerous, Rafe; dangerous.
You've got to consider a man's feelings now more than you used to.
Haven't you told your man to always work round sunrise and sunset, and
never to shoot a calf's mammy on her owner's territory?"

"Others do, and get away with it.  Besides, he didn't shoot the cow."

"He might as well have shot her," declared Tom Driver.  "He got caught,
didn't he?"

"Ben didn't get caught.  He made the riffle all right with two holes in
his saddle-horn and one in his cantle that tore his pants."

"What range?  Did he say?"

"About fourteen hundred."

"Fourteen hundred, huh?  Then he couldn't have been recognized."

"Luckily not."

"Luck is the word--for you--for us."

"Wonder who did the shooting?"

"I don't know.  Ben dug out one of the bullets from his horn.  It was
fifty caliber--a Sharps."

"That was Tom Walton himself," declared Tom Driver.  "He's the only one
in his outfit owning a Sharps, and he won't let any one else shoot it.
'Twas Tom Walton.  And don't be so positive Ben wasn't recognized,
Rafe.  I hear Walton carries field glasses now."

"He _is_ getting suspicious," smiled Tip O'Gorman.

The smile stung the amiable Rafe.  "He's gotta be stopped."

"How?"  Thus Tip.

"There are ways," snarled Rafe.

"Of course, but it doesn't pay to be too rough.  Tom has a great many
friends.  We can't afford to stir up a whole kettleful of discontent.
A little care, Rafe, is all that's necessary.  I think I'd impress my
men, if I were you, with the absolute necessity of being careful."

"I did tell 'em," said Rafe sullenly.

"Your telling seems to have left them cold.  At least it left Ben
Shanklin.  Damn his soul!  I almost wish Tom Walton had got him, the
coyote!  He deserves to be got, gorming up our plans thisaway."

"Well, everything turned out all right," Felix Craft tucked in hastily.
"So why worry?  I'm sure Rafe's men will be more careful after this."

"I wish I was sure," grunted Tip O'Gorman.  "They're a wild bunch,
every last one of 'em.  I believe they just try to stir up trouble.
They're eternally getting drunk and shooting up saloons and other
places of business.  People don't like it."

"Oh, boys will be boys," deprecated Rafe.

"Your boys will be dead boys if they don't watch out.  Anyway, you put
the hobbles on that Ben boy, Rafe.  We can't afford to have him spoil
things."

"How about having him spoil Walton?"

"And antagonize all of Walton's friends, huh?  Bright, oh, very!"

"If the feller who spoiled Walton was a stranger, it would be all
right.  You couldn't connect an absolute stranger with us, could you?"

"Let's hear your li'l plan," said Tip O'Gorman.

Every man of them listened intently to the Tuckletonian plan.

As plans go it was a good plan.  Procuring an assassin to do the dirty
work is always a good plan.  Rafe knew a gunman, named Slike, in a
neighboring territory.  For two hundred and fifty dollars, according to
Rafe, Dan Slike would murder almost any one.  For five hundred it was
any one, without the almost.

"Can he do it?" doubted Tom Driver.

"We all know how slow Tom Walton is on the draw," sneered Rafe.  "Which
he's slower than Sam Prescott.  If Slike don't plug Walton three times
before he can draw, I'll eat my shirt."

"That sounds well," said Tip O'Gorman, eyeing Rafe with frank disgust.
"But, somehow, I don't like the idea of having Walton killed."

"Whatsa matter with you?" demanded the originator of the idea.  "Losing
your nerve?"

Tip O'Gorman's expression did not alter in the slightest.  He gazed
upon his questioner as if the latter were a new and interesting
specimen of insect life.

"No," he said, "I don't think I'm losing my nerve.  Do you think I'm
losing my nerve, Rafe?"

Rafe looked upon Tip.  Tip looked upon Rafe.  The others held their
respective breaths.  In the room was dead silence.

"Do you, Rafe?" persisted Tip, his voice velvety smooth.

Rafe found his tongue.  "No, I don't," he declared frankly.  "But, I
don't see why you don't like my scheme."

"Don't you?  I'll explain.  Tom Walton's niece, Hazel, is the drawback.
Rubbin' out Tom would most likely put a crimp in her, sort of.  She
lost her ma and pa only five years ago."

"Aw, the devil!" exclaimed Rafe Tuckleton.  "We can't stop to think of
all those li'l things.  We're here to make money, no matter how.  Good
Gawd, Tip!  We ain't----"

"Good Gawd, Rafe!" interrupted Tip.  "We ain't hiring any gunman to
wipe out Tom Walton.  I'm no he-angel--none of us are, I guess; but
I've known Hazel since she was a li'l squaller, and I won't sit still
and see her hurt.  And that _goes_!"

Tip nodded with finality at Rafe Tuckleton.  Rafe sat back on the
middle of his spine and gnawed his lower lip.  His eyes were sulky.

"I don't want to see Hazel hurt either," said Skinny Shindle with an
indescribable leer, "but when it comes to a question of li'l Hazel or
us, I'm for us every time."

"You look here, Skinny," said Tip O'Gorman in a low dispassionate
voice, "what I said to Rafe, I say to you: Hands off Tom Walton."

"Oh, all right," said Skinny Shindle, "but if anything happens out of
this, don't say I didn't tell you."

"I won't say so, Skinny," Tip said good-naturedly.  "I won't say a
word."

"Gentlemen," Felix Craft put in hurriedly, "let's go slow about now.
No use saying anything hasty, not a bit of use.  Tip's right.  None of
us want to hurt Hazel, and----"

"And we want to be damn sure we don't want to hurt Hazel," interrupted
Tip O'Gorman, his eyes fixed on Rafe Tuckleton's sullen face.

"'T'sall right, 't'sall right," said Rafe, forcing a smile.  "Have it
your own way, Tip.  Tom Walton's safe for all of me."

"Good enough," Tip said heartily, shooting at Rafe a glance that was
not completely trustful.

Entered then Jack Murray, wearing a set smile across his scratched
face.  He nodded to the assemblage, sat down jauntily on the edge of
the table and brought out the makings.

"Well!" he said, his eyes on Rafe Tuckleton, rolling the while a
meticulous cigarette.  "Well, I suppose you've got the ticket all made
up."

"Just about," nodded Rafe.

"What prize did I draw?"

"A large, round goose-egg," Skinny Shindle answered for Rafe with
malice.

"Huh!"  Thus Mr. Murray, the hand he had reached upward to his hatband
coming down without the match.  "You serious, Skinny?"

"I wish I thought I wasn't," was the reply.

Jack Murray turned a slow head back toward Rafe Tuckleton.  "You told
me the sheriff's job was mine," he said bluntly.

"I thought it was," admitted Rafe, looking straight into his eyes.
"But we've heard some bad news, unexpected news.  It seems you ain't as
popular with our citizens as you might be.  We understand that you're
so little liked you wouldn't be elected in a million years."

"Who told you that?"  Jack's tone was sharp.

"I did."  Thus Tip O'Gorman in a tone no less sharp.  "And I know what
I'm talking about, you can gamble on that."

"Tip's had his ear to the ground pretty steady," said Rafe Tuckleton.
"He knows what's on every voter's mind, and if we nominate you for
sheriff it means the defeat of the party.  Listen, and I'll explain the
whole thing."

Jack Murray listened in silence.  When Rafe said his last word, Jack
Murray laid his unlighted cigarette across the end of his left index
finger and teetered it slowly.

"Who you figurin' on running in my place," he drawled, his dark gaze on
the cigarette.

"Bill Wingo."

The teetering stopped.  The cigarette slipped into the fork of two
fingers.  The man slid to his feet.

"Bill Wingo," he repeated.  "Bill Wingo, huh?  Well, this is a
surprise."

Without another word he left the room, closing the door behind him very
gently.

When he had gone Tip O'Gorman threw a whimsical glance at Rafe
Tuckleton.

"I'd feel better if he'd slammed that door," said Tip O'Gorman.




CHAPTER THREE

WHAT SALLY JANE THOUGHT

"Careless child," observed Bill Wingo, coming up on the porch where
Sally Jane lay in the hammock.  "You dropped your hat in the draw.  I
found it this morning.  Here it is.  Don't move, sweet one.  Of course,
if you asked me to sit down or didn't ask me I would, and if you felt
like rustling some coffee and cake, or lemonade and doughnuts, or even
just a piece of pie with a bite of cheese on the side--just a bite, not
over half a pound, I don't like cheese much--I wouldn't stop you."

"Stop calling me 'sweet one,'" Miss Prescott said crossly.  "I'm not
your sweet one, or anybody else's sweet one, and I'll get you something
to fill your fat stomach, you lazy loafer, when I get good and ready.
Not before."

"Well, all right," he murmured resignedly, settling down on the stout
pine rail of the porch and fanning himself with his hat.  "But I love
you just the same.  What's that?  Did I hear you curse or something?"

"Something.  I only said damn because you make me sick.  Love, love,
love, morning, noon and night!  Don't men ever think of anything else?"

"Not when you're around," he told her.

"Oh, it's the very devil," admitted Sally Jane, rubbing her red mouth
with a reflective forefinger.  "Am I so alluring?"

"Who has been kissing you now?" he asked idly and wondered why her face
should flame at the word.  Wondered--because everybody knew Sally Jane.

On her part she wondered if he had seen what had passed in the draw the
day before, then decided instantly that he had not, else his manner
toward her would have been decidedly different.

"You haven't answered my question?" he persisted, still idly.

"Does it need one?"

"Well, no, not yet, anyway.  When you're engaged to me, I'll know who's
kissing you."

"Don't be disgusting."

"No disgusting about it.  I'll probably hug you, too."

"What dismal beasts men are," she said, with a mock shiver, having
regained control of her jumpy nerves.  "I suppose you'd enjoy having me
sit on your knee."

"I would indeed," he told her warmly.  "I think that chair there would
hold the two of us if we sat quiet--fairly quiet."

It was at this juncture that her father, Sam Prescott, came out on the
porch.

"Howdy, young Bill," said Sam.  He invariably prefixed the adjective to
Bill's name.  Why, no one knew.  It was doubtful if he knew himself.

"'Lo, Sam," said young Bill.

"Sam," said Sally Jane from the hammock, "s'pose now a man tried to hug
you, and kiss you and make you sit on his knee, what would you do?"

"If I was you, you mean?" inquired Sam judicially.  Middle-aged though
he was, he never ceased to experience a pleasurable thrill when his
daughter called him "Sam."  It reminded him so much of her mother.  "If
I was you," he went on, without waiting for an answer, "and the feller
which tried to make me do all those things was young Bill here, I'd do
'em.  I really believe he likes you, Sally Jane."

"You think so, do you?" sighed Sally Jane, smoothing her frock down
over her ankles.  "You too, Samuel?  What chance has a poor girl
got--without a club?"

"I told her if she married me," spoke up Bill, "she could have jam on
Sundays and butter the rest of the week."

"There, you see, Sally Jane!" said Sam Prescott.  "He'll be good and
generous.  And if you asked him for a new dress now and then, or a pair
of shoes, I'll bet he wouldn't say no."

Sally Jane stubbornly shook her copper-colored head of hair.  "Samuel,"
said she, "you're the only man I ever loved.  Bill's all right in his
futile, thumb-handed way, but he's not my Sam.  Now don't forget that
one drink is enough for a plumpish man with a beautiful daughter, and
that I want you to bring back a dozen cans of baking-powder, a dozen
bars of May Rose soap, three dozen boxes of matches, four sacks of
flour, sack of salt, sixty pounds of sugar, two papers of pins, four
spools of number forty cotton and a pail of chocolate creams.  Be sure
and take the cover off and see it's a full pail, and if Nate tries to
palm off any stale stuff or hard candy on you, why just throw it in his
face and tell him I'll come in and complain in person my next trip."

"My Lord, Sally Jane," Sam exclaimed helplessly, "I can't remember all
that!"

"I know you can't," said Sally Jane calmly.  "I've merely been
impressing it on you that there's a lot of errands for you to do.
You'll find a carefully written list of everything I want stuck in the
coil of the tie-rope under the seat of the buck-board.  You can't miss
it when you go to tie the team."

"And Sam," she added, raising her voice to a shout, for her father had
already departed corralward, "be back by seven.  I'm gonna make a lemon
pie."

Her father waved a comprehending hand and disappeared behind the
blacksmith shop.

"You see," said Billy Wingo, with a smirk of self-satisfaction, "the
male parent approves.  The last obstacle is removed.  Be a sport.  Take
a chance.  You might go farther and fare worse."

"I doubt it, William.  Not that you aren't a nice boy and all that sort
of thing.  However, tell sister why you seek her company this morning?"

"Oh, yes, of course, sister not being a good excuse for coming, I did
another reason.  I have a fresh bale of news for her li'l pink ear.
Last night I was approached--" He paused dramatically.

"How much did he try to borrow?" Sally Jane inquired indifferently.

"Nothing like that, sweet one.  The political steersmen of our fair
county rode out to my place last night and----"

"What did the old thief want?" Sally Jane brutally wished to know.

"_Steersmen_, beloved.  There were two of him, and you do both old
gentlemen an injustice.  They----"

"So Tip came with Rafe, did he?  And you mean to tell me you didn't
even miss your watch after they'd gone?  You didn't?  They must be
sick, the pair of them.  What did they do?"

"Offered me the nomination for sheriff!"

Sally Jane sat up abruptly, stuck her finger in her mouth, then held it
up to catch the vagrant breeze.

"The wind's still in the west," she said, making her eyes round as
saucers.  "And you are still sitting there as large as life, and I'm
here alive and in my right mind!"  Here she pinched her forearm.  "That
hurt," she added.  "I really am not dreaming.  They want you for
sheriff, huh?"

"Don't 'huh' at me, Sally Jane.  It ain't being done by the best people
no more.  And they want me for sheriff, really."

"I wonder just how much of that really is real?"

He wrinkled his forehead at her.  "Sometimes, Sally Jane, you talk most
awful puzzling."

"Those two old rascals!" she cried.

"Don't you think their intentions are honorable?"

Sally Jane's laughter was sardonic.

"Are they trying to fool me, or what?" he persisted.

"I don't know whether they're trying to fool you or not," was the
reply, "but they're trying to fool somebody, that's a cinch."

"Do you know now, Sally Jane, I was thinking something like that
myself."

She looked at him with a gleam of respect in her eyes.  "I wonder if
you really have a brain after all, William.  Occasionally you give out
a spark that leads one to believe that there may be a trace of
reasoning power underneath your waving hair.  What makes you think they
have an ulterior motive?"

"Humanly speaking, I dunno why; but I do."

"Instinct is the white woman's burden, boy.  You'd better leave it
alone.  But it doesn't take any instinct to tell me that there's a man
and brother hiding in the cord-wood.  To find the dark-hued
gentleman--that is the question."

"Why take the trouble?"

"Why?  Listen to the man!  Why?  So you'll know what you're up against,
that's why."

"But I'm not up against anything," he objected mildly.  "I told 'em I
didn't want the job."

"What?"

He rubbed an outraged ear.  "No need to deafen me," said he.

"Deafen you?" she cried.  "I could take a club to you, you fat-head!
The opportunity of a lifetime and you turn it down!  Oh!  I could
shriek my head off with rage!  I never was so hopping in my life!  The
first time an honest man is offered a political job in this county, for
the honest man to turn up his nose, is----"  Words failed her.  She
almost choked.

"So-o, so-o," he soothed.  "Don't get so excited.  Remember we are
young but once, and every outburst brings us nearer the grave.  I
hadn't reached the end of my tale when you blew up and hit the ceiling.
Lemme finish, that's a good child.  I told 'em I didn't want the job,
but they wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.  They said for me to think
it over, and they'd be back in a couple of days and take it up with me
again."

"Bill," said Sally Jane, leaning forward, her violet eyes shining, "I'm
serious."

"I'll try to believe it," he said, regarding her with admiration.  "But
just this minute you look like the most unserious thing I ever saw--and
the most beautiful.  Listen, Sally Jane, I wish you'd do as I ask you.
Close your eyes and plunge right in.  We'd be as happy as two pups in a
basket.  Sign on the dotted line and leave the rest to me."

Which nonsense she quite properly disregarded utterly.  "Bill, I want
you to take that nomination."

"But why, Sally Jane?  I don't wanna be sheriff."

"Suppose I want you to?"

"But why should you want me to?"

"Isn't it enough that I ask it?"

"You flirt!  You're utterly shameless!  You know you can twist me all
round your li'l pink finger like a piece of string.  You know I'm fool
enough to do anything you ask, and----"

"Well then, good fool," she smiled her interruption, "it's all settled.
You accept the nomination, and if you don't make things hum after
you're elected, you're not the man I take you for."

Bill slipped right off the porch rail and sat down limply on the floor.
His eye-balls rolled up.  His hand fluttered over his heart.  He
breathed with difficulty.  "At last," he muttered.  "Accepted!  The
shock will be the death of me!  Water!  Water!  With a little whisky
stirred in.  Just a little.  Not more than four or five fingers, or
perhaps six.  No sugar."

He got to his feet slowly and reseated himself on the rail.  "You won't
go back on your word, Sally Jane," he told her soberly.

"I can do lots of things you never heard of," said she.  "But making
two meanings grow where only one grew before is not one of them."

"Joking aside," he said, "will you marry me if I take this sheriff job?"

"Joking aside," said she, "would you want me for a reason like that?"

"Well, no," he admitted frankly.  "I'd want you to love me a lot."

"I'd make a pretty worthless wife otherwise.  Honestly, Bill, I like
you a great deal, but there's something lacking.  And when there's
something lacking, there's nothing to be done.  Love is the greatest
thing in the world, Bill.  It's what makes life worth living.  And you
mustn't cheat it.  If you do, you might better never have been born."

He nodded.  Try as he might, he was unable to feel very badly.  He
decided to give it up as a hopeless job.

"I see," he said gravely.  "Sometimes, Sally Jane, I get an idea that
maybe you and me won't marry each other, after all.  But no matter what
happens, I'll always be a brother to you.  You can count on me."

He arose and made her a flourishing bow.

"That," said Sally Jane, with her bright smile, "takes a load off my
heart.  As a sister, I know I'd fill every requirement.  Be a good
brother now, and do as I ask.  Be a sheriff."

"All right," said Billy Wingo.  "I will."




CHAPTER FOUR

HAZEL WALTON

"Now there," said Riley Tyler, staring at the driver of a buckboard who
was tying her team in front of the Rocky Mountain store, "now there is
a girl that is pretty as a li'l red wagon, new-painted."

Billy Wingo, unmoved, continued to whittle the end of the packing case
he was sharing with Tyler.  He did not even look at the girl, and she
was a very handsome girl.

"Yeah," said Billy Wingo.

"Not that I cotton to a female girl as a usual thing," resumed Riley,
"ever since a experience I had when young.  I'll tell you about it some
time; maybe I better now."

"No, not now," Billy made haste to say; for he had heard the story of
every single one of Tyler's love affairs at least a dozen times.  "Le's
talk about somethin' pleasant.  Try the weather."

"You know, just for that," trundled on Riley Tyler, "we'll go on
talking about young Hazel Walton over there.  Pity she's gone in the
store.  You've never taken a good look at her, have you?"

"Nor I don't want to," denied Billy with what seemed to Riley an
unnecessary heat.

"Why not?  Do your eyes good.  Tell you, Bill, she's got the
best-looking black hair y'ever saw."

"I saw her once or twice with her uncle," Billy admitted desperately.
"She's all you say she is and more too.  Anything to please the
children.  Don't you ever stop talkin', Riley?"

"Not when I got somethin' like Hazel to talk about," declared the
relentless Riley, warming to his subject.  "Y'oughta notice her eyes
once, Bill.  Tell you, you never saw _eyes_ till you see hers.  They're
eyes, they are!  Big and black and soft and eyewinkers long as a
pony's.  Fact.  And she ain't lost a tooth.  She's still got the whole
thirty-four.  You take my word for it, Bill, she's a whole lot
different from other folks."

"She's two teeth different anyway.  Most generally all other folks can
crowd in their mouth are thirty-two."

"What's a tooth more or less between friends?" said the unabashed
Riley.  "She's got a whole mouthful, and when she smiles she shows 'em
all."

"That's great," yawned Billy, closing his pocket-knife with a click.
"You forgot to say whether she's a good cook or not."

"She's a number one cook," Riley told him seriously.  "Her coffee is
coffee, lemme tell you, and she don't fry a steak to boot-leather
neither.  Not her.  No.  She broils it, she does.  _Y'oughta_ taste her
mashed potatoes.  No lumps in 'em or grit or nothin', only the mealy
old potato; and butter beets!  My Gawd!"

"Mixes 'em up with the potato, huh?"

"Of course not, you jack--separate.  And canned peas--separate.
Actually she cooks those peas so they're tender as fresh ones;
tenderer, by gummy!  Makes her own butter, too, in a churn."

"Well, well, in a churn.  I never knew they made butter thataway."

"Shut up, Bill.  You ain't got any soul.  I stop at Walton's for a meal
every chance I get.  Y'oughta see her cookin' a meal, Bill.  She rolls
her sleeves up and she's got dimples in her elbows.  She's a picture,
and you can stick a pin in that."

"Why don't you marry the girl?"

"I've asked her," was the reply made without rancor.  "She said, 'No
thanks.'"

"That's one thing in her favor."

"Yeah, I think--Hey! what you tryin' to do, insult me?"

"Insult you, you tarrapin?  You wouldn't know it if I did."

"If I wasn't so comfortable, I'd show you something," declared Riley
Tyler, sliding farther down on the small of his long back.  "But the
heat has saved your life, William.  Yeah, otherwise you'd be a corpse
all bluggy in the middle of Main Street.  I'm a wild wolf when I'm
riled, you can gamble--  Yonder she comes.  She didn't stay long."

Billy dug the Tyler shortribs with a hard elbow.  "Where's your
manners?  Go over and untie the lady's team."

"Too far.  She'd have 'em untied by the time I got there.  Besides, I'm
too comfortable.  Another thing, I'd have to get up.  No, no, I'll stay
here."

Hazel Walton stepped into the buckboard, kicked the brake-lever and
swung her team like a workman.  The tall near mule laid back his long
ears and planted both hind feet on the dashboard.  _Smack!  Smack!_
went the whip.  The mule tucked his tail, shook his mean head and tried
to jump through his collar.  The brake-lever shot forward under the
shove of the girl's straightened right leg.  The sensible off mule
threw his head to the left to ease the hard drag on his mouth as the
girl swayed back on the near rein.  The near mule, hearing the slither
of the locked wheels behind him, and with his windpipe bent like a bow
and his chin forced back to his chest, decided that fighting would
avail him nothing and quieted at once.

"Regular driver, that girl," Billy said approvingly.  "It ain't every
woman can drive a pair of those big freight mules.  I never knew she
was like that."

"Lots of things you dunno," Riley hastened to say.  "You didn't even
know she was pretty."

Billy hopped across the sidewalk and ran out into the middle of Main
Street.  The mules, hard held, slid to a halt.  Billy scooped up the
package that had fallen from behind the seat and hurried up to the
buckboard.

"Your tarp's slipped a little, ma'am," said he, stowing away the
package without raising his eyes to Miss Walton, who was leaning over
the back of the seat.  "I'll tie it fast."

Not till the tarpaulin was fastened to his complete satisfaction did he
look up.  Then he realized that Riley Tyler had not told half the truth
about Hazel Walton's eyes.  True, they were big and black and soft, but
they were deep too, deep as cool rock pools, and they looked at you
steadily with a straight look that somehow made you wish that you had
been a better boy.

Queer that he hadn't noticed this attribute before.  But at none of the
two or three times he had passed the girl on Golden Bar's Main Street
had she impressed him in the least.  He could not have described her to
save his life.  Perhaps it was because he had not looked into her eyes
before to-day.  But he wasted no time thinking about that.  He kept
right on looking into her eyes.

"You don't come in town very often," was his sufficiently inane
observation.

"Not very often," said she, and smiled.

Yes, there were the teeth.  And weren't they white!  He didn't know
when he had seen such white teeth.  And her mouth had a dimple near one
corner.  Now the dimple was gone.  He wished it would appear once more.

"Do it again," he found himself saying like a fool.

She wrinkled her pretty forehead at him.  "What?"

"Smile," he said, with a boldness that surprised himself.

It surprised Hazel Walton, surprised her so that she jerked around to
the front, "kissed" to the mules and drove away without a word.

Billy stood quite still in the middle of Main Street, with his hat off,
and looked after her a moment.  Then he pulled on the hat with a jerk
and returned to his packing case.

"What did she say to you?" Riley wanted to know.

"None of your business," was the ungracious reply.

"She left you sort of sudden," persisted Riley.  "And why did you stand
still in the middle of the street and look after her so forlorn and
long?"

"I wasn't lookin' more than ten seconds," denied Billy, jarred off his
balance for once in his life.

"Shucks, I had time to roll a cigarette, and smoke it to the butt while
you stood there nailed to the earth.  Yeah.  Tell you, Bill, you don't
wanna let your feelings give you away so much.  Bad business that is.
Somebody's bound to pick your pocket forty ways.  Y'oughta play poker
more.  That would teach you self-control."

"Bluh," grunted Billy.  "Think you're smart, don't you?"

"I know I am," returned Riley, crossing one knee over the other and
diddling his foot up and down to the thin accompaniment of a tinkling
spur-rowel.  "I got eyes, I have.  I can see through a piece of glass
most generally.  Oh, mush and milk, love's young dream, and when shall
we meet again."

"Aw, hell, shut up!" urged Billy, and shoved his friend off the packing
case and went elsewhere hastily.

Riley first swore, then laughed and reseated himself on the case.  Jack
Murray, passing by, stopped and sneered openly.  It was obvious that
Jack was in liquor.

"He don't care how much he picks on you, does he?" observed Jack.

Riley Tyler did not move hand or foot.  But a subtle change took place.
Iron turning into steel undergoes such a metamorphosis.  The sixth
sense of an observing old gentleman across the street and directly in
line with Jack Murray informed its owner of the sudden chill in the
air.  The observing old gentleman, whose name was Wildcat Simms, oozed
backward through a doorway into the Old Hickory saloon.

"Why are you walking like a crab, Wildcat?" queried his friend the
bartender.

"Because Jack Murray is talking to Riley Tyler."

The bartender, wise in his generation, was well able to fill in the
rest for himself.  He joined the old gentleman behind a window at one
side of the line of fire.

Riley Tyler, meanwhile, was fixedly regarding Jack Murray.

"Meaning?" said Riley Tyler.

Jack Murray came right out into the open.  "Ain't you able to stand up
for yourself no more?"

There it was--the deliberate insult.  Followed the movement so swift no
eye could follow.  But Riley's gun caught.  Jack Murray's didn't.  When
the smoke began to wreathe upward in the windless air, Jack Murray was
calmly walking away up in the street and Riley Tyler was hunched across
the packing case.  Blood was running down the boards of the packing
case and seeping through the cracks in the sidewalk.

Billy Wingo was the fourth man to reach Riley.  The boy, for he was not
yet twenty-one, had been turned over on his back on the sidewalk.  He
was unconscious.  Samson, the Green-Front Store owner, was bandaging a
wound in Riley's neck.

"Lucky," observed Samson, "just missed the jugular."

"Where else is he shot?" queried Billy, his eyes on the blood-soaked
front of Riley's shirt.

"Right shoulder," Samson informed him.

"I heard three shots," said Billy.  "Two was close together but the
last one was maybe ten seconds later."

"I only found the two holes," declared Samson.

But when Billy and another man picked up Riley to carry him to the
hotel, Billy found where the third shot had gone.  It had penetrated
Riley's back on the left side, bored between two ribs, missed the wall
of the stomach by a hair and made its exit an inch above the waistband
of the trousers.

The marshal, who had seen the crowd going into the hotel, arrived as
Billy and Samson were making Riley as comfortable as possible on a cot
in one of the hotel rooms.

The marshal, whose surname being Herring was commonly called "Red,"
thrust out a lower lip as he surveyed the man on the bed.

"Even break, I hear," said the marshal.

Billy set him right at once.  "You heard wrong, Red.  Riley's gun
caught.  I found where the sight had slipped through a crack in the
leather.  Besides, Riley was plugged in the back after he was down.  Do
you call that an even break?"

"Well, no," admitted Red Herring, who was inclined to be just, if being
just did not interfere with his line of duty.  "Anybody see it besides
you?"

"I didn't see it a-tall.  I didn't have to.  I heard the shots--two
close together and one a good ten seconds later.  Oh, Riley was plugged
after he was down and out, all right enough.  Besides, Riley was lying
across his gun hand when he was picked up, Samson says."

"That's right," nodded Samson.

"Jack was a little previous, sort of," frowned the marshal.

"You think so," said Billy sarcastically.  "Maybe you're right."

"Well, I can't do a thing," said the marshal.  "I didn't see it.  And
these fraycases will happen sometimes."

"Nobody's asking you to do anything," said Billy.  "I'm looking after
this."

"Now don't you go pickin' a fight with anybody," urged the marshal,
instantly perceiving his line of duty.  "Judge Driver is dead against
these promiscuous shootings."

"Judge Driver can go to hell," Billy said with heat.  "What's this here
but a promiscuous shooting, I'd like to know?  And I don't see you
arrestin' anybody for it.  You said you couldn't."

"I didn't see this one, and besides Riley ain't been killed, and no
complaint has been made," defended the marshal, who was no logician.
"But where a feller says he's gonna attend to somebody, that shows
premeditation and malice aforethought, which both of 'em is against the
statute as made and provided in such cases."

"How you do run on," commented Billy.

But the Red Herring lacked a sense of humor.  Heavy of soul, he frowned
heavily at Billy.

"You go slow," was his fishy advice.

"Be careful and otherwise refrain from violence," observed Billy, whose
English became better as his temper grew worse.  "I grasp your point of
view," he added gravely.  "But I don't like it.  Not for a minute I
don't.  I'll do as I think best.  I'd rather, really."

"Don't you go startin' nothin' you can't finish," said the marshal,
lost in a maze of words.  "I don't want to have to arrest you."

"I don't want you to have to either," Billy averred warmly.  "Arrestin'
me would surely interfere with my plans.  Yeah."

"A sheriff-elect had oughta set a good example," argued the marshal.

Riley Tyler rolled his head from side to side.  He muttered
incoherently.  The men about the cot turned to look down at him.  Then
he said, speaking distinctly:

"He shot me after I was down."

Billy Wingo raised his eyes and stared at the marshal.

"How's that, umpire?" said Billy.

"He's raving," snapped the marshal.

"A man speaks the truth when he's thataway," rebuked Billy.  "I'm going
to see about this."

But the marshal blocked his way.  "I told you----" he began.

"Get out of my way!" directed Billy, his gray eyes ablaze.

The marshal got.  After all, he had no specific orders to prevent a
meeting between Jack Murray and Billy Wingo.  Let Jack look out for
himself.  No doubt Rafe and sundry other of his friends would be
annoyed, but it couldn't be helped.  The marshal betook himself
hurriedly to the back room of the Freedom Saloon.

Billy, coldly purposeful, made a round of the saloons first.  In none
of them did he find his man or news of him.  Finally, from the stage
company's hostler tending a cripple outside the company corral, he
learned that Jack had left town.

"Which he went surging off down the Hillsville trail," said the
hostler, "like he hadn't a minute to lose.  He told me he was going to
Hillsville."

"Told you?" Surprisedly.

"Yes, told me, sure.  'If the marshal wants me,' says he, as he loped
past, 'tell him I've gone to Hillsville.'"

Here was an odd thing.  Jack Murray knew where he stood with the powers
that were and consequently knew that the marshal would not want him for
the shooting.  Yet here was Jack Murray not only leaving town hastily,
as though he feared capture, but taking pains to leave word where he
was going.  The two facts did not fit.  True, a gentleman seeking to
mislead possible pursuers might lie as to where he was going.  In which
case such a gentleman would not take a trail like the Hillsville
trail--a trail visible from Golden Bar for almost five miles in both
directions.  But if a person wished to be pursued----

"I think I can see his dust still," said the hostler helpfully,
pointing toward the spot where the Hillsville trail entered a grove of
pines five miles out.

"I think I see it too," declared Billy grimly, and went hurriedly to
the hotel for his rifle and saddle.

Hazel Walton, jogging along the homeward way, was overtaken by a
horseman.  He nodded and called, "'Lo," as he galloped by.  She
returned his greeting with careful courtesy.  But she scowled and made
a little face after his retreating back.  She did not like Jack Murray.
She never had.  The man had repelled her from the moment she first set
eyes on him.

It is human nature for one to take an interest in the movement of a
person one dislikes.  Hazel wondered where Jack Murray was riding so
fast.  For it was a hot day.  Her wonder grew when, twenty minutes
after he had passed from sight, she perceived by the hoofmarks that he
had left the trail and turned into a dry wash.  She knew that the wash
led nowhere, that it was a blind alley, a cul-de-sac ending in a
rock-strewn, unclimbable slope that was the base of Block Mountain.
This wash was a good two miles beyond where the trail entered the grove
of pines five miles out of Golden Bar.

Beyond the wash the trail wound up the side of a hill.  At the crest of
the hill the off mule picked up a stone.  Hazel set the brake, tied the
reins to the felley of a wheel and jumped to the ground.  The stone was
in a near fore, and jammed tight.  After ten minutes hard hammering and
levering with her jackknife she had the stone out.

As she released the foot from between her knees and straightened her
back, her gaze swept along the back trail.  She saw only sections of
trail till it passed beyond the grove of pines five miles out of town.
The grove was now three miles behind her.  The wash into which Jack
Murray had ridden was distant not half a mile.  The land on either side
of the wash had once been burnt over and had grown up in brush and
scraggly jack pine.

Of the pines and spruce that had once covered the ground surrounding
the wash, but one tall gray stub remained.  The eye of the beholder was
naturally drawn to this salient characteristic of the landscape, She
saw more than the stub.  She saw Jack Murray's horse tied to its bole.
There was something queer about the horse's head.  Whereas Jack
Murray's horse when it passed her on the trail had been a sorrel of a
solid color, the head was now whitey-gray.

Hazel was not of an abnormally inquisitive nature, but that a horse's
head should change color within the space of half an hour was enough to
make any one ask questions.  Ever since she and her uncle had come to
realize that some one was rustling their cattle, neither of them ever
left home without field glasses.  Hazel pulled her pair from beneath
the seat cushion and focused them on the odd-looking horse.

"Why, it's a flour sack over the horse's head!" she exclaimed.  "They
say a horse won't whinny if you cover his head.  I wonder why Jack
doesn't want him to whinny.  And _where_ is Jack?"

Two minutes later she found Jack.  He was lying on his stomach in the
brush behind an outcrop.  The outcrop overlooked the trail.  Jack's
rifle was poked out in front of him.  It was only too obvious that Jack
was also overlooking the trail.  Why?

A few minutes later that question was answered by the sudden appearance
of a rider at a bend of the trail a mile back.  Jack Murray must have
glimpsed the rider at the same time, for Hazel saw him snuggle down
like a hare in its form, and alter slightly the position of his rifle,
although the rider was not yet within accurate shooting range.  With a
gasp she recognized the rider on the trail by his high-crowned white
hat: only one man in Golden Bar wore such a hat and that man was Billy
Wingo.  Instantly she recalled what folks were saying of Jack Murray
since it had become positively known that the party nomination for
sheriff had gone to Billy Wingo, that Jack Murray "had it in" for
Billy, that he had made threats more or less vague, and that he had
taken to brooding over his fancied wrongs.  She realized that the
threats had crystallized into action, and that this was an ambush.

She knew that Billy would be masked by a certain belt of trees before
he traveled another thirty yards, not to emerge into view again till he
topped a rise of ground about a thousand yards from the base of the
hill on which she stood.  It was a certainty that Jack would not risk a
shot till his enemy had crossed the rise of ground.  If Hazel could
only reach the top of the rise first--

Hazel popped up into the seat of the buckboard as Billy reached the
belt of trees.  It has been shown that Hazel Walton was a good driver,
and she needed every atom of her skill to turn the buckboard in the
narrow trail without smashing a wheel against the rocks that some
apparently malign agency had seen fit to strew about at that particular
spot.  The near mule, devil that he was, when he found that he was no
longer headed for home, stuck out his lower lip and front legs and
balked.

This was unwise of the near mule.  He should have chosen a more
opportune moment.  Hazel had no time to reason with him.  She set her
teeth, slacked the reins, opened her jack-knife and jabbed an inch and
a half of the longer blade into the mule's swelling hip.

It is doubtful whether the recalcitrant mule ever moved faster in his
life.  The forward spring he gave as the steel perforated his thick
hide almost snapped the doubletree.  Hazel, her toes hooked under the
iron foot-rail, poured the leather into the off mule.

She made no attempt to guide her galloping team.  She did not need to.
She barely felt their mouths, but ever she kept her whip going, and the
mules laid their bellies to the ground and flew down that hill like
frightened jack rabbits.  And like a rubber ball the buckboard bounced
behind them.

Hazel knew that Jack Murray behind his outcrop must hear the thunder of
the racing hoofs, the rattle of the swooping buckboard.  Half-way down
the hill she lost her hat.  Promptly every hairpin she possessed lost
its grip and her hair came down.  In a dark and rippling cloud it
streamed behind her.

"Keep your feet, mules!" she gritted through her locked teeth.  "Keep
your feet, for God's sake!"

And they kept their footing among the rolling stones, or rather a
merciful Providence kept it for them.  For that hill was commonly a
hill to be negotiated with careful regard to every bump and hollow.
Hazel's life was in jeopardy every split second, but so was another
life, and it was of this other life she was thinking.  Reach that
white-hatted rider she must before he came within thousand-yard range
of the man behind the outcrop.

Within thousand-yard range, yes.  Jack Murray's reputation with the
long arm was of territorial proportions.  He had made in practice,
hunting and open competition almost unbelievable scores.  Given
anything like a fair shot, and it would be hard if he could not hit an
object the size of Billy Wingo.  All this Hazel Walton knew, and her
heart stood still at the thought.  But she was of the breed that fights
to the last breath and a gasp beyond.

She breathed a little prayer, dropped her right hand on the reins ahead
of her left and turned the team around the curve at the foot of the
hill as neatly as any stage-driver could have done it.  That they swung
round on a single wheel did not matter in the least.  Beyond the curve
one of the front wheels struck a rock that lifted Hazel a foot in the
air and shot every single package and the tarpaulin out of the
buckboard.

And now the road passed the wash and ran straight for more than half a
mile till it disappeared over the rise of ground.  Throughout the whole
distance it was under the sharpshooting rifle of the man behind the
outcrop.

As she clung to the pitching buckboard and plied the whip, she
speculated on the probability of Jack Murray firing on her.  He must
realize her purpose.  He had been called many things, but fool was not
one of them.  He might even shoot her.  She recalled dim stories of
Jack Murray's ruthlessness and grim singleness of purpose.

"Bound to get what he wants, no matter how," men had said of him.

Four hundred yards from the curve where the buckboard had so nearly
upset, a Winchester cracked in the rear.  The near mule staggered,
tried to turn a somersault, and collapsed in a heap of sprawling legs
and outthrust neck.  The off mule fell on top of his mate, and Hazel
catapulted over the dashboard and landed head first on top of the off
mule.

The off mule regained his feet with a snort and a lurch, in the process
throwing Hazel into a squaw bush.  Dizzy and more than a little shaken,
that young woman scrambled back into the trail and feverishly set about
unhitching the mule.

She heard a yell from the direction of the outcrop above the wash.
Fingers busy with the breast-strap snap, she looked back to see a man
hurdle the outcrop and plunge toward her through the brush.

"Wait!" he bawled.  "Wait!"

Her reply to this command was to spring to the tail of the mule and
shout to him to back.  He backed.  She twitched both trace cockeyes out
of the singletree hooks (she was using the wagon harness that day)
tossed the traces over the mule's back and ran round in front to
unbuckle the dead mule's reins.

"Halt or I shoot!"

She giggled hysterically.  How could she halt when she had not yet
started?  She freed the second billet, tore the reins through the
terrets, and bunched the reins anyhow in her left hand.  He was a tall
mule, but she swarmed up his shoulder by means of collar and hames,
threw herself across his withers and besought him at the top of her
lungs to "Go!  Go!  Go!"

He went.  He went as the saying is, like a bat out of hades.  Hazel
slipped tailward from the withers, settled herself with knees clinging
high, and whanged him over the rump with the ends of the reins.  He
hardly needed any encouragement.  Her initial cry had been more than
enough.

The man in the brush stopped.  He raised his rifle to his shoulder,
looked through the sights at the galloping mule, then lowered the
firearm and uttered a heartfelt oath.  It had at last been borne in
upon his darkened soul that he possibly had made a mistake.  Instead of
shooting the mule, in the first place, he might better have
relinquished his plan of ambush and gone his way in peace.  There were
other places than Golden Bar, plenty of them, where an enterprising
young man could get along and bide his time to square accounts with his
enemy.

But the killing of the mule had fairly pushed the bridge over.  It was,
not to put a nice face on it, an attack on a woman.  He might just as
well have shot Hazel--better, in fact.  She had undoubtedly recognized
him.  Those Waltons both carried field glasses, he had heard.

"I'll get the mule anyhow," he muttered.  "That'll put a crimp in her."

He dropped on one knee between two bushes, took a quick sight at the
mule's barrel six inches behind the girl's leg and pulled trigger.
Over and over rolled the mule, and over and over a short foot in
advance of his kicking hoofs rolled Hazel.  Luckily she was not stunned
and she rolled clear.  She scrambled to her feet and set off up the
trail as fast as her shaking legs would carry her.

"Damn her!" cursed Jack Murray, notching up his back sight.  "I'd
oughta drop her!  She's askin' for it, the hussy!"

His itching finger trembled on the trigger, but he did not pull.
Reluctantly, slowly, he lowered the Winchester and set the hammer on
safety.  The drink was dying out in him.  Against his will he rendered
the girl the tribute of unwilling admiration.  "Whatsa use?  She's got
too much nerve; but maybe I can get him still."

On her part the girl pelted on up the rise, stumbled at the top and
came down heavily, tearing her dress, bruising her knees and thoroughly
scratching the palms of her hands.  But she scrambled to her feet and
went on at a hobbling run, for she saw below her, rising the grade at a
sharp trot, the rider of the white hat.

Now she was waving her arms and trying to shout a warning, though her
voice stuck in her throat and she was unable to utter more than a low
croak.

Billy Wingo pulled up at sight of the wild apparition that was Hazel
Walton.  But the check was momentary.  He clapped home the spurs and
hustled his horse into a gallop.  He and Hazel came together literally,
forty yards below the crest.  The girl seized his stirrup to save
herself from falling and burst into hysterical tears.

"Lordy, it's the girl that dropped the package!" exclaimed Billy,
dismounting in haste.

He had his arm round her waist in time to prevent her falling to the
ground.  She hung limply against him, and gasped and choked and sobbed
away her varied emotions.

"There, there," he said soothingly, patting her back and, it must be
said, marveling at the length and thickness and softness and shininess
of her midnight hair.  "It's all right.  You're all right.  You're all
right.  Nothing to worry about--not a-tall.  You're safe.  Don't cry.
Tell me what's bothering you?"

And after a time, when she could speak coherently, she told him.

It was a disconnected narrative and spotty with gasps and gurgles, but
Billy made no difficulty of comprehending her meaning.  They who can
construct history from hoofmarks in the dust do not require a clear
explanation.

When he had heard enough for a working diagram he plumped her down
behind a fortuitous stone and adjured her to lie there without moving,
which order was superfluous.  She did not want to get up again--ever.

Billy stepped to his horse, dragged the Winchester from the scabbard
under the near fender and trotted to the top of the rise.  Arrived at
the crest, he dropped his hat and went forward crouchingly, his rifle
at trail.  Sheltering his long body behind bushes he dodged
zigzaggingly across the top of the ridge to an advantageous position
behind a wild currant bush growing beside a jagged boulder.

He lay down behind the wild currant bush and surveyed the landscape
immediately in front of him.  At first he saw nothing--then two hundred
yards away on his right front a sumac suddenly developed an amazingly
thick shadow.  He automatically drew a fine sight on that sumac.

The shadow of the sumac became thin.  A dark objected flitted from it
to another bush.  The dark object was a man's head.  It was hatless.
Billy smiled and decided to wait.  He understood that he was dealing
with a man who could shoot the buttons off his shirt, but on the other
hand, Billy did not think meanly of himself as a still hunter.  He lay
motionless behind the currant bush and watched Jack Murray's advance.

Billy smiled pityingly.  It was obvious to him that Jack Murray had
never been on a man hunt before.  If he had he would have been more
careful.

"Good Gawd," Billy said to himself, "it's like taking candy from a
child."

It was destined to be even more like taking candy from a child.

Four times before the bold Jack reached the crest of the hill he
offered Billy a target he couldn't miss.  And each time the latter
refrained from shooting.  Somehow he was finding it difficult to shoot
an unconscious mark.  If Jack had been shooting at him or had even been
aware of his presence, it would have been different.  But to shoot him
now was too much like cold-blooded murder.  There was nothing of the
bushwhacker in the Wingo make-up.

Suddenly at the top of the rise, Jack Murray ducked completely out of
sight.

"Must have seen the horse," thought Billy, and looked over his
shoulder.  No, it was not the horse.  Billy was on higher ground than
was Jack and he could not see even the tips of his mount's ears.

"It can't be my hat he sees," Billy told himself.

Evidently it was the hat, for while Billy's eyes were on the hat, a
rifle cracked where Jack Murray lay hidden and the hat jumped and
settled.

"Good thing my head ain't inside," said the wholly delighted Billy, his
eyes riveted on the smoke shredding away above the bushes on the right
front.  "I wonder if he thinks he got me."

It was evident that Jack Murray was wondering too.  For the crown of a
hat appeared with Jack-in-the-box unexpectedness at the right side of
the bush below the smoke.  Experience told Billy that a stick was
within the crown of the hat which moved so temptingly to and fro.

Three or four minutes later, Jack Murray's hat disappeared and the
rifle again spoke.

"Another hole in my hat," Billy muttered resignedly and cuddled his
rifle stock against his cheek.  "He'll wave his hat again, and then
he'll be about ready to go see if the deer is venison."

Even as he foretold, the hat appeared and was moved to and fro, and
raised and lowered, in order to draw fire.  Then, peace continuing to
brood over the countryside, the hat was crammed on the owner's head and
the owner, on hands and knees, headed through the brush toward Billy's
hat.

Billy was of the opinion that Jack Murray's course would bring him
within ten feet.  He was right.  Jack Murray passed so close that Billy
could have reached forth his rifle and touched him with the muzzle.
Instead he waited till Jack's back was fairly toward him before he
said, "Hands up!"

Jack Murray possessed all the wisdom of his kind.  He dropped his rifle
and tossed up his hands.

"Stand up.  No need to turn around," resumed Billy, Riley Tyler's
six-shooter trained on the small of Jack's back.  "Lower your left hand
slowly and work your belt down.  You wear it loose.  It'll drop easy.
And while you're doing it, if you feel like gamblin' with me, remember
that this is Riley's gun and I ain't used to it, and I might have to
shoot you three or four times instead of only once, y' understand."

Obviously Jack Murray understood.  He lowered his left hand and worked
his gun-belt loose and down over his hip bone with exemplary slowness.
The shock of his capture had evaporated the last effects of the liquor.
He was cold sober and beginning to perceive the supreme folly he had
committed in shooting a woman's mount from under her.

"One step ahead," directed Billy when the gun-belt was on the ground.
"And up with that left hand."

Jack Murray, thumbs locked together over his head, stepped out of the
gun-belt.  Billy went to him, rammed the six-shooter muzzle against his
spine and patted him from top to toe in search of possible hide-outs.
He found none except a pocket knife which did not cause him
apprehension.

"Le's take up the thread of our discourse," said Billy, "farther down
the hill.  Walk along, cowboy, walk along."

With Billy carrying both rifles and Jack's discarded gun-belt, they
walked along downhill to where Billy's pony stood in a three-cornered
doze.  It was then that Jack Murray caught sight of Hazel Walton lying
on her back behind a stone, her arms over her face.  She looked
extremely limp and lifeless.

"I didn't shoot her!" cried the startled Jack.

"I know you didn't," said Billy.  "The lady's restin', that's all.
We'll wait till she feels like moving."

Hazel Walton uncovered her face.  There was a large and purpling lump
in the middle of her forehead, the skin of her pretty nose was
scratched, a bruise defaced one cheek bone, and one eye was slightly
black.

"Your work, you polecat," Billy declared succinctly.  "You'll be
lynched for mauling her like that."

But Hazel Walton was just.  She sat up, supporting herself by an arm,
and dispelled Billy's false impression.  "He never touched me--and he
could have shot me if he'd wanted to."

"So kind of him not to," said Billy with sarcasm.  "Who is responsible
for hurting you?  Your face is bruises all over."

"Is it?" she said, with an indifference born of great weariness.  "I
suppose it must be.  I remember I struck on my face when he shot the
mule I was riding.  He--he shot both mules."

"He'll be lynched for that, then," Billy said decisively.

"Who'll pay for the mules?" Hazel wished to know.  "We needed those
mules," she added.

Billy nodded.  "That's so.  If he's lynched for this attack on
you--your mules--same thing if you know what I mean--you lose out on
the mules.  Maybe we can fix it up."

"Sure we can," Jack Murray spoke up briskly.

"I'm not talkin' to you," pointed out Billy.  "Whatever fixing up there
is to do, I'll do it.  You have done about all the fixing you're gonna
do for one while.  Yeah.  I came out after you, Jack, to make you a
better boy, but now that we got you where you'll stand without
hitching, I can't do it.  I ain't got the heart.  Of course, if you
were to jump at me or something, or make a dive for your gun I'm
holding, I don't say but I'd change my mind in a hurry.  I kind of wish
you had seen me back there a-lying under my currant bush.  Then we'd
have had it out by this time, and I'd be going back to town for a
shovel."

"Don't you be too sure of that," snarled Jack Murray.  "Just you gimme
my gun back, and I'll show you something."

"I'll bet you would," acquiesced Billy, "but I'm keeping your guns,
both of 'em.  I'd feel too lonesome without 'em."

"Can't you do nothing but flap your jaw?" demanded Jack in a huff.
"I'd just as soon be downed outright as talked to death."

"But you haven't any choice in the deal," Billy told him in mild
surprise.  "Not a choice.  You shut up.  I'll figure out what to do
with you.  Y'understand, Jack, I've got to be fair to Miss Walton too.
If you're lynched she won't get paid for her team, and I can't have her
losin' a fine team of mules thisaway and not have a dime to show for
it.  That would never do.  Never.  Lessee now.  You got any money,
Jack?"

"A little."

"How much?"

"Maybe ten or twelve dollars."

"Maybe you've got more.  You know you never were good at figures.
Lemme look."

He looked.  From one of Jack Murray's hip pockets he withdrew a plump
leather poke that gave forth a jingling sound.  A search of the inner
pocket of the vest produced a thin roll of greenbacks.  But the bills
were all of large denominations.

"There," said Billy, "I knew you'd made a mistake in addition, Jack.
You count what's here, Miss Walton."

He tossed the greenbacks and the heavy poke into the lap of the girl
who was now sitting up cross-legged, her back against the rock.

"Sixteen hundred and twelve dollars and sixty-five cents," announced
Hazel a few minutes later.

"How much did your mules cost?" queried Billy.

"Five hundred and a quarter the team," was the prompt reply.

"Call it six hundred," said Billy briskly.  "It's only right for you to
take something at an auction thisaway.  Strip off six hundred dollars
worth of greenbacks and put them in your pocket."

"Oh, I wouldn't feel right about taking more than the regular price,"
demurred Hazel.

"No reason why you shouldn't.  No reason a-tall.  Jack's only paying
you for the damage he did.  He's glad to pay.  Ain't you, Jack?"

"I suppose so," grunted Jack.

"There, you see.  Your uncle would want you to.  I know he would.  In
fact, he'd be a heap put out if you didn't.  Those bumps of your's now.
What do you say to one hundred wheels a bump?  You got three bumps and
a scratched nose.  Which last counts as a bump.  In round numbers that
makes four hundred dollars.  One thousand dollars to you, Miss Walton."

"Here!" cried the outraged Jack Murray.  "You're robbin' me!  You're
takin' every nickel I got!"

"No, I ain't," denied Billy, "and don't go and get excited and put
those hands down.  Don't you, now.  About that money--the worst is yet
to come.  Young Riley Tyler not being here to assess his own damages,
I'll assess 'em for him.  You put three holes in Riley.  Call it two
hundred dollars a hole.  That makes six hundred dollars.  Just put that
six hundred in a separate pile for Riley, Miss Walton."

"I don't mind the man paying for the mules," said Miss Walton firmly,
"but I can't take any money for my scratch or two."

Billy looked at her, decided she meant it and said:

"All right, put that four hundred with Riley's six.  Riley won't mind."

"But I do!" shouted Jack Murray, his arms quivering with rage.  "You
can't rob me thisaway.  By Gawd----"

"Now, now," Billy cut in sharply, "no swearing.  You forget Miss
Walton.  You're right about the money, though.  I can't rob you.  Miss
Walton, dump all that money back in the poke and hand it to him.  He
wants to go back to Golden Bar and be lynched."

"I got friends in Golden Bar," blustered the prisoner.

"None of 'em will be your friends after I tell 'em what you did to Miss
Walton, Jack.  There's a prejudice in this country against hurting a
woman.  Folks don't like it.  Aw right, get a-going, feller.  No, the
other way--toward Golden Bar."

A hearty groan wrenched itself from the depths of Murray's being.
"Uncle!  Uncle!" he cried angrily.  "Have it your own way.  I don't
want to go to the Bar.  Take all my money and be done with it."

"I wouldn't think of such a thing," declared Billy, "though it wouldn't
be any more than right if I did.  You're getting off too easy.  You'll
live to be hung yet, I'm afraid, but I can't just see my way to downing
you now and here.  No, you divide the money again, Miss Walton.  Six
hundred for you, a thousand for Riley and twelve dollars and sixty-five
cents tobacco money for this gentleman.--  Don't bother reaching for
the money, Jack.  I'll put it in your pocket.  There you are.  Now,
Miss Walton, if you'll wait here while I get this citizen started--
You've got a horse somewhere, I expect, Jack.  Lead the way."


"Oh, sure I saw him off all right.  I don't guess he'll be back for a
while--not if he has brains.  You know, I owe you a lot, Miss Walton.
You did the bravest thing I ever knew a man or woman to do.  You
gambled your life to save mine.  You might have been killed, you know
it?  And after me getting fresh there in the street, I dunno what to
say, I don't."

He knew that he was talking too much.  But in the reaction that had set
in he was so embarrassed that it hurt.

"Yeah!" he gabbled on, red to the ears, "you certainly are a wonder.
I--uh--I guess we better be getting back to town.  You feel able to
ride now?  My horse is gentle.  Besides, I'll lead him."

It was then that reaction set in for Hazel Walton.  As the strain on
her nerves eased off, everything went black before her eyes and she
keeled over sidewise in a dead faint.




CHAPTER FIVE

JACK MURRAY OBJECTS

"You hadn't oughta shot the girl's mules," said fat Sam Larder, shaking
a reproving head at disconsolate Jack Murray.

The latter endeavored to defend himself.  "I was drunk."

"That's no excuse," averred Felix Craft.  "You had no business picking
a fight with young Riley in the first place.  He's a popular lad, that
one, and you ain't."

"He made me mad, setting there in the sun joking with that damn Bill
Wingo who's gonna be sheriff in my place.  Besides, I was drunk."

"I saw the whole affair," said Sam Larder.  "Bill pushed Riley off the
cracker box and you had to slur Riley about it.  Fool caper."

"I never did like Riley," grumbled Jack Murray.  "He's a friend of Bill
Wingo's and that's enough.  I figured by downin' Riley and skippin' out
and lettin' that stage hostler know where I was going, Bill Wingo would
come pelting after and gimme a chance to settle with him all salubrious
and private on the trail somewheres."

Sam Larder bluntly called the spade by its correct name.  "Bushwhack
him, you mean."

"Well, if I did, it's none of your business," snapped Jack Murray with
an evil glance.

"Then why make it our business by coming here bellyaching to me and
Craft?" Sam Larder wished to know.

"I came to you because I want my money--sixteen hundred dollars that
bandit Bill Wingo stole off me."

"He didn't say anything about any sixteen hundred," said Felix Craft,
his eyes beginning to gleam.  "Tell us about it."

"Yeah," urged Sam.  "Give it a name."

Jack proceeded to give it a name--several names and all profane.  When
he was calmer he gave a fairly truthful account of the financial
transaction between Hazel Walton, Bill Wingo and himself.

"And I'm telling you here and now," he said in conclusion, "that six
hundred dollars is too much for that broken-down team of jacks.  And a
thousand dollars for putting a few holes in Riley Tyler is plumb
ridiculous.  My Gawd, he'll be out of bed in a month.  Wha' t'ell you
laughin' at?"

For his hearers were laughing--laughing immoderately.  They whooped,
they pounded the table, they beat each other on the back till they sank
exhausted into their chairs.

Jack demanded again to be told what they were laughing at.

"I'll leave it to anybody if this ain't the funniest thing ever
happened in the territory," declared Sam Larder, when he could speak
with coherence.

Felix Craft nodded.  "Sure is.  One on you all right, Jack."

"Aw, hell, you fellers can't make a monkey out of me."

"Bill Wingo seems to have done that pretty thoroughly," said Sam Larder
with a fat man's giggle.

"I'm not through with him yet," snarled Jack Murray.

"Where's your sense of humor?" grinned Felix.  "If you'll take my
advice you'll walk round Bill Wingo like he was a swamp.  Ain't you had
enough?"

"I want my money back!" squalled the indignant Jack.

Sam Larder kissed the tips of his plump fingers.  "The money's gone.
Can't do anything about it now.  Can we, Crafty?"

"Don't see how."

Jack sat up stiffly, his face red with rage.  "You fellers mean to tell
me you're gonna let me be robbed of sixteen hundred dollars?"

Felix Craft spread eloquent hands.  "What can we do?"

"I thought you were friends of mine," disgustedly.

"We are," Sam hastened to assure him.  "If we weren't we'd have called
in the sheriff long ago."

"What's the sheriff got to do with it?"

"He's got a warrant for your arrest--for assault and battery, malicious
mischief, and assault with intent to kill.  Besides, the folks
hereabout have got it in for you.  I wouldn't be surprised if they hang
you--give 'em half a chance."

"I know they would, damn 'em, but as long as they don't see me they
can't lynch me, and they ain't likely to see me here in your house,
Felix.  But I don't like the idea of that warrant."

"I suppose not," said Felix.  "A warrant follows you all over while a
necktie party generally stays close to home.  And no matter what the
present sheriff does, I got an idea Bill won't forget that warrant any
after he takes office--  Yeah, I know, cuss him out by all means, but
after all, what are you gonna do about it?"

"I didn't think he'd swear out a warrant," said Jack.

Felix tendered his mite.  "There's a reward offered, too."

A warrant was bad enough, but a _reward_!  Many people would be on the
lookout to earn such easy money.

Jack Murray felt an odd and sinking sensation in the region of his
stomach.  "How much is it?"

"Only three thousand dollars."

"Only, huh.  Only?  Who's puttin' up the cash?"

"Riley Taylor put his name down for a thousand and Hazel's uncle, Tom
Walton, added six hundred, and----"

"Why, that sixteen hundred is _my own money_!" interrupted Jack Murray.

"I expect so," continued Felix.  "The other fourteen hundred was made
up around the town."

"I suppose you'll tell me you fellers put it up yourselves," said the
sarcastic Mr. Murray, who did not expect any such thing.

"Sure we did," said Felix.  "We had to.  Bill Wingo and Sam Prescott
and Wildcat Simms brought the paper round, and we had to sign up.  I'll
be out a hundred if you're caught, Sam two hundred, Tip a hundred, Rafe
the same, and that's the way it went.  Even the district attorney
chipped in his ante."

Jack Murray was too horrified to speak for a minute.  While he wrestled
with his thoughts Sam Larder spoke.

"You see, Jack," said he, "we had to sit in.  If we hadn't, everybody
would have said we sympathized with you, and we couldn't afford
that--not with elections coming on.  It would never do.  Never.  You
see how it is, I guess."

"Yes, I see," said Jack bitterly.  "I see all right.  I see you've skun
me between you.  That damn reward will make me leave the territory for
a while."

"Most sensible thing you could do," declared Sam Larder warmly.  "We
don't want to see you get into any trouble, Jack.  You're young.
Starting somewhere else won't be a hardship for you a-tall.  We'll be
sorry to lose you," he concluded thoughtfully.

"You ain't lost me yet," Jack snapped back.  "I may pull out for
awhile, but I'll be back.  You bet I'll be back, and when I do come
back I'll sure make Bill Wingo hard to find."

"Don't yell so loud," Sam cautioned him, "or you may have the
opportunity sooner than you want it.  You hadn't oughta come here,
anyhow.  You dunno whether you were seen or not."

"And you don't want to get a bad name, I expect," sneered Jack Murray.

"You expect right," Felix Craft said with candid bluntness.

"You see, we ain't been openly connected with any scandal yet,"
contributed Sam Larder, glancing at the clock, "and while it ain't
daylight yet, still--"  He paused meaningly.

"You want me to drag it, huh?" growled Jack.

"We-ell, maybe you'd better," admitted Sam.

"If fifty dollars would do you any good, here it is," said Felix,
thrusting a hand into his trousers pocket.

Jack Murray spat on the floor.  "T'ell with your money.  I know who
ain't my friends now, all right, and you can gamble I'm a-going right
quick.  See you later."

So saying, Jack Murray rose and left them.  He was careful to close the
door quietly.  When he was gone, Sam grinned at Felix.  The latter
broke anew into laughter.

"His own money!" crowed Felix Craft.  "His own money offered as a
reward!  If that ain't----"

But what it was, was drowned in the bellowing cackle of Sam Larder.


Billy Wingo removed his hat and stuck a brown head round the corner of
the door jamb.  "Hello, Hazel!"

"'Lo, Billy," said Hazel Walton, breaking another egg into the mixture
of sugar and shortening in the yellow bowl.  "Chase that sprucy chicken
out, will you, there's a dear."

Billy did not misunderstand.  He had discovered that Hazel called any
friend "dear."  It was her way of showing her liking, that was all.
Nevertheless, the appellation never failed to give him a warm feeling
that felt pleasant around his heart.  He shooed out the marauding and
molting Wyandotte and then sat down on the doorstep and regarded Hazel
with approving eyes.

And Hazel Walton was undoubtedly good to look at as she stood there
behind the kitchen table, stirring with a great spoon the contents of
the yellow bowl.  There were dimples in her pretty elbows that matched
the one in her cheek.  Billy could not see the ones in her elbows, but
he knew they were there.  Her eyes were downcast.  He thought he had
never seen such long lashes.  The eyebrows were slim and perfect
crescents.  The round chin was made for the palm of a man's hand.  But
her hair,--that was what Billy admired most of all.  It was so heavy
and thick.  There was a bit of a wave in it, too.  And it always looked
neat and tidy.  There were never any "scolding locks" at the nape of
her neck, as there were on other necks that had come under his eye.
But he was not in love with her.  Oh, no, not he.  After his latest
turn-down by Sally Jane, he had made a resolve not to fall in love
again, ever.  But there was no harm in going to see a girl.  How could
there be?  Quite so.

"Your uncle home?" he asked after a cigarette had been constructed and
lit.

"He'll be in for dinner," replied Hazel, with a swift flash of dark
eyes.  "And there I was hoping all along you had come to see me."

"I came to see you, too."

"Me too is worse, lots worse.  Shows what an afterthought I am.  Life's
an awful thing for a girl."

"I'll bet it is.  For you especially.  This is the first time I ever
came here that some one else wasn't here ahead of me.  Usually a feller
has to fight his way through a whole herd in order to say good evening
to you."

Hazel put her head on one side and looked at him demurely.  "They come
to see Uncle Tom."

"Which is why they spend all their time talkin' to you."

Hazel smiled.  "I feed 'em.  I'm a good cook, if I do say it myself.
Stay to dinner, William?"

"Not after that," he told her firmly.  "I don't want another meal here
long's I live."

"Just you let me catch you sloping out before dinner's over and done
with, and I'll never speak to you again as long as _I_ live.  Besides,
I want you to go fill the waterbucket for me in about ten minutes, and
after dinner I need some help in the chicken-house, and Uncle is busy
this afternoon.  So you stay and be mother's li'l helper, Bill, won't
you?"

"Putting it thataway," said Bill, "what can a poor man do?"  Here he
licked his lips cat fashion and added "Is that cake for dinner?"

"Of course not, you simple thing.  Here it is half-past eleven and the
cake not even mixed yet.  I've got a dried-peach pie though.  It's
outside cooling.  And there'll be fried ham, Bill, and corn
fritters--the batter's all ready in that blue bowl.  Lima beans, too,
the last you'll see this year."

"I saw some young ones for another crop on the vines when I came
through the garden," said Billy, who was no farmer.

Hazel smiled pityingly.  "The frost will kill 'em before they get a
chance to ripen.  It can't hold off much longer.  Do you realize it's
nearly October, Bill?  We almost had frost last night."

"Winter's coming."

"Election will be here first.  Uncle Tom says you're sure to be
elected.  My, how important you'll be.  Will you speak to a feller
then, Bill?"

"I might.  You never can tell.  Seen Riley lately?"--elaborately casual.

"Saw him last Sunday.  To look at him now you'd never know he'd been
shot, would you?  He's coming to dinner to-day--has some business with
Uncle Tom."

"Yeah, like the rest of 'em.  Fen dubs on the chicken-house.  You said
I could help you with that, remember."

Hazel nodded.  "Here comes Riley now."

"No," said Billy, when Riley, having put his horse in the corral, made
as if to step over him.  "You stay right here.  She's busy.  She
doesn't want a long, lazy lump like you clutterin' up her nice clean
kitchen.  Sidown on the step next mine.  I don't care how close you
sit."

"But I do," returned Riley, seating himself opposite his friend.  "Last
time I sat next you I lost my tobacco.  Good thing my watch wasn't on
that side."

"Shucks, that watch!" Bill said scornfully.  "It was good maybe when
your grandad had it.  It must have cost him two dollars easy."

"Alla same, that's a good watch."  Riley returned tranquilly.  "It only
loses thirty minutes a day now since I had it fixed.  Say, Hazel, lemme
throw this jigger out, will you?  He's only sliming round to mooch a
bid to dinner."

"I've asked him to stay," smiled Hazel, "but I don't remember saying
anything about it to you."

"You didn't.  I said I was coming.  Here I am.  What's fairer than
that, I'd like to know?  As I was sayin' before you interrupted, I saw
you out ridin' last Sunday."

"Did you?" indifferently.

"Yeah--with that nice old Samson man."

"He's not old," Hazel denied vigorously, "and anyway, he's nice."

"He gives her lollypops," Riley confided to Billy, "and sometimes as
much as half-a-pound of chalklet creams.  Oh, he's a prince."

Hazel stamped a small foot.  "It wasn't half-a-pound.  It was--it
was--"  Her voice dwindled away.

"Say a pound," offered Billy, entering into the spirit of the thing,
"and that's a generous estimate."

"Almost as generous as Samson," grinned Riley.  "Hazel, go easy on the
poor old feller.  He can't afford to be givin' you expensive presents
like that."

"Sure not," slipped in Billy.  "Why, I don't believe Samson makes a bit
more than fifty per cent on everything he sells."

"You two think you're smart, don't you.  He's a nice man, Mr. Samson
is, and he spends an evening here quite often."

"He never spends anything else," said Billy.

"Cheap wit," flung back Hazel.

"Almost as cheap as Samson," tucked in Riley.

Hazel's eyes were beginning to sparkle, and Billy seized his
opportunity.  "Here, here, Riley, stop it!  Don't you lemme hear you
making any more slurs against Mr. Samson.  He's a friend of mine,
and----"

"Oh, you!" cried Hazel, instantly regaining her good humor.  "You're as
bad as Riley, every bit.  But you almost did get a rise out of me.  I
don't like to hear my friends run down."

"I didn't mean it--anything," said Riley, with well-feigned humbleness.
"I like Samson, I do, the poor old good-for-nothing lump of
slumgullion."

Billy shook a sorrowful head.  "Honest, Hazel, I'm ashamed of you,
robbing the grave thataway."

"I don't believe he's much over sixty, Bill," said Riley.

"Say sixty-one."

"He's forty-one, if you must know," Hazel said.

"I knew it was getting serious," mourned Billy.  "They're exchanging
birthdays.  We'll have to find us a new girl, Riley."

"Not me.  I'm satisfied.  I'll stick to the last shout and a li'l
beyond.  Hazel's only fooling these other fellers.  I'll make her the
best husband in four counties, and she's the girl that knows it.  Don't
you, Hazel?"

"I'm not that hard up," replied the girl, with a smile that belied the
harshness of her words.

"There, you hear?" chuckled Billy.  "Now you'll be good, I guess."

"If you won't have me for the twenty-fourth time hand-running, why not
take Bill here?  He's a good feller, don't drink much, and he's got a
heart of gold and a brand of his own--six horses and one calf at the
last round-up.  Besides, if all that ain't enough, he's gonna be our
next sheriff.  What more could a girl want?"

"She'd want him to ask her first," said Hazel, not a whit put out.

Riley turned to Billy in mock surprise.  "Ain't you asked her yet,
Bill?  Shucks, whatsa matter with you?  You make me sick, and she don't
like it either.  G'on--propose.  I'm with you.  We all are.  And she
expects it, can't you see?  G'on, Tommy Tucker, sing for your supper."

But Tommy Tucker firmly refused to sing.  Instead he seized the jibing
Mr. Tyler by the ankle and skidded him off the step.

"Ow-wow!  You poor flap!" bawled the erstwhile humorist, who had picked
up a splinter.  "Leggo my leg, or I'll roll you!"

But it was Riley Tyler who was rolled, and rolled thoroughly.

"You boys stop that!" directed Hazel, appearing in the doorway with a
bucket.  "Acting just like overgrown kids!  You ought to be ashamed!
Bill, I'll take that bucket of water now, and Riley, how about fetching
in an armful of wood for your auntie?"

The two men started to obey, but stopped short in their tracks.

Billy cocked a listening ear.  "Wasn't that a shot?"

"Down the draw," responded Riley.

"Near the Hillsville trail," was Hazel's opinion.  "There goes another,
and another."

"It's no hunter," declared Billy.  "I can hear horses galloping."

Within five minutes they three saw a horse come galloping.  He was
tearing up the draw.  The man on his back was half-turned about in the
saddle, a rifle at his shoulder.  He fired.  They could not see what he
was firing at.  There was a bend in the draw concealing what was behind
him.

But they could hear the galloping of the other horses quite plainly.
The drum of the racing hoofs grew louder.  Three horses swept round the
bend in the draw.  They were followed by two others.  The pursuers
uttered a yell as they sighted the house.  The pursued fired twice
without effect.  There was a crackle of shots from the five horsemen.
Apparently none took effect on either the pursued or his mount.

Billy regarded the pursued's mount with critical eyes.  "That horse is
about done."

"Yeah," acquiesced Riley.  "Not another mile left in him."

It was but too evident that the horse was in distress.  He rolled a
little in his stride.  Once he stumbled.  The rider caught him up with
a jerk.  The man turned a desperate, determined face toward the house
in the draw ahead of him.  He was not fifty yards from the house.  The
draw was wide.  He sheered his horse to one side.  The animal
staggered, crossed his legs and turned a complete somersault.  The
rider flew from the saddle, turned over in the air and struck hard on
his head and right shoulder.  The horse lurched to his feet and stood
trembling.  The man lay still.

The pursuing horsemen were coming along at their tightest licks, but it
was Billy and Riley Tyler who were the first to reach the fallen man.
Hazel, kilting her skirt in both hands, had run with them.

Billy stooped and turned over the sprawled-out citizen.  The man, a
square-jawed youngster with a stubby brown mustache, lay breathing
heavily.  His sun-burnt skin was a little white.  Hazel pushed Billy to
one side and sat down beside the young fellow.

"Let me," she said quietly, and took his head in her lap.  "Riley, get
me some water quick and the whisky bottle on the shelf over the
fireplace."

Riley darted toward the house.

The five riders dashed up and flung themselves from their saddles.
They were Rafe Tuckleton, Jonesy, the Tuckleton foreman, Ben Shanklin
and two more of the Tuckleton outfit.  Billy faced them, his thumbs
hooked in his sagging belt.

"Caught him!" Rafe ejaculated with satisfaction, striding forward, his
men at his heels.

"He don't look shot any," said Jonesy.

"Not a hole in him," Billy told them.  "He'll be all right in a minute."

Tuckleton laughed harshly.  "He's due for a relapse about a minute
after that.  Jonesy, get your rope.  That spruce up there on the flat
will be fine."

Hazel uttered a gasp of horror.

"What do you expect to hang him for, Rafe?" demanded Billy.

"Caught him branding one of my calves," was the ugly reply.  "Reason
enough?"

"I don't believe it!" cried Hazel.

"You know him?" Rafe inquired contemptuously.

"I never saw him before in my life.  But he doesn't look like a
rustler.  He's got a good face."

The Tuckleton outfit was moved to mirth.

"A good face!" yelped the fox-faced Ben Shanklin, slapping his leg.  "A
good face!  That's a fine one!"

"I expect we'll have to turn him loose, boys," Jonesy said
sarcastically, returning from his horse, and shaking out the coil of
rope.

"Oh, I guess we'll string him up all right," Rafe said with confidence.

"Don't let them, Billy!" begged Hazel.

Billy made instant decision.  "'Nds up!"

Which command was backed by a six-shooter trained on the center of
Rafe's abdomen.  The way the Tuckleton hands flew upward and locked
thumbs above the Tuckleton hat was gratifying.  But the Tuckleton face
was empurpled with rage.

"Of course," remarked Billy, "one of you may hit me, but if I go Rafe
goes with me."

"It's all right, boys," Rafe assured his hesitating followers in a
voice thick with anger.  "Lemme argue this thing."

"There'll be no hanging here," said Billy.

"You bet not!" chimed in the voice of Riley Tyler from a position
thirty yards distant on the right.

Riley had returned with the water and whisky.  He had been sufficiently
thoughtful to bring with him a double-barreled shotgun.  He stood, the
firearm held level with his hip, the blunt twin muzzles gaping at the
Tuckleton outfit.

"Hazel," said Riley, "I wanna borrow this shotgun for a few minutes.  I
found it leaning inside the door.  Ben, I wish you'd come over here and
take this water and whisky to the lady.  I'm stuck here, sort of."

"You go ahead, Ben," said Billy.  "Don't lemme detain you."

Ben went slowly.  He plumped whisky and bucket on the ground beside
Hazel and then began to sidle casually toward the house.

"You come right back," urged Riley, gesturing with the shotgun.  "The
best place for you is right beside Jonesy.  He's gettin' lonesome for
you already, ain't you, Jonesy?"

Jonesy spat upon the ground.  Ben slouched back to his comrades.  While
this byplay had been going on, Tuckleton had been talking at Billy.

"Would you mind repeating all that?" said Billy, when Ben had rejoined
the group at Rafe's back.  "I didn't catch some of it."

Tuckleton glared, his little eyes hot with rage.  "I said that man's a
cow thief and we're gonna stretch him!"

"But you said that at first," pointed out Billy.  "And I said 'no'
then.  I haven't changed my mind."

"Since when have you been dry-nursing rustlers?" snarled Rafe.

"I don't know he's a rustler."

"I said he was, didn't I?"

"You said so, sure.  But you might be mistaken."

"I don't make mistakes like that.  And, anyway, all my boys here saw
him branding that calf."

"We sure did," corroborated Jonesy.  "Feller had a fire all lit, and
was heating a running-iron when we jumped him."

"Did the calf have its mammy along?" was Billy's next question.

No one answered.  Billy, however, did not remove his eyes from Rafe's
face.  The pause was becoming almost embarrassing when the five
Tuckletonions made reply with a rush.  Two of them said "Yes," and the
other three said "No."

"There seems to be a difference of opinion," said Billy.  "Don't you
know whether the cow was along?"

"She wasn't along," declared Jonesy, sticking to his original assertion.

"But Rafe said she was," said Billy.

"I made a mistake," Rafe hastened to assure him.

Billy nodded in triumph.  "Then you do make mistakes.  I always knew
you did.  Funny how you and Jonesy saw things so different and all.
Ben didn't see any cow either, and Tim Mullen and Lake did."

"Maybe I made a mistake too," said Lake sullenly, taking his cue from
his employer.

"How about you, Tim?" persisted the questioner.

Tim looked furtively from his employer to his foreman and back again
before answering.

"Speak up, Tim," directed Billy, "speak up.  You did or you didn't.
Yes or no?"

"Maybe I made a mistake," was Tim Mullen's final decision.

"They seem to have come over to your point of view, Jonesy," Billy
observed dryly.  "How about you?  Did you make a mistake too?"

But Jonesy was not to be caught.  "The cow wasn't along.  I oughta
know."

"You don't need to be so fierce about it.  I was just askin' questions.
If this feller had a fire and was heating a running-iron, I suppose he
had a calf handy."

"I said we caught him _with_ a calf," insisted Rafe Tuckleton.

"That's right, so you did.  Was the calf hog-tied?"

"Naturally."

"And when you saw this stranger and jumped him, I suppose you came
boiling along right after him?"

"Sure did."  Thus Rafe Tuckleton.

"None of you stopped anywhere, huh?"

"Why, no, of course not.  It wouldn't be reasonable, would it, if we
were chasin' him, to get off and fiddle around?"

"No, it wouldn't be reasonable," admitted Billy.  "Then if none of you
got off to turn the calf loose, the calf must still be there--calf,
fire and running-iron?"

Rafe looked a little blank at this.  So did the others.  Jonesy was the
first to recover his spirits.

"Unless somebody else turned it loose," suggested Jonesy brightly.

"But the fire and running-iron will still be there."

"Of course they will," Rafe Tuckleton declared heartily.  "Of course
they will.  But it just occurs to me that this man may have had a
friend with him we didn't see.  And that hog-tied calf and fire and
running-iron--that last may have been a cinch ring, Bill--are evidence
that'll hang this man.  Jonesy, suppose now you ride back to the fork
of that split draw south of Saddle Hill, where we saw this man's fire,
and see that nobody destroys the evidence before we get there.  Ben, I
think you'd better go with Jonesy."

"No," said Billy decidedly.  "Jonesy and Ben will stay right here."

"Remember," called Riley, "that this Greener is double-barreled."

"But see here--" Rafe began desperately.

"No see about it," interrupted Billy.  "You'll all stay right here with
us till Tom Walton gets here."

"But suppose somebody destroys the evidence," worried Rafe.

"I don't guess they'll destroy all of it," said Billy cheerfully.  "You
see, Rafe, we want to go with you to the fork of that split draw south
of Saddle Hill."

Rafe's blazing eyes were fairly murderous.  His men muttered behind
him.  But they made no hostile move.  They realized that Rafe would
never forgive them if they did.  He would not be able to.

In the meantime Hazel had been alternately bathing the senseless one's
forehead and dribbling drops of whisky between his teeth.

"He's coming round," she said suddenly.

The man opened his eyes, groaned, grunted, and sat up.  He blinked his
eyes rapidly several times and smiled pleasantly at Hazel.

"That was a jolt I got," said he.  "Is there whisky in the bottle?"

He took a long and healthy pull, drove in the cork with the heel of his
hand, wiped his lips and then seemed to see Rafe Tuckleton and his men
for the first time.

"I seem to remember those bandits giving me the chase of my young
life," he remarked, nodding his head.  "I don't know why.  I don't know
why my unknown friend with the six-shooter and my other equally unknown
friend with the scatter-gun are holding them up, but I'm glad they're
doing it.  Still, why?  Why all this fuss and these feathers?"

"I don't know either," replied Billy, continuing to watch Rafe
Tuckleton and his men like the proverbial hawk, "but we hope to find
out.  When a couple of friends of mine get here, we aim to find out."




CHAPTER SIX

CROSS-PURPOSES

"... and my name is John Dawson," continued the stranger, "and I'm on
my way to visit my uncle at Jacksboro."

"Uncle!  Jacksboro!" exclaimed Jonesy.  "Pretty smooth and thin."

Tom Walton took no notice of Jonesy.  "Where'd you work last?"

"Cross T in Redstone County."

Tom Walton nodded.  "Turberville ranch?  Left ribs cattle, left
shoulder and jaw horses?"

"No, Tasker's," corrected John Dawson.  "Left hip cattle and horses, no
jaw brand."

"I know," said Tom Walton gently.  "I knew it was Tasker's.  I had
to--be sure."

"Whatsa use of this gassing?" demanded Rafe.  "I tell you, Tom, we
caught this feller branding one of my calves, and I'll gamble he's the
boy been doing all the rustling on your range too."

"You might be right.  I don't know.  But he tells a straight story."

"They all do.  He's a rustler.  Take my word for it."

"But he said in the beginning," objected Tom, "that he never was near
that split draw."

"We saw him, I tell you!"

"All right.  Soon as we eat, we'll all ride over to the draw and take a
squint at the evidence."

"What for?  Ain't my word enough?"

"I don't believe in gamblin' with a man's life," said Tom smoothly.

"Better be sure than sorry," said Billy.

"I won't be sorry none to hang him, the cow thief!"

"If I had my gun I'd argue that with you," remarked the prisoner
pleasantly.

Rafe was understood to damn all creation.  Oh, he was wild.

"Dinner!" called Hazel from the kitchen door.

"Too bad the sheriff ain't here," grumbled Rafe, on the way to the
house.

"It is too bad," Tom Walton flung over his shoulder.  "But I sent Roy
for Sam Prescott.  He'll meet us on the Hillsville trail."

Roy was the half of his outfit.  The Walton ranch was a little one.
Even in big seasons Tom could not afford to employ more than three men.
In winter he let them all go.  What little work there was to be done he
managed to do himself.  Small rancher though he was, Tom Walton was not
a nonentity in the community.  Folk trusted him.  He was known to be
honest.

After dinner the whole party, excepting Hazel, took horse and rode down
the draw to the Hillsville trail.  Rafe and his outfit would have
ridden to the trail at once.  But Billy Wingo carefully shepherded them
from it.

"We'll keep off the trail," said Billy.  "This Dawson man says he's
never been off the trail till he got chased off by you fellers.  We may
want to examine that trail for tracks later."

The Tuckleton men muttered and swore, but they kept away from the
trail.  Soon after the party reached the vicinity of the trail, Roy,
Sam Prescott and two of his men trotted into sight.  Billy rode to meet
them and turned them from the trail before they reached the spot where
John Dawson said he had left it.

Sam Prescott listened in silence to the respective stories of Rafe
Tuckleton and John Dawson.  He seemed unimpressed by either.  When he
had heard all they had to say, he dismounted and examined the hoofs of
Dawson's horse.  Then he and Riley, closely followed by the others,
rode along the edge of the trail scrutinizing the tracks upon its dusty
surface.

"Here's where he says he left the trail all right," observed Bill.
"You can't mistake the point of that near fore shoe.  He says Tuckleton
and his boys rode at him from over yonder, but if they chased him
all-away from that split draw like they say they did, there wouldn't be
a single track here.  They'd all be on the other side of those
cottonwoods."

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward said cottonwoods growing
about a hundred yards to the south.

"Let's go over yonder where he said they came from," said Sam Prescott.

They all went over yonder.  There they found the tracks of five horses.
Not only that, but in a near-by depression behind some red willows they
found where five horses had stood a considerable time.

Sam Prescott picked up in turn the hoofs of every Tuckleton horse.

"These five horses were standing here at least two hours," remarked Sam
Prescott, staring at Rafe.

The latter said nothing.  Really, there was nothing to say.

Led by Sam Prescott and Billy, the party followed the tracks of these
five horses back to the trail and into the draw leading to the Walton
ranch.

"You see," said Billy to Sam Prescott.  "Those horses were coming on
the dead jump.  It's just like Dawson says.  They were chasing him."

Although Billy's voice was loud enough for all to hear, none of the
Tuckleton outfit took it upon himself to deny the statement.  It may be
said that they were growing a trifle discouraged.

"Le's go to the split draw," resumed Billy, when Sam Prescott had
openly agreed with him.  "Maybe we'll find that calf and the fire and
the running-iron.  But I expect that fire will be out by this time."

"I guess likely."  Thus Sam Prescott, and turned his horse.

But they did not find the calf and the extinct fire and the
running-iron.  There was nothing in the split draw even remotely
resembling any of these.

"Come to think of it," said Rafe, weakly attempting a last defense,
"maybe it was another draw."

"Maybe it was," admitted Sam, turning to young Dawson.  "Maybe it was,
but I'm satisfied it wasn't.  It was a good thing for you, young
feller, that Billy Wingo and Riley Tyler were on the spot when your
horse fell."

"I know it," responded young Dawson heartily.  "I'm not forgettin' it.
And maybe I can return the favor some bright and sunny day.  Now if I
can have my gun, I'll just have a word or two with the man you call
Tuckleton."

"No words," said Sam Prescott firmly.  "Not a word.  This thing has
gone far enough.  There'll be no shooting round here.  Rafe and his
outfit are goin' home now, and you're riding with me back to Tom's
ranch.  And to-morrow morning I'll see you off to Jacksboro.  Rafe, I
don't want to hurry you----"

Rafe Tuckleton and his outfit took the hint.

"And you mean to tell me they can get away with a deal like that?"
demanded John Dawson.

Sam Prescott smiled wearily.  "What could they be arrested for--always
supposing you could get the sheriff to arrest 'em, which he wouldn't."

"Well----"

"There y'are.  Of course you could call it attempted assault.  What's
that?  Under the statute, a week in jail.  And who'd convict 'em?"

Tom Walton laughed bitterly.  "You don't know this county, Mr. Dawson.
Anything can happen here."

"Seemingly it can," said Mr. Dawson in frank disgust.


"You see," said Rafe, "I'd figured we'd have to find somebody to lynch
for rustlin' so that infernal Tom Walton wouldn't be suspectin' us alla
time.  Shindle ran across this Dawson party in Hillsville and guessed
he'd fill the bill, he being a stranger and all."

"So Skinny rode ahead and let you know he was coming, huh?" queried Sam
Larder.

"Yeah.  Oh, damn the luck!  Who'd have expected Wingo and Tyler to be
at Walton's?"

"They did put a crimp in your plans, sort of," assented Larder.

"And now Tom Walton is more suspicious than ever," contributed Tip
O'Gorman.

"I can fix that Wingo, though," snarled Rafe Tuckleton.  "He'll never
get elected sheriff now."

Tip smiled.  "Won't he?"

"No he won't he!"

"That's just the thing will cinch his election.  I'm gonna play it up
strong in the campaign."

"What!  Why, he tried to show us up!"

"And succeeded in doing it, according to your tell.  That's all right;
Rafe, you were a little too raw, you know.  I've cautioned you about
being more careful.  You wouldn't take advice and you'll have to take
your medicine--this time.  I'll explain matters to Bill, where you
stand and everything.  You'll find it won't happen again."

With which Tuckleton was forced to be satisfied.

That night Tip O'Gorman had a long talk with Billy Wingo.  Tip did not
tell him all he knew, by any means.  Such was not his custom.  To
understand Tip one had to do a deal of reading between the lines.  But
when Tip went home, he carried with him the belief that Billy
understood perfectly the desires and aims of the county machine and
would be a willing worker.

Billy sat looking up at the ceiling for quite a long time after Tip was
gone.  Finally he laughed silently.

"Tip, you're an old scoundrel," he said aloud, "but I can't help liking
you, just the same.  I hope I don't have to step too hard on your toes."




CHAPTER SEVEN

RAFE'S IDEA

"Tell you what, Jonesy," said Rafe, "this ranch needs a mistress."

Jonesy laughed as at a pleasantry and continued to talk of the
mischance in the matter of young Dawson.

"I mean it," interrupted Rafe, wagging his head.  "I'm tired of living
single."

"Well," said Jonesy, "you can always get some petticoat to live with
you for a while."

"I don't mean a floozie.  I mean a sure-enough lady like."

"Oh, one of _them_, huh?  I dunno, Rafe.  I married a good woman once,
and take it from me they sure cramp a feller's style."

"It depends on the woman.  There are women and women.  If a feller is
careful who he picks, he don't run a bad chance.  Me, I got my eye on
young Hazel Walton."

Jonesy looked his astonishment.  "Her?"

"Why not?"

"After this Dawson business?"

"Why not?"

"She wouldn't look at you."

"Don't you fool yourself.  Why wouldn't she look at me, I'd like to
know?  I got money.  She could wear good clothes and have help in the
kitchen.  What more could a woman want?"

Jonesy shook his head.  "This Dawson business has queered you there,
and you can bet on it."

"Oh, that's easy explained--to her."

"H-m-m-m, well, maybe so.  I dunno, she looks to me like one girl who
knows her own mind.  And there's Tom Walton who don't like us, either.
You gotta think of all these things."

"I have.  The more I think of it, the more I think she'll do."

"Funny you never noticed it before.  She's been around with her uncle
several years now."

"I never even gave her more'n a short look till I seen her holding that
Dawson man's head in her lap, and then stickin' up for him the way she
did.  I tell you, she looked mighty handsome."

"She's a lot younger than you."

"What's a few years between man and wife?  Besides, I ain't so old.  I
ain't forty yet."

"You will be next year, and I'll bet she ain't twenty yet."

"She'll last all the longer."

It was mid-morning next day, when Hazel was making butter, that a rap
sounded on the kitchen door.

"Come in," she called continuing to turn steadily the handle of her box
churn.

It was Rafe Tuckleton who opened the door and walked in.  Hazel's eyes
narrowed at sight of the man.  Rafe Tuckleton!  What on earth did he
want?

"Uncle's out," she said shortly.

"I didn't come to see him," explained Rafe, with a smile he strove to
make ingratiating.  "I came to see you."

"I don't know what you can want to see me about."

"I have my reasons," said Rafe vaguely.

Hat in hand, he started to sidle to a chair.

"Don't they have any doors where you live?" Hazel inquired sharply.

"Oh," Rafe wheeled hastily and closed the door.  He set a trifle to the
young lady's account.  He was not accustomed to being talked to this
way.  The snip!

He gained the chair at last, sat down, crossed his legs and crowned a
sharp and bony knee with his hat.

"Yeah," he intoned, pulling one horn of his crescent-shaped mustache.
"I come to see you."  It never occurred to him to offer to turn the
churn-handle for her.  In his estimation women were made for the
especial comfort and delectation of men.  Why put oneself out?  Quite
so.

Hazel continued to turn the handle in silence.

"Makin' butter?" was Rafe's next remark.

"Not at all," Hazel replied sweetly.  "I'm washing blankets."

As humor it was not subtle.  But neither was the man subtle.  He
laughed aloud and slapped his knee.

"Pretty good.  Got a tongue in your head, ain't you?"

Again he pulled his mustache and favored her with what he conceived to
be a most fetching leer.  He succeeded in making her yearn to hurl the
churn at him.

"You've seen me," she said suddenly, raising her dark eyes to his face.
"Why not move right along?"

"That's all right," he said easily.  "You're only mad at me account of
that business the other day.  Nothing at all, that wasn't.  Just a li'l
mistake.  We all make them.  You mustn't hold it against me."

"But I do hold it against you!" she cried vehemently.  "You tried to
murder him!"

Rafe raised a bland hand, palm outward.  "Not a-tall.  You've got it
all wrong.  I might have known you would.  Women never do get things
straight."

"I got this straight all right, and you might as well know I haven't a
bit of use for you, and I don't want you in my kitchen.  So there!"

"Now listen, li'l girl," he said persuasively.  "You don't understand
me a-tall, I tell you.  I may look hard--a rough diamond but I'm the
pure quill underneath, and I like you."

Hazel was so surprised that she stopped churning.  She stared at him,
saucer-eyed, her mouth open.

Rafe nodded his head at her.  "Yeah, I like you.  I have liked you
a-uh-long time.  And I've got a proposition to make you.  How'd you
like to marry me?"

Hazel's expression registered immediate distaste.  "I wouldn't like.
Not for a minute.  No."

Rafe considered it necessary to explain matters more fully.  "I mean
marry me all regular and go to live at my ranch.  You wouldn't have to
work hard.  You could have the washin' done and have help in the
kitchen.  I'm a mighty easy feller to get along with too, once you get
to know me."

"I don't want to get to know you!"  Hazel had resumed her churning, but
her negation was no less decisive.

"I'd be good to you.  Give you all the dresses and fixings you want--in
reason.  Say, I'd even have one of these cabinet organs packed in for
you.  New furniture, too--in reason.  I'll be generous.  I've got
money, and I'd sure be willing to spend it on a girl like you."

"You needn't bother."

He removed his, hat from his knee, uncrossed his legs and dropped the
hat on the floor.  He propped his hands on his knees and surveyed her,
his head on one side.

"You don't know what you're refusing," he told her.  "Marry me and you
won't have to work like this.  Nawsir.  I'm a rich man, I am.  Here,
let's talk it over."

He rose to his feet and came toward her.  She promptly reached behind
her and possessed herself of the singing kettle.

"If you touch me," she said hysterically, "I'll douse you with boiling
water!"

"There, there," he said, with a light laugh, "I didn't mean to scare
you.  Set the kettle down, there's a good girl."

But the good girl had other ideas.  "You get out of here.  I don't want
you around."

Her show of temper caused his own to flare up.  "There's no use for you
to get mad.  None a-tall.  You act like I'd insulted you instead of
doing you a honor."

At which her sense of humor came to her rescue and she laughed in his
face.  He picked up his hat and faced her, scowling.

"I ain't mad," he told her.  "Not a bit.  It don't pay to get mad with
a woman.  But I want you to know I'm comin' back for another answer.  I
ain't satisfied you mean 'no.'  And, anyway, I want you, and I'm gonna
have you.  That's all there is to it.  You think it over."

He nodded stiffly, still scowling, and started toward the door, but
paused with his hand on the latch.  When he turned and came back to the
table, she instantly retreated to the stove and laid her hand on the
kettle.

"You needn't go to pick up that thing," he said, both fists clenched on
the tabletop.  "I ain't gonna hurt you.  I want to know something.
Billy Wingo comes here, doesn't he?"

"He comes--yes.  Why not?"

"You like him?"

"What's that to you?"

"Do you like him?"

"He's a friend of mine."

"A girl don't flush up that way over a friend.  I know.  And I've
heard, too.  They say you like Bill Wingo a lot.  They say you were
going with Nate Samson till you met Bill.  Is that right?"

"It's none of your business."

"Lemme tell you something, young lady.  Don't you think for a minute
that Bill Wingo feller can give you one tenth what I can.  Just because
he was elected sheriff last week don't signify.  Yours truly is the dog
with the brass collar around here, and don't you forget it.  You marry
Bill, and you'll regret it."

"If I marry you, I'll regret it,--that's sure."

"Not a bit of it.  I'm ace-high in the county now, and I'll go higher
in the territory.  You can't keep me down.  I'll make money, more'n you
can shake a stick at.  You needn't think you'll have to live on a ranch
all your life.  Within three years after you marry me I'll take
you--yes, I'll take you to Hillsville to live where you can see folks
all you want.  You know Hillsville has almost three thousand people.
You wouldn't be lonesome there.  I----"

"It's no use talking," she interrupted, taking care not to remove her
fingers from the kettle.  "I wouldn't marry you or anybody else of your
crowd, not if he was the last man on earth."

"'My crowd!'  What's the matter with my crowd?"

"Your crowd!  Yes, I'd ask, I would!  What do you suppose I mean?  The
gang that runs this county, that's what I mean!  The gang that has a
finger in every crooked land deal and cattle deal, the gang that cheats
the Indians on the government contracts.  Yes, and if it hadn't been
for your gang and for what they've done to the morals of Crocker
County, you wouldn't have dared to try and lynch young John Dawson the
way you did!  Let _me_ tell you something: The new sheriff will show
you a thing or two.  _He_ is honest!"

"Is that so?  Honest, is he?  You know who elected him, don't you?
_We_ did, and we own him, body and soul and roll.  He'll sit up and
talk when we tell him to, and he will lie down and go to sleep when we
tell him to; and if he don't, he's mighty liable to run into a spell of
bad health.  Not that we'll want him to do anything he shouldn't.  Not
us."  Thus Rafe Tuckleton, realizing his temper had carried him away
and he had said too much by half, thinking it well to right matters if
he could, continued hurriedly:

"Those cattle deals you spoke of and the government contracts weren't
crooked a-tall.  Just straight business, but of course the fellers we
got 'em away from are riled up and bound to talk.  Naturally,
naturally.  But don't you get the notion in your head that everything
wasn't all right.  Everything was perfectly straight and aboveboard,
you bet.  Shucks, of course it was.  I could explain it to you mighty
easy, but it would take a lot of time and whatsa use?  Politics ain't
for women, or business either, for that matter.  You better forget what
you've heard about our crowd.  It's just a pack of jealous lies, that's
all, and if you'll tell me the name of who told you anything out of the
way about us, I'll make him hard to find."

"I know what I know," said the stubborn Miss Walton.  "You can't fool
me!  Not for a minute!  And I've listened to you long enough!  You get
out of here and don't you come back!  Flit!"

She swung the kettle from the stove.  Rafe Tuckleton sprang back two
yards.  His temper had again gained the ascendancy.  He was so mad he
could have beaten her to a frazzle.  But there was not a club handy,
and moreover the lady had, by way of reinforcing the kettle, slipped a
butcher knife from the table drawer.

"All right," gritted Rafe, and turned around from the door to shake his
fist at her.  "I'll get you, you li'l devil!  You needn't think for a
minute you can get away from me by marrying some one else.  I don't
give a damn whether it's Bill Wingo or who it is!  Within a week after
you get married, you'll be a widow!  A widow, y'understand!  I'll show
you!"

He went out, slamming the door.  Hazel made haste to run around the
table and drop the bar in place.  Then she went to the window and
watched the man cross to the cottonwoods where he had tied his horse.

She uttered a sharp "Oh!" of disgust as he jerked at the horse's mouth
and made the animal rear.  He brought it down by kicking it in the
stomach.

"What a beast!" muttered she, with a shudder.  "What a cruel beast that
man is."

Not till Rafe rode away, quirting his mount into a wild gallop, did she
return to her churning.  She found the butter had come, and she removed
the elmwood dasher and poured off the buttermilk.  She put the butter
into a long bowl full of water and began to wash and knead it, but not
with her accustomed briskness.  She was thinking of what Rafe Tuckleton
had said.  He would come again, the brute.  She did not want him to.
He had made her afraid.

She shivered a little as she poured off the water in the bowl and
refilled it from the water bucket behind the door.  She had no desire
to marry anybody yet.  She supposed she would some time, of course.
All girls did eventually.  But he would have to be some nice boy she
loved.  She guessed yes.

At that very moment a certain nice boy was riding up the draw toward
the Walton ranch.  He met Rafe Tuckleton riding away.  Rafe gave him a
nasty look.  The nice boy smiled sweetly and pulled his horse across
the trail.  "Why all the hurry-scurry this bright and summer day?"

It was not a bright and summer day.  It was late fall, the clouds were
lowering darkly and there was more than a hint of winter in the air.

Rafe Tuckleton pulled up with a jerk and a slide.  "What do you want?"

"I don't know yet," was the reply, delivered with still smiling lips
but accompanied by a look as chilling as the day.  "You been at
Walton's?"

"Yep, I have.  Not that it's any of your business."

"Maybe you're right.  Let's go back and make sure."

Rafe's blazing rage was so augmented by this naive suggestion that his
native prudence was almost overcome by the sharp impulse to argue the
matter.  But almost is not quite.  His coat was buttoned, and his
six-shooter was under his coat.  Bill Wingo's six-shooter was likewise
under its owner's coat, but the coat was unbuttoned and--Rafe recalled
another day, a day when he had held his hands above his head while the
muzzle of Wingo's gun gaped at his abdomen.  That had been a quick draw
on the part of Billy Wingo.  Uncommonly quick.  What happened once may
happen again.  This is logic.

The logician spat upon the ground.  "Because you're elected sheriff
now, you needn't think that you can boss everybody in the county."

"But I ain't trying to boss anybody," denied Bill.  "I'm only askin' a
favor of you, only a li'l favor.  And I'm hoping you'll see it that
way.  I don't _want_ any trouble with you, Rafe," he added, "or with
anybody else."

Rafe hesitated.  He stared into Bill's eyes.  Bill stared back.  Rafe
did his best to hold his eyes steady.  But there was something about
that gray gaze, something that seemed to bore deep down into that place
where his sinful soul lived and had its being.  The Tuckleton eyes
wavered, veered, came back, clung an instant, then looked away over the
landscape.

"Turn your horse, Rafe," said Billy Wingo in a soft voice.

Rafe Tuckleton turned his horse.  They rode back to the Walton ranch in
silent company.  Dismounting at the door, Billy was careful to keep his
horse between Rafe and himself.

Billy looked across the saddle at Rafe.  "You better knock at the door,
feller."

With extremely bad grace, Rafe obeyed.  Following the knock, a window
curtain was pulled aside and Hazel looked out.  She nodded and smiled
at Billy.  The curtain dropped.  Billy heard the grating of the bar as
it was withdrawn from the iron staples.  The door had been barred,
then.  Why?  Was Rafe indeed the qualified polecat Billy had half-way
suspected him of being when he meet him hurrying away from the Walton
ranch?  But Hazel's smile had been natural as ever.  Bill took comfort
in that fact.

The door opened.  Hazel stood wiping her damp hands on her apron.

"'Lo, Hazel," said Bill.  "Everything all right?"

Hazel smiled again.  She _did_ have beautiful teeth.  There was the
fetching dimple too.

"Why, of course everything's all right," she told him.  "Why wouldn't
it be?"

Bill noticed that she did not look at Rafe Tuckleton.

"Here's Mr. Tuckleton," said he.

"I see him," shortly.

"And--you're--sure--everything's--all--right?" Bill drawled in a
lifeless voice.

"Of course I'm sure."

"And--you're--sure everything--has--been--all--right--all day?"

Hazel nodded.  "Of course it has.  Won't you come in, Billy--before the
kitchen gets all cold?"

"I'll put the li'l horse under the shed first.  He's kinda warm.  Rafe,
don't lemme detain you.  You seemed all in a rush when I met you."

Rafe Tuckleton lingered not.

Billy Wingo led his mount under the shed and returned to the house.
Hazel was pouring off the washing water when he entered the kitchen.

"What made you bring Tuckleton back?" she asked pouring fresh water
over the butter.

"I met him coming away from here, and I didn't like the way he looked.
I thought maybe--"  He let it go at that.

"He was here for a while," said Hazel, bringing her bowl to the table
and beginning again to knead the yellow mass of butter.  "I don't like
that man."

Billy was at the table instantly.  "Look here, Hazel----"

"Look here, Billy," she mimicked, lifting calm black eyes to his face.
"Don't you go fussbudgeting.  I'm quite capable of managing my
admirers."

"Admirers!  Him!" gasped Wingo.

"He proposed to me.  I turned him down."

"Shows your good sense," said Billy, going over to the chair lately
vacated by Rafe Tuckleton and sitting down.  "But I'd like to know what
he's thinking of, the old jake."

Her amused eyes sought his.  "Am I such a poor match as that?"

"You know what I mean," he grumbled.  "He's got no right proposing to
you, no right a-tall.  Why, he's old enough to be your father."

"So he is.  Do you know, I never thought of that?"

"You're foolin' now," grunted Billy.  "Tell you, Hazel, what you want
is some young feller with property and all his teeth."

"I don't want anybody," she declared, "young or otherwise.  Billy,
you're sheriff now--" she continued, changing the subject.

"Not yet," he interrupted.  "I don't take office till the first of the
year."

She nodded.  "I understand.  And I want to ask you a question.
It's--it's--you will say it's none of my business, I expect."

"Anything's your business you want to ask questions about.  Fly at it."

"Who elected you sheriff, Billy?"

He regarded her in some surprise.  "The voters."

"I know, but who manages the voters?"

"You mean the party machine?"

"That's it.  Well now, Bill, suppose the machine put a man in office,
would he have to do what the machine told him?"

"He would, if he was that kind of a man."

She straightened and gave him a level look.  "Billy, they say the gang
that runs this county elected you sheriff."

"Who's they--Rafe Tuckleton?"

"Never mind who.  What I want to know is do you have to do what that
gang tells you to do?"

"I don't have to.  Has anybody been saying I'd have to?"

"I--you hear rumors sometimes, Billy.  Will you have a free hand, then?"

"So far as my powers extend, I will," he said.

"And you'll use it?"

"I'll use it," curiously.

"Is--is that quite safe?"

"Safe?"

"Safe to antagonize the gang?"

"It may not be safe for the gang."

Hazel raised a great gob of butter in her two hands and squeezed it out
slowly between her fingers.  "Couldn't you give 'em their way, sort of?
Not in everything.  I don't mean that.  But just enough to keep 'em
good-natured?"

His curiosity changed to blank amazement.  "You know what you're
asking, I suppose," he said coldly.  "I thought you didn't like Rafe
Tuckleton?"

"I hate him," was her simple statement.  "But I--I'm afraid."

"Afraid?  How afraid?"

"Afraid for you."

"Why for me?"

"Because--oh, it's so hard to explain!" she almost wailed.  "You
misunderstand me so.  You think I'm asking favors on their account!"

He believed he detected a sob in her voice.  This would never do.
Couldn't have Hazel crying.

"If you'd only explain," he suggested soothingly.

"Well," she said, her hands busy in the butter, "Sally Jane Prescott
was over here yesterday, and she said what a darn good thing your
election was for Crocker County; how you'd reform it and all that, and
how you'd surely put out of business the gang that's running it now.  I
agreed with her, of course, but I never really realized till--till
later what it might mean to you."

She paused.  He awaited her pleasure.  After a minute's silence she
continued.

"You see, Billy, you've been pretty nice to me--uncle and me.  And
you've come to be sort of a--sort of a friend--kind of and--and I--we
don't want to see you hurt," she finished with a rush.

"So that's the reason you think I'd better go easy on the gang."

"It will be safer.  You don't have to be too open about it.  You can
arrest the people the gang doesn't care anything about."

"That would be hard on the people, I should say."

"It's better than running into danger all the time.  I tell you, Billy,
as true as I stand here this minute, if you try to fight the gang, you
won't last out your term."

She clasped her hands and regarded him piteously.  When a pretty girl
clasps her hands and regards you piteously, what are you going to do?
Right.  You can't help yourself, can you?  Neither could Billy.

But when he had kissed her three times on the mouth she pushed him away
and cried distractedly.  "You mustn't!  You mustn't!  You don't know
what you're doing!"

"Oh, yes, I do," he assured her and seized her buttery hands.  "We'll
be married to-morrow!"

At which she whipped her hands from his grasp and put the table between
them.  "No!  Go over there and sit down!"

"I won't!  I love you!  And you love me!"

"I don't," she stormed.

"What did you kiss me back for then?" he demanded triumphantly.  "You
did!  You know you did!  I felt you!"

This was true.  But she continued to keep the table between them,
despite his efforts to come around to her side.

"You go over there and sit down--please!" she begged.  "Please, please,
pretty please!"

He went slowly.  He sat down.  He stretched his long legs out in front
of him and teetered his heels on the rowels of his spurs.

"Look here, Hazel," he complained, for he was feeling most ill-used, "I
don't understand this a-tall.  You lemme kiss you three times and then
you shove me away, and when I ask you to marry me, you run behind the
table.  What did you let me kiss you for if you don't love me?"

"I couldn't help myself.  You were so quick."

"You kissed me back, too.  Don't forget that."

"It was a mistake, all a mistake.  You don't love me."

"You don't know a thing about it.  I do love you.  And you love me, you
know you do."

But by this time she had regained complete control of herself.  "I
don't know anything of the kind.  Let's forget it."

As if he could forget the pressure of her soft lips!  Why, for another
such kiss he would cheerfully have fought a grizzly.  For that's the
kind of a kiss it was.

He shook his head.  "I can't forget."

Her poor heart almost choked her at the words.  She wanted him to kiss
her again, and keep on kissing her till she told him to stop.  How
wonderful that would be!  But she stifled the desire with an effort of
will that turned her cheeks white.

"You must forget," she told him, her chin wobbling.

"Tell me you don't love me, and I'll do my best."

"I don't--" she began and paused.  To save her life she could not tell
this man the contrary of what every fiber of her being was proclaiming.
She could not.  She compromised.  "I don't know," she said tightly.  "I
don't know."

"But I know," objected Billy.  "You just give me a----"

"No," she interrupted, "don't plague me, Billy, please don't.
Just--just don't ask me again, that's all."

"Is there anybody else?" he demanded.

She shook her head.  "No one."

"Then I've got a chance."

But at this she took fright anew.  "You mustn't think of it!  You
mustn't!  I can't marry you now, Billy."

"Now?  All right, some other time."

He stooped over as though to pick up something from the floor.
Apparently he overbalanced himself, for he fell forward on his hands
and knees.  When he picked himself up he was within arm's length of
Hazel.  He reached out two triumphant arms and swept her against him.
A bare instant she struggled desperately.  Then with a sigh she relaxed
and put up her mouth to be kissed.

"There, there," he said later, his lips pressed against her hair, "I
knew it would be all right once you let yourself go."

She lifted her body slightly in his arms.  "Tell me you love me,
dearest."

Then when he told her, she asked, "How much?  More than anything else
in the world?  Are you sure?"

What ridiculous questions.  Of course he was sure.

"Then you'll do anything I ask, won't you?  Promise?"

She raised her head from his shoulder.  "Promise?" she repeated, her
warm lips on his.

Even as her arms tightened about his neck, he felt a tightening at his
heart.  And the latter was not a pleasant tightening.  What did she
mean?  He loved her.  God, how he loved her dark loveliness, but--what
was she driving at?

"I can't promise till you tell what you want me to do."

"No, say you promise.  Say it, say it."

But he would not, and she tried a new angle.  "If I tell you, will you
promise?"

"After you've told me," he persisted.

She sat up straight at this and took his face between her two arm palms.

"Billy, you know I love you, don't you?"

Looking into her eyes how could he doubt it.

She resumed.  "You know I wouldn't ask you to do anything that wasn't
for your own good, yet you won't promise the first promise I ever asked
you to make."

He shook his head.  "I can't."

"All right, I'll have to tell you then, Billy.  I've heard
things--about your job.  I've heard that if you don't do exactly as the
gang says you'll be kuk-killed.  Oh, not exactly in those words, but I
know what was meant.  No, I shan't tell you where I heard it.  It
doesn't matter anyway.  It was bad enough when you--I thought you were
just a friend, but now--now when you're just everything to me, I
cuc-can't bear to have you run any risks.  Suppose something happens to
you, what would I do?  I'd die, I think.  I'd want to, anyway."

At which he tried to kiss away her fears, but these were too
deep-rooted for any such old-fashioned remedy as that to be of any
avail.

"No, no, don't!" she protested, holding his head away by main force.
"Not now.  I'm not through yet.  Listen.  You'll fight the gang, I know
you will."

He nodded a slow head.  "I've got to.  That's why I took the job of
sheriff."

"I knew it," she said sadly.  "But you can resign, can't you?"

"I could, but I won't."

"Not if I ask you to?"

"I can't.  It would be lying down without a fight, and I've never done
that yet.  They'd say I was afraid of 'em."

"What does it matter what they say?  You'll have me.  We'll be
together."

He put up a hand and stroked the tumbled waves of her black hair.  "You
wouldn't love me if I did a thing like that.  You'd know I wasn't doing
right."

She shook his face between her hands with gentle earnestness.  "Yes, I
would!  I would!  I know I would!  Everything you do is just right!  It
would be right if you did it!  Don't you see?  What does anything
matter so long as we have each other?  Why do you have to risk your
life?  Oh, take me away, beloved, take me away and I'll marry you
to-morrow!"

Because of what he did then, you'll say he did not love her.  But he
did, heart and soul and body, he loved her.  Yet he put her resolutely
from him and held her off at the full stretch of his arms.  "There's
more to this than you've told me," said he shrewdly.  "You're scared.
You're scared bad, but it isn't only the thought of the gang that
scares you.  There's something else.  What is it?"

At first she would not tell him.  He argued with her.

Finally she surrendered.  "If you marry me and stay here, you'll be
killed."

He threw back his head and laughed.  "Is that all that's worrying you?
We'll be married to-morrow, like I said."

"No, we won't--unless you take me away at once.  No, don't kiss me.  I
mean it."

"Who told you I'd be killed?"

"I won't tell you."

"Tell me, and I'll make him come here and take back everything he said."

But the recollection of what Rafe Tuckleton and his outfit had almost
succeeded in doing to John Dawson was too fresh in her mind.  She did
not dare tell Billy who had told her.  She knew right well that if she
did it would simply mean that her lover would be killed the sooner.
The odds against him were great enough as it was.

She shook her head.  Her eyes were bright with pure terror.  "I can't
tell you!" she whispered in agony of spirit.  "I can't!"

"Was it Rafe?"

"I can't tell you!" twisting her head to escape his eyes.

"It _was_ Rafe!"

"It wasn't Rafe!" she lied wearily.  "It doesn't matter who it was.
Oh, boy, boy, I don't dare marry you if you stay here.  And I want to
marry you, dear heart.  I love you so!  I love you!  Oh, let's go away
where we can be happy together!  Why won't you be sensible and take the
easiest way out?"

"God knows I would if I could, but I've got to play the hand out.  I
can't back down because there may be a li'l danger.  You know I can't,
and down deep you don't want me to.  Listen.  When you saw Jack Murray
was out to bushwhack me, what did you do?  Did you take the easiest way
out and go on about your business, or did you jump right in and risk
your life to save mine?"

"That was different," said she piteously, realizing that her cause was
lost, but fighting to the last.  "I did it for you.  I'd be willing to
die for you any time.  Boy!  I love you so hard, nothing else matters!
Nothing!  I'd lie, steal, cheat and fight for you!  Oh, I'm shameless,
shameless!  But that's the way I love you!  Why can't you give up
everything for me the way I would for you and take me away and marry
me?"

He was more than a little shaken.  He had to summon all his resolution
to withstand her pleadings.  But he did more.  He got upon his feet and
thrust her down into his place in the chair and held her there with one
hand for all she struggled might and main to wind her arms again around
his neck.

"Listen to me," he said in a voice that trembled.  "You don't know what
you are asking me to do.  If I did it, I'd be a dog, and I won't be a
dog even for your sake.  Marry me now and we'll see it through, you and
I together."

She shook her head.  "I--I can't," she whispered, and added with most
human logic, "I don't believe you love me!"

At which he was moved to wrath.  "It's you that don't love me!  You
listen here!  I've asked you for the last time to marry me!  You turned
me down for some fool notion that isn't worth a hill of beans.  All
right, let it go at that.  If ever you change your mind, you'll have to
come to me and put your arms around my neck and tell me I was right to
stick it out and you were wrong to want me not to.  And if you don't do
it, you're not the girl I took you for, and I wouldn't look at you with
a telescope!"

She sat speechless.  Without another word he stooped, swept his hat
from the floor and went out.  And, it must be said to his discredit, he
slammed the door behind him.

A long five minutes Hazel was staring wide-eyed at the door.  But he
did not come back.  She crept to the window.  He was riding away down
the draw.  He did not look back.  He passed out of sight around the
bend.  Hazel slid quietly to the floor and, her face buried in her
hands, began to cry as if her heart would break.

For her little world had been shattered and she was left disconsolate
among the fragments.  Her man did not understand.




CHAPTER EIGHT

THE NEW BROOM

Tip O'Gorman sat comfortably near the red-hot stove.  The wind and the
snow were blustering outdoors.  It was what the people you yearn to
kill call a bracing day in January.  Actually the weather was such that
the well-known brass monkey would have been frostbitten in at least one
ear.

"It's a good old world."  Tip sighed luxuriously and wiggled the toes
of his roomy slippers.

Entered then one who changed the pleasing aspect of the good old world.

Judge Driver slammed the door behind him and untied the comforter that
held the hat to his head.  He removed the hat and buffalo coat, hung
both on pegs behind the door, sat down and glared at Tip O'Gorman.

"You've done it now," exclaimed Judge Driver.

"What particular thing have you on your mind?" Tip queried equably.

"The sheriff you were so set on having elected!  Oh, yes, says you, put
in an honest man.  Give the dear people a bone to chew on.  And we took
your advice and gave 'em their bone.  And now look at the damn thing."

"What's happened to the sheriff?"

"Not a thing.  I wish something would.  It's what's happening to us
that bothers me.  Your fine li'l love of a sheriff is appointing his
own deputies."

"The law gives him that privilege."

"You don't understand.  I had picked two deputies for him to
appoint--good safe men.  You know that part was left to me, and I fixed
on Johnson and Kenealy.  This morning I mentioned their names to the
new sheriff.  'I thank you kindly for your good intentions,' says Bill,
or words to that effect, 'but I have already decided to appoint Shotgun
Shillman and Riley Tyler.'"

"What?"

"I'd say what!  I'd say hell, I would!  Ain't it nice, ain't it funny,
ain't it a pretty state of affairs?  And what are you going to do about
it?"

"Has he appointed 'em yet?"

"They're sworn in by now.  He said he was expecting 'em any minute when
I left."

"Shillman's the nearest," said Tip, glancing out of the partly frosted
window pane, "and he lives forty miles away.  I wouldn't count on those
boys being appointed to-day.  The storm may have kept 'em away."

"No such luck," growled the judge.  "They're appointed, all right
enough."

"Think so if it makes you happy," Tip said with a grin.  "You're always
such a pessimist."

"Here!" snarled the judge.  "Don't you try to ride me, Tip.  Say right
out what you mean."

"I did," smiled Tip.  "However----"

"Huh," snorted the judge, and put his feet on the table and began to
pull at his lower lip.

"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler," murmured Tip musingly.  "Hum-m-m!"

"Can't you think of anything to do but buzz like a bee?" demanded the
irritated judge.

"There's lots of things you can learn from bees," protested Tip
O'Gorman.  "Maybe they do buzz some, but they gather lots of honey."

"We'll gather lots of honey, won't we?" snapped the other.  "Both
Shotgun and Riley are absolutely honest."

"And sharp--infernal sharp.  Don't forget that."

"You take it easy."

"Spilt milk.  We've overlooked a bet, that's all."

"Oh, that's all is it?  I tell you it won't be all.  I've got a hunch."

"Don't be superstitious.  Politics is no place to play hunches."

"Apparently it isn't even a place to play common sense," said the
judge.  "If it hadn't been for you and your advice, we wouldn't be in
this fix.  You got us in.  Now you get us out."

"You make me sick, Tom.  You're getting to be a regular old granny.  I
tell you there is no rat in the hole.  Suppose Bill does appoint two
honest deputies.  There is still Bill, isn't there?  What are two
deputies going to do against Bill's orders?  And Bill will do what I
tell him.  Oh, yes, he will.  You needn't shake your head.  I can
manage Bill Wingo."

"I wish I could be sure of that," worried the judge.

"You can be, old-timer, you can be.  I'll manage Bill as per invoice,
so you just bed your mind down and give it a rest.  The bottle's in
that cupboard, water's in the kettle, sugar's on the table, lemons in
that box.  Help yourself, make punch and be happy.  Make enough for
two, while you're about it.  Your punch always did taste better than
mine.  I never could mix one to taste anything like.  Lord knows how
you do it.  It's a gift.  I hear you had a long run of luck at Crafty's
last night."

Et cetera, words with end and amen.  Tip O'Gorman was a skilful
scoundrel.  He knew precisely how far to go and he rarely employed a
shovel.  For even the dullest have a wit flash now and then.

He soon had the jurist purring.

To Billy Wingo that evening came Tip O'Gorman; a bluff, hearty,
good-hearted Tip; a Tip that told funny stories and was a good listener
himself and laughed at the right place.  You've heard it all before
doubtless and know the method: "A chair for Mr. Dugan.  He owns the
stockyards.  His pockets are full of greenbacks.  Let him win as much
as he can and don't forget to tell Patsy to be waiting for him at the
corner with the lead pipe when he goes out."

The old, old game, you see.  Shabby, moth-eaten through and through,
fairly obvious; but it works--most of the time.

"That's fine whisky, Bill," observed Tip, cupping an affectionate hand
ground his glass.  "No, no, tempt me not, brother.  I know when to
stop, if I am old and sinful.  A pleasant fire, a comfortable room, a
hot drink, and a cold and winter's night.  What more can a man want?"

"What indeed?" said Billy politely.  Inwardly he thought, "What the
devil does he want?"

You will perceive that the game was not running true to form.  For it
to be successful, the victim must not become a prey to low suspicion.

"Sworn in your deputies yet?"  Tip made casual inquiry.

"Not yet.  Storm might have kept 'em away."

Then all was not lost.  Tip began to feel a mental glow.  He had been
counting on the storm.

"Have you appointed 'em?" he put the dread question.

"Sure thing."

"Who are they?"

"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler."

"Oh, yes.  Good men, both of 'em, but----"

Tip O'Gorman fell silent.  He toyed with his glass.

Billy Wingo regarded him slantwise.  That "but."  "Yes?"

"But," continued Tip O'Gorman, "I know of better men."

"Yeah?"  Rising inflection and a cocked eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"For instance?"

"Johnson and Kenealy."

"Why Johnson and Kenealy?  Why not Shillman and Riley?"

"Shillman and Riley never have done anything for the party.  Johnson
and Kenealy have."

"What have Johnson and Kenealy done for the party?"

"For one thing, they have always voted right."

"That is one thing, but not a large thing.  Other men have voted right
too--frequently.  Some too frequently; if you know what I mean."

"Politics, my dear fellow, is not child's play.  We do what we must to
win.  But it doesn't pay to look a gift horse in the mouth too closely.
He may bite."  Tip O'Gorman stared at the new sheriff.

The latter smiled a long, slow smile.  "There are muzzles," said Bill
Wingo.

Tip dismissed this with a wave of his hand.  "Too big a horse and too
many teeth," said he.

"Ah!" murmured Billy Wingo.

"Come, come, Bill, you're no fool.  You know what I'm after.  You know
what you owe the party.  Johnson and Kenealy must be taken care of."

"Must," observed Billy, "is the hardest word in the dictionary."

"Sometimes it means the most," declared Tip O'Gorman.  "This is one of
those times."

"Ah!"

There it was again, that irritating monosyllable.  For the first time
Tip O'Gorman began to experience a doubt.

"We expect you to appoint Johnson and Kenealy," he said bluntly.

"And if I don't?"

"Oh, you will--after you've thought it over."

"I thought it over after Judge Driver came to me.  And I decided not
to.  I prefer my own men."

"Johnson and Kenealy will be your own men."

"That is a question."  Billy sat back in his chair and made a church
roof and a steeple with the fingers of his two hands.  He raised lazy
gray eyes to Tip's face.  "That is a question," he repeated.  "They may
be my men and then again--"  He ceased speaking, leaving the sentence
unfinished.  The church steeple became a gallows.  "You see, I can't
risk it," drawled Billy.

Tip O'Gorman carefully set his glass down on the table.  "You must," he
remarked softly.

"As I said before," murmured Billy, his drawl drawlier than ever, "must
is a hard, hard word.  But I'll tell you what I'll do, Tip," he
continued in a louder, more cheerful tone.  "You show me what 'musts'
in the statutes apply to the sheriff's office, and I'll obey every last
one of 'em.  When I took office, I made oath to obey and support the
laws, you know."

He smiled at Tip.  The latter smiled back.  "Lookit here, Bill," he
said in his best and most fatherly fashion, "I like you----"

"I suppose that was why I was elected," interrupted Billy.

"Partly," was the brazen reply.  "But there were other reasons, of
course.  We needed a good man to win, a man that was on the level, an
honest man, a----"

"Not a crooked man, or a dishonest man, or a pink man, or even a man
with purple spots.  So you elected me.  I'll take it as a compliment.
Go on."

"A straight man doesn't throw down his friends," said Tip O'Gorman.

"Sure not," declared Billy warmly.  "He'd be a pup if he did.  I agree
with you, Tip.  We won't fight over that."

"You're throwing us down," insisted Tip.

"Now, we're getting down to carpet tacks," said Billy.  "But who are
'us'?"

"The party."

"The party?"

"The party."

"But the party and my friends are not necessarily the same thing."

"We elected you."

"That doesn't make you my friends.  Understand me, Tip, there are a lot
of folks in the party I like and admire--a lot of 'em.  But the folks I
like and admire don't come to me and give me orders, and my friends
don't either.  Not that you've been giving me any orders, Tip.  You
wouldn't do such a thing."

"It's all right to ride me," said Tip, without losing for a minute his
amiable smile, "but you might better leave off the spurs."

"I ain't riding anything to-day," averred Billy.  "There's the bowl.
Dip you out another glassful."

Tip O'Gorman did not accept the invitation.  "I wish I could make you
understand," he said slowly, crossing his legs and clasping both hands
around a plump knee.  "This is a serious matter, Bill."

"Sure it is," asserted Billy.  "You're serious.  I'm serious.  He, she
or it is serious.  Outside of that, it's a fine, large evening."

"Lookit here, Bill, what's your game?"

"Game?  What game are you talking about?"

"What do you want?  What are you after, anyway?"

Billy made swimming motions with his arms and hands.  "Paddle out,
paddle out.  You're over my head and getting deeper."

"Are you trying to give me the double-cross?" inquired Tip.

"Now why should I do a fool thing like that?"

"I don't know.  I'm asking."

"What makes you think I'm giving you the double-cross?"

"The first favor I ever asked of you--the appointment of these two men."

"When I was elected, then, it wasn't intended I should have a free
hand?"

"Free hand?  Of course, of course."  Tip was beginning to find the
atmosphere oppressive.  He passed a handkerchief across his beaded brow.

Observing which, Billy said affectionately, "It is hot in here.  Shall
I open a window?"

"Nemmine a window," Tip said.  "Think a shake, Bill.  Is it wise?"

"Wise?"

"You know what I mean."

"Not I," denied the cheerful Bill.

"You can't buck the party."

"There ain't no such word, but just for the sake of argument, why can't
I?"

"It has been done, but----"

"Where are the snows of yesteryear, huh?"

Tip nodded.  "Something like that."

"If I don't appoint your men and do appoint mine, what particular form
of devilment would the party feel called upon to put on me?"

"Devilment," grinned Tip.  "You don't know us."

"Backward and forward, sideways and from the bottom up.  Don't you fool
yourself I don't know you.  I been looking over the situation a long
time.  It's been a liberal education."

"So that's it," murmured Tip.  "Driver told me, but I didn't believe
him."

"The judge sometimes tells the truth."

Tip O'Gorman sighed.  He thought he saw what he would have to do.  And
he didn't want to do it.  It meant one more mouth to feed, and one more
finger in the pie.

"You understand, Bill," said he, "that it was always intended you
should have your share."

"Nothing was ever said to me about any share," said Billy truthfully.

"We occasionally prefer to leave something to the imagination."

"It beats leaving it to the taxpayer," smiled Billy.

"Sure, sure."

"But my share you were speaking of, Tip," prompted Bill.  "What is this
share--large, small or indifferent?"

"That depends," replied O'Gorman cadgily.

"On the weather, or some one's generosity?"

Was there mirth or something sinister in the gray eyes?  Tip O'Gorman
couldn't be sure.  But Lord, there was no cause for apprehension.  He'd
been making himself unnecessary worry.  Bill Wingo was too easy-going
and good-natured to hold out on the boys.  He was just making a play
for his legitimate share.  That was only right.  Not that Tip had
intended in the beginning that Bill should have his legitimate share.
These politicians!

"You see, Bill, it's thisaway," said Tip.  "Some years the party makes
more than other years, and----"

"And the years it makes the most," insisted Bill, "are the years I make
the most.  Is that it?"

"You get the general idea."

"But not the general idea of what I get," persisted the strangely
obtuse sheriff.  "What is the minimum I can expect?"

Tip did not relish being pinned down to cases in this fashion.  He
preferred generalities.

"The minimum," repeated Tip.

"And the maximum," suggested Bill.  "I might as well know all the
horrible details."

"From three to five thousand dollars," said Tip, watching his
_vis-a-vis_ closely.

Said _vis-a-vis_ looked disappointed.  "Small change," he remarked
coldly.  "Who gets the other nickle?"

"Your salary is two thousand," Tip told him reproachfully, "and three
to five thousand above that makes five to seven thousand.  What more do
you want?"

"Whatever's right," declared the amazing Mr. Wingo.

"That's right--what I told you."

"What did the last sheriff get?"

"I told you it varied."

"I know you told me.  Tell me again."

Tip O'Gorman shifted his position in the chair.  He was being baited.
He realized it now.  A slow anger rose in his breast.  But an admixture
of dismay in the anger kept it from boiling over.

He continued to temporize.  "Your slice will be worth while, well worth
while.  Leave it to us.  You can trust me."

"Can I?  I wonder."

"Meaning?"  O'Gorman's face was cold as his heart was hot.

"I wonder.  I do it now and then.  Habit, I suppose.  No harm in it, is
there?"

"Lookit here, you don't doubt me, do you?"

"Unhand me, Jack Dalton!  I may be poor--I may starve to death, but I
will never be an old man's plaything.  Better death than
dishonor-rur-rur.  Don't be so melodramatic, Tip.  Who am I to doubt
you?  You?  What a question!"

The fingers with which Billy Wingo then proceeded to make a cigarette
were steady and sure in every movement.  Billy licked the length of the
white roll, smoothed it down and twisted one end.  Tip O'Gorman did not
know what to make of him.  Or rather he thought he knew too well, which
frequently amounts to the same thing.

"You'd better trust me," rumbled Tip.

"Be reasonable, Tip.  You ask for trust and you give me a stone."

"A stone?"

"What else is three to five thousand bucks, I'd like to know.  I'm no
child, man.  I've got my growth, and I've put away childish things,
including all-day suckers."

"You must take me for one."

"Not you, not in a million years.  But--"  Mr. Wingo paused and looked
up at the ceiling.  His lips moved.  He muttered of figures and sums.

Tip O'Gorman awaited his pleasure.  What else was there to do?

"I think between nine and ten thousand is nearer the correct amount for
li'l me," Billy said at last.

"What?" screeched Tip, fairly jarred off his balance at last.

Billy made his position plain.  "Say ten thousand in round numbers."

"Ten thousand devils!"

"Not devils--dollars."

"You're crazy!"

"It's the least you can do," insisted Billy.

Tip O'Gorman made an odd noise in his throat.  After making which, a
dog would have bitten Mr. Wingo.  Tip may have been a bad old man, but
he was not a dog.  He really dissembled his foamingly murderous rage
very well indeed.

"I'll have to see the rest of the boys," said Tip O'Gorman, and he
actually smiled.

"Why, no," contradicted Billy.  "You won't.  Why should you?  Rafe and
you are the dogs with the brass collars in Crocker County, and you wear
more brass than Rafe, when you come right down to it.  What you say
usually goes without question."

"I never said ten thousand for a sheriff before," protested Tip.

"There's nothing like establishing a precedent.  Don't be hidebound.
This is the newer generation, and advanced age, you know; one that's
advanced by jumps, if you could only be brought to realize it."

Tip held up an arresting hand.  "Don't joke," he said.  "I realize what
the blessed age is doing, but doubling the ante this way is more than a
jump--it's a mighty wild leap."

"It can be done," Billy said placidly.  "What are impossibilities
to-day become realities to-morrow.  Q.E.D.  P.D.Q."

Tip O'Gorman raised plump hands to the level of his ears.  "I didn't
think when I proposed you for sheriff," he remarked earnestly, "that I
was proposing a road agent too.  Oh, you burglar!  I do admire a hawg.
Yes, sir.  But what can a feller do?  Ten thousand goes.  About those
deputies--I don't suppose you'll have any objections, now that you've
got what you want, to appointing Johnson and Kenealy?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I have--plenty.  No Johnson and no Kenealy.  Shillman
and Tyler.  Yes."

"No.  You've got to earn that ten thousand."

"Bribery and corruption, Tip, is a serious crime."

"Bosh!  You listen to me, young feller.  We're buying you, body, soul
and roll, with that ten thousand cases!  You've got to do as we say.
Hells bells, what do you think you are?"

"A stranger in a strange land.  Damn strange, too.  Tip, you're an old
scoundrel!"

Tip O'Gorman's hand halted half-way to his armpit.

"No, no, Tip, not that," Billy warned him, keeping turned on the other
man's stomach the gun that had suddenly appeared from nowhere.  "Don't
turn rusty in here.  The carpet is new and so is the furniture.  Go a
li'l  slow, or a li'l slower, whichever appeals to you."

Tip locked his hands behind his head.  "Be sensible, Bill," said he
calmly.  "You can't hope to buck us, if that's your idea.  You can't."

"Can't I?  We'll see."

"What can one man do?" contemptuously.

"One-two-three.  Three men.  Three men can do a lot.  Yep.  I've seen
it done."

"Have you?"

"I have.  But I want to be fair to you, Tip.  You'll notice I haven't
removed your gun.  I'll return mine where it came from--behind the
waistband of my pants.  Now turn your wolf loose."

But Tip O'Gorman merely smiled.  "I thank you kindly," said he.  "You
mean well; but as you say, the carpet and the furniture are new.  It
would be a pity to spoil both them and the evening."

"You mean we'll go outdoors then?"

"_We_ will not, but _I_ will.  You will stay here and, I hope, enjoy
one good night's rest."

"One, huh?  Do I hear you say one?  I do.  I get your meaning, thank
you.  So good of you.  Don't get up.  I would a tale unfold.  Did you
ever hear the story of Benjy and the bear.  No?  This is it.  Benjy was
out hunting one day and it happened the bear was out hunting too.  For
the bear was hungry, and the bear saw Benjy before Benjy saw the bear.
And after the dust had cleared away and all, the bear was bulgy and the
bulge was Benjy."

"Huh," snorted Tip O'Gorman, "what does that prove?"

"It proves that it's better to be the bear than Benjy.  At least,
that's the way it looks to a man up a tree.  I made up my mind some
time ago that if I got tangled up in a situation like that I'd be the
bear and not Benjy."

Tip O'Gorman stared with an odd expression at Billy Wingo.  "You _have_
changed," he remarked with conviction.  "I wonder----"

"Give it a name," begged Billy, when Tip failed to complete the
sentence.

Mr. O'Gorman shook his bullet head.  "No, I got other fish to fry."

He got up heavily and began to pull on his overcoat.

When he was gone, Billy Wingo crossed the room unhurriedly and barred
the door.  He threw a quick glance at the blankets nailed across the
windows ostensibly to keep out the drafts.  All tight.  No one could
look in.

"All right, boys," he said in a conversational tone.  "You can come out
now."

The door of an inner room opened.  Two men emerged.  One was a long,
lean citizen with a long, lean face barred by a heavy grizzled
mustache.  The other was shorter, of equally lean build, and
considerably younger.  The older man was Shotgun Shillman, the younger
was Riley Tyler.

In Riley's hand was a thin block of paper.  A pencil stuck up behind
his ear.

"Did you get it all?" queried Billy, sitting down in his chair and
hunching it close to the table.

"Most of it," Riley replied.  "All the important part, especially where
he tried to buy you up.  Gee, you've got him now.  Send him over the
road any time."

"But it's only Tip," said Billy, taking the block of paper from Riley
and riffling through the scribbled leaves.

"Arresting him would sure throw a heap scare into the others," Riley
grinned.

"And that is what I want to avoid," said Billy.  "There's no use in
scaring off the flock by downing one bird.  We'll just file away Tip
O'Gorman's remarks for future reference.  We can afford to wait.
Where's that Bible?  I'll swear you boys in right away."




CHAPTER NINE

THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY

It was the next day that Arthur Rale, the district attorney, called on
the new sheriff.  He was a heavy-jowled, heavy-handed, heavy-bodied
individual, with black hair, close-set eyes, and, what was curiously at
variance with those heavy jowls, a long and pointed nose.

Billy Wingo was expecting the district attorney to pay him a visit.
For Shotgun Shillman had been told that Tip O'Gorman, Rafe Tuckleton
and Judge Driver had spent the morning closeted with that gentleman.

Billy Wingo was cleaning a Winchester when the district attorney
knocked and entered.

"Si'down, Arthur," invited Bill, indicating a chair with the barrel of
the rifle.

The district attorney returned the salutation gruffly.  Billy smiled
sweetly down at the rifle stock he was hand-rubbing.  Mr. Rale stamped
his feet, hung up his hat and coat and sat down heavily in the chair.
Resting both fists on his knees, he fixed Billy with a hard eye.

"What's this I hear?" he wished to hear.

"I dunno," said truthful William.

"I hear you've appointed Shillman and Tyler deputies," Rale said
accusingly.

"Seems to me I _have_ done something like that," admitted Billy.

"You've got to cancel their appointments."

"Got to?"

"Got to."

"I must be gettin' deaf," drawled Billy.  "Seems like I heard you say
got to."

"You heard me right," declared Rale, with a vicious snap of strong,
white teeth.  "You cancel those appointments and put in Johnson and
Kenealy instead."

"Everybody seems to want those two fellers," said Billy, wagging a
puzzled head.  "I don't understand it."

The district attorney leaned forward.  His broad, flat face was
venomous in its expression.

"Look here," he said harshly, "you like Hazel Walton, don't you?"

Whang!  In that confined space the crash of the gun was deafening.  The
district attorney, coughing in the smoke, picked up himself and his
chair from the ground.  He had fallen over backward at the shot, struck
the back of his head and now his actions were purely mechanical.

"Dazed you like, didn't it?" Billy queried in a soft voice.  "You did
hit pretty hard.  Luck is with you to-day.  I'll bet if you went down
to Crafty's, you'd bust the bank and Crafty's heart."

Rale did not take the palpable hint.  He sat down again and looked
uncertainly at Billy Wingo.  He had courage, this district attorney,
the species of courage, you understand, that to function properly must
have a shade the better of the break, that bets always on a sure thing
and never on an uncertainty.

Rale had been knocked off balance mentally and physically.  He did the
wrong thing.

"You tried to murder me," he blurted out.

Billy shook a solemn head.  "You're mistaken.  If I'd tried to murder
you, I'd have done it.  Accidents will happen, though, even to the most
careful fellers.  Yeah.  You were speaking of the Waltons, Arthur.  I
didn't quite catch what you said."

He gazed expectantly at the district attorney.  It seemed to the latter
that the barrel of the rifle was in a line with the third button of his
vest.  Certainly the muzzle looked as large as a mine opening.  Was the
rifle cocked?  Billy Wingo's large hand covered the breech.  Billy
moved the large hand a trifle.  Yes, the rifle was cocked.  The
district attorney's eyes strayed downward.  At Billy's feet was a spent
shell.

"Look here," said Rale, "if that shot was an accident, why did you flip
in a fresh cartridge?"

"How do you know I worked the lever?" demanded Billy.

"Because the spent shell's on the floor between your feet."

"You've been reading those detective stories again.  Arthur.  It would
look mighty bad for me if you were to pass out in here to-night.
You're a big man and a heavy man.  And the ground is frozen harder than
rock.  Bet I'd have to use a pick.  I hope, Arthur, you're not thinking
of doing anything to make me use a pick."

Billy had uttered these sinister words in a mild and plaintive tone.
The expression of his countenance was even milder and more plaintive.
The district attorney found it difficult to believe that he had heard
aright.  Yet he had heard the report of the rifle aright.  There could
be no mistake about that.

The district attorney sat rigidly erect.  He cleared his throat.  He
wished his heart would stop pounding so hard.  Odd, too, that it should
seem to have moved out of its usual position to another that was
already occupied by his windpipe.  Breathing and speaking were rendered
difficult.  Quite so.

He cleared his throat again.  "Wingo," he said, "are you threatening
me?"

"Threatening you?" Billy said in a shocked tone.  "Certainly not.
Wouldn't think of such a thing."

The district attorney tried again.  "Wingo, I don't know what to do
with you.  I----"

"Don't do anything," suggested Billy.  "I'd feel better about it, too."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, I would.  I've got a new job here, Arthur, and I guess it will
keep me busy--busy enough, anyway.  And how am I going to swing it and
do justice to the taxpayers, if well-meaning fellers like you are alla
time experimentin' with me?"

"Wingo," said the district attorney sternly, "stop this tomfoolery!
Instantly!  You have played the buffoon long enough."

"All right," smiled Billy.  "I'll be good."

"That's better.  Much better.  Keep to that tone and we'll get along,
we'll get along."

Again the district attorney cleared his throat.

"Lord, Lord," thought Billy Wingo, "what a foolish thing this man is!"

The district attorney picked up the thread of his discourse.  "We can't
have you upsetting our plans in any way, Wingo.  We can't have it, and
we won't have it.  I order you to immediately cancel the appointments
of Shillman and Tyler and appoint instead Johnson and Kenealy.  Do you
understand?"

"Yes," said Billy in a weary voice, "I understand.  I understand
perfectly.  You can go now."

"I'll go when I have your answer."

"Your mistake.  You're going now."

So saying, Billy arose, lowered the hammer of his rifle to the safety
notch and laid the weapon on the table.  Then he raised himself on
tiptoe and stretched luxuriously.  His arms came down slowly.  He
turned a surprised gaze upon the district attorney.

"Haven't you started yet?" he said briskly.  "Come, come, get a-going."

Even as he spoke he leaped with cat-like agility upon the district
attorney where he sat in his chair and wrenched the right arm of that
surprised gentleman around behind his back.  With his left hand,
despite the struggles and protesting roars of the captive, he removed a
six-shooter from a shoulder holster and a derringer from a vest pocket.

"You must be scared of some one," observed Billy Wingo, as the
derringer followed the six-shooter to a place on the table.  "Arise,
pushing your stomach ahead of you, and depart in peace."

But the district attorney was averse to departing that way.  "You will
regret this outrage!" he bellowed, his ripe cheeks and the veins in his
neck swollen with passion.

"So will you," said Billy, twisting the man's arm ever so slightly.
"You are in a serious position.  If you'd only realize it, and be
reasonable, we'd all be happier.  I don't want to break your
arm--unless I have to.  Observe, Mr. Man, how easily I could do it."

So saying, he pushed the district attorney's arm somewhat farther up
his back.  The district attorney groaned.  Billy eased the pressure.
The district attorney began to curse.  Billy, boosting him with his
knee, assisted him toward the door.

With his left hand Billy withdrew the bar from the staple, opened the
door, swung his right foot and kicked the district attorney out into a
snowdrift.  After him Billy tossed his coat and cap.  Then he closed
the door and shoved the bar into place.

"And that's that," said Billy Wingo.




CHAPTER TEN

A SHORT HORSE

"You took your own time about coming," grunted Rafe Tuckleton.

Dan Slike crossed his knees and stared at Rafe and Skinny Shindle.  "I
always take my own time," said he, in a voice as blank and
expressionless as his ice-blue eyes.  "Why hurry?"

"Because you should have hurried," nagged Rafe.  "Y'oughta come when I
wrote you last summer.  This Tom Walton has gone on living all fall,
and here it is January and he ain't dead yet."

"That's tough," sympathized Mr. Slike and wagged a belying foot.

Skinny Shindle, looking somewhat worried, went to the door, opened it
and looked out into the short hall.  Satisfied that the breed cook was
busy in the kitchen, he closed the door and returned to his chair.

"It's worse'n that.  Tom ain't the only li'l job I want you to attend
to.  There's the sheriff, Billy Wingo."

"That will be extra."

"Extra?"

"You haven't any idea I'm gonna do two jobs for the price of one, have
you?"

"Well----"

"Well, nothin'.  I ain't in the business for my health, you can gamble
on that.  If you're looking for charity, you're roping at the wrong
horse."

"No, no, nothing like that," Rafe hastened to say.  "I'll do whatever's
right and fair.  You can trust me."

Dan Slike shook a slow head.  An amused twinkle lightened those blank
eyes.  "Oh, yes," he said.  "I'm almost sure I can trust you.  Yeah.
Almost."

"What do you mean?" blustered Rafe Tuckleton.

"Folks I talk to don't generally need any dictionary," said Slike.

"Huh," grunted Rafe, content to let it go at that.  "Anyway, you'll be
well paid."

"I didn't come alla way from the Jornada just to hear you say I'd be
well paid.  Your 'well paid' and my 'well paid' might be two different
things.  Sometimes you and I don't talk the same language."

Rafe Tuckleton considered a moment.  "Five hundred dollars apiece for
Tom and the sheriff," said he, looking at Slike from beneath lowered
eyebrows.

"We'll bargain for 'em separately," said Slike.  "One thousand for Tom,
payable in advance."

"No," denied Rafe.  "Too much."

"Aw right," assented Slike cheerfully.  "I'll be pulling my freight for
New Mexico to-morrow.  What you gonna have for dinner?"

"Let's talk it over.  One thousand dollars is a lot of money for a li'l
job like rubbing out Tom Walton."

"If it's a li'l job, why don't you attend to it yourself?"

"Oh, I can't.  Impossible.  Why, man, consider my position."

"Sure, I understand.  You'd rather live than have Tom Walton kill you.
Don't know that I blame you, Rafe.  You always were a sensible jasper."

Slike's eyes dwelt on Rafe's face with tolerant contempt.  The red
color of Rafe's leathery cheeks was not entirely due to the heat of the
cannon-ball stove.  No.

"I'm not a gunfighter," disclaimed Rafe quickly.  "Never was.  That's
your job."

"And I am a gunfighter.  Always was.  And it's my job.  And I intend to
get my price for my job.  One thousand in advance, or the deal's off."

"I'm not a rich man," protested Rafe.  "I lack ready money.  So does
Mr. Shindle here.  Say five hundred now and the rest in the spring."

"I know how rich you are," said Slike.  "And I can make a fair guess
how you and Mr. Shindle stand for ready money.  You can raise the
thousand without too much trouble, I guess.  Anyhow, it goes."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"A man in my business can't afford to be squeamish."  As Slike spoke
his eyes narrowed.

"But----"

"No buts.  You want Walton killed----"

"Sh-h!  Not so loud," cautioned Skinny Shindle.  "Removed is a better
word than killed, anyway."

"Aw, hell," sneered Dan Slike, "you make me sick.  I've got no use for
a jigger that don't call a cow by its right name.  I dunno the first
thing about removing.  But I'll kill anybody you say.  I ain't a bit
particular.  Not a bit."  Here Slike bent on Skinny Shindle the full
measure of a most baleful regard.

The strangely squeamish Shindle strove manfully to stare down the other
man, but dropped his eyes within the minute.  This appeared to please
Mr. Slike.  He smiled crookedly and turned his attention to Tuckleton.

"Rafe," said he, "my time is money.  I can't stand here higgle-hoggling
with you from hell to breakfast.  One thousand, or you get somebody
else to do the job."

"I suppose I'll have to do as you say," Rafe grumbled.  "And the same
amount for the sheriff."

"Not-a-tall," denied Slike.  "Not a-tall.  Do you think I'm gonna rub
out a sheriff for a thousand cases?  You must have mush for a brain!
Killing a rancher is a short hoss, but a sheriff is another breed of
cat.  Besides, he's got two deputies, to say nothing of the feelings of
the county.  Killing this sheriff for you means I gotta leave the
county on the jump.  Do you think I'm gonna run the risk of being
lynched for a measly thousand dollars?  If you do, take another think.
Take two of 'em!  Me, I'll take two thousand for your man."

"Two thousand dollars for simply shooting a sheriff?"

"Again lemme remark that if the business was as simple as you say it
is, you'd do it yourself.  Two thousand in advance."

"But that's three thousand in all."

"You're a wonder at arithmetic.  I make three thousand too."

"But look here, Dan, we----"

"I'm looking," interrupted Slike, "and three thousand dollars is all I
can see.  You gotta expect to pay for your mistakes, Rafe.  If you
didn't want to have this sheriff hold office, what did you elect him
for?  You told me your political outfit was responsible."

"How could we tell he'd turn out this way?  We took it for granted he'd
do what the party wanted, and the first card out of the box he appoints
his own deputies."

"Good men with a gun?"

"Both of 'em," Rafe nodded absently.

"Wingo's no slouch himself," Shindle supplied without thinking.

"And that's the kind of bunch you want me to go up against for a
thousand dollars!" exclaimed Dan Slike.  "You fellers sure have your
nerve!"

Slike teetered his chair back on two legs and laughed loudly, but
without cheer.  Rafe and Skinny found themselves somewhat chilled by
the sardonic merriment.  They looked one upon the other.  Slike caught
the look and laughed anew.

"You're a fine pair," he said loudly, "a fine pair.  Letting a
two-by-four sheriff run you.  Ha-ha, it's a joke!"

"You go slow, you hear!" directed Skinny Shindle.

Dan Slike's eyes slid round to survey Skinny.  "Me go slow?" he
drawled, "Who'll make me?  You?  Not you or Rafe either.  Wanna know
why?  Because I'm the best man in the room, that's why.  Wanna argue
the matter?"

Apparently neither Skinny nor Rafe cared to argue.  At least they made
no audible reply to the challenge.

Dan Slike nodded a satisfied head.  "Now that's settled, let's go back
to business.  About that three thousand--yes or no?"

Skinny looked at Rafe.  Rafe looked at Skinny.  Skinny shook his head.
Rafe nodded his.  Dan Slike, missing nothing of the byplay, smiled
delightedly.  His thin lips curled into a crooked sneer.

"There seems to be a difference of opinion," said Dan Slike.  "Give it
a name."

"Three thousand is too much," averred Skinny Shindle.

"You'll only have to pay half of it," said Rafe.

"But this payment in advance--I don't like it," objected Skinny Shindle.

Dan Slike's boots came down from the table.  They came down with a
certain amount of speed, yet curiously enough they made not the
slightest noise as soles and heels struck the floor.  Dan Slike's chair
creaked as his body turned ever so slightly sidewise.

"Shindle," said he softly, "you ain't thinking I wouldn't keep my part
of the bargain if I take your money, are you?"

"No, oh, no," Skinny reassured him hastily.  "Of course you would."

"This being so," pursued Dan Slike, "what's the difference whether you
pay me now or later?"

"Why, none," admitted Skinny, finding himself fairly cornered.  "None
whatever.  I--we will pay you what you ask."

"Spoken like a li'l man," fleered Dan Slike, and switched his gaze to
Tuckleton's face.  "Second the motion, Rafe?"

"On one condition."

"Let's have it?"

"You finish both jobs within thirty days."

"No, not thirty days, old-timer, nor yet forty-five.  Sixty."

"Thirty."

"Sixty days from to-night and the three thousand dollars, half gold,
half bills, in my pocket by noon to-morrow."

"Oh, hell, all right!" Rafe cried, tossing up helpless hands.  "Come
around here to-morrow noon and get your money."

Dan Slike nodded.  "Guess I'll be going, Rafe--No, nemmine dinner, I
ain't hungry now."




CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE TRAPPERS

"It's the women make half the trouble in the world," mused young Riley
Tyler, who had received the mitten from his girl of the period, the
restaurant waitress, and was a misogynist in consequence.

"You're wrong," said Shotgun Shillman.  "They make all of it."

"All?"

"All.  And not only that--they make all the good, too.  Yep, Riley, you
can put down a bet there ain't a thing happens to a feller--good, bad
or indifferent--that you won't find a woman at the bottom of it.  A
good man goes to hell or heaven--it depends on the woman."

"That's right, dead right," corroborated young Riley.

"Those fatal blondes!" grinned Shotgun; for the waitress was decidedly
of that type.

"They're all deceivers," muttered Riley Tyler, reddening to his ear
tips.

"Ain't it the truth!" said Shotgun Shillman.  "They can lie to you with
a straighter face than a government mule.  Like that jail lady in the
Bible who put the kybosh on a feller named Scissors by nailing his head
to the kitchen floor with a railroad spike.  Yeah, her.  Hugging him
she was ten minutes before using the hammer.  Oh, that's their best
bet; kiss you with one hand and cut your throat with the other."

"That's news," said Riley Tyler.  "Where I come from the gent kisses
with his mouth, and if he has to cut your throat he uses the butcher
knife."

"Did that hasher do all those things?" Shotgun asked instantly.

Riley made believe not to hear.  Shotgun chuckled.

"Billy's coming back," observed the latter, gazing through the window.
"Where did he go?"

"Walton's, he said."

"I thought he liked Hazel Walton."

"He likes 'em all."  Thus Riley, thinking of the scornful waitress who
did not like him.  "'Lo, Bill, remember to wipe your feet on the mat.
Li'l paddies all cold?"

"She's a-thawing," replied Billy Wingo, kicking the snow from his
boots.  "But I need a large, long, hot drink alla same.  Where is that
bottle?"

When the bottle and the three glasses had been returned to their
appointed place between the horse liniment and the spare handcuffs,
Riley moved listlessly to the front window and drummed on the pane.

"Oh, the devil," Riley groaned.  "Here's work for li'l boys.  As if
there wasn't enough to do in summer."

"Good thing to-day's a chinook," remarked Shillman, without interest.

Billy joined Riley at the window.  "Looks like Simon Reelfoot.  It's
Simon's horse, anyway.  It is Simon.  I can see his long nose."

Riley squinted at the approaching man.  "I wonder what he wants."

"I thought maybe I'd ask him when he comes in," said Billy.

"I would," observed Riley.  "That'll show you're interested in your
job.  It'll please Simon, too.  He'll think you've got his interests at
heart.  After that shall I kick him out, or will you let Shotgun bite
him?"

For Simon Reelfoot was not well thought of by the more decent portion
of the community.  Men that put money out at high interest and are
careless of their neighbors' property usually aren't.  It was said of
him that he still had the first nickel that he ever earned.  Certainly
he was not a generous person.  Three women, at one time and another,
had been unlucky enough to marry him.  Each wife died within two years
of her marriage--murdered by her husband.  Not in such a way, however,
that the law could take its proper course and hang Simon by the neck
till he was dead.  The murders were done in a perfectly legal manner
and all above-board--overwork and undernourishment.  The two in
conjunction will kill anything that lives and breathes.  So Simon, if
not a murderer, was at least an accomplice before and after the fact.
A cheerful creature, indeed.  There were no children.

Something of all that Simon was and stood for passed through Riley
Wingo's mind as he stood with Riley at the window.

"He always keeps his horses in good condition," said Billy.

"He does--the skunk!" acquiesced Riley.

"Stop calling a honest citizen names," directed Shotgun Shillman.  "Mr.
Reelfoot is an upright man.  I don't believe he'd rob a child or steal
the pennies off a dead baby's eyes.  I don't believe he would--if any
one was looking."

Simon Reelfoot rode up, tied his horse on the lee of the building--he
was always tender of his stock--and entered.

"Howdy," he said glumly.  "Cold day."

"If you'd wear something besides that relic of the days of '61 you
wouldn't find it such a cold day," observed the straightforward Shotgun.

At which allusion to his ratty old blue army overcoat Simon's upper lip
lifted.  It might almost be said that he snarled silently.

"Feller as poor as I am can't afford to buy buffalo coats," he declared
in the grumbling rumble so oddly at variance with his build.  For he
was a little clean-shaven man, this Simon Reelfoot, with a hatchet face
and the watery peering eyes of the habitual drunkard.

"Yeah," he grumbled, staring from one to another of the three officers
with open disapproval.  "I ain't got money to buy buffalo coats.  I
have to work to earn my living, I do.  I ain't got time to sit on my
hunkers around a hot stove come-day-go-day a-taking the county's money
for doing nothin'."

"Which will be just about all from you, Reelfoot," Billy Wingo
suggested sharply.

"Oh, you can't scare me," said Simon, shaking a lowering and dogged
head.  "I say what I think, and if folks don't like it they know what
they can do."

"Of course, Reelfoot," pursued Billy, with his most pleasant smile,
"folks naturally know what they can do.  But you don't guess now it
gives a feller any pleasure to squash every spider, caterpillar,
hoptoad or snail he runs across.  And--  But I don't know that I ever
saw any snails in this part of the county.  Suppose now we hold it down
to spiders, caterpillars and hoptoads.  Yeah.  Why kill 'em?  Yeah
again.  Why put the kibosh on you, Mr. Reelfoot, just because you make
me think of a hoptoad?  You may be a bad old man.  I dunno that I care.
But I don't like your company.  Not a bit.  You're a slimy old devil,
and you never wash.  Therefore let's hear what your business is so you
can take it away with you in a hurry."

So saying Billy sat down, cocked his feet up on the table and regarded
Reelfoot gravely.  Shillman and Tyler stood before the fireplace, their
legs spread, their hands in the their pockets and their faces
expressionless.

Simon Reelfoot's upper lip lifted in the same soundless snarl.

"I'll go when I please," he began, "and----"

"You're mistaken," contradicted Billy, taking out his watch and holding
it open in the palm of his hand.  "Not to give it too a coarse a name,
you'll go when I please.  Yep.  If you haven't begun to state your
official business with the sheriff within forty-five seconds, out you
go, Mr. Reelfoot, out you go."

"You fellers are paid to see that the law is obeyed," growled Simon
Reelfoot.  "You can't throw me out."

"'Round and 'round the mulberry bush,'" quoted Billy Wingo.  "Reverse.
Try the other way for a change.  You're getting dizzy."

"You make me sick, you fellers.  Talk!  Talk!  Talk!  That's all you
do.  Talk alla time.  All right, I will see if you're able to do
anything besides talk.  Two of my cows have been shot and there's two
or three strangers baching it in that old shack of Cayler's on Mule
Creek.  Cows are worth thirty dollars per right now, and I want you to
find out if them fellers beefed my cattle."

"Been over there yourself?"

"Sure I have.  They wouldn't lemme get inside the door.  Threw down on
me.  Bad actors, them two lads."

"I thought you said there were three," said Billy Wingo.

"Two or three," snappily.

"Suspicions don't count for much," said Billy.  "You know that,
Reelfoot.  Have you any evidence against these men?"

"Sure I have," was the reply.  "The bodies of my two cows and a plain
track of blood and moccasins to within a mile of the cabin."

"Did the trail stop there--within a mile?"

"Feller had a horse tied.  He packed on the beef and rode himself.  I
trailed the horse to the corral back of the cabin."

"Were you alone?"

"My friend Jack Faber was with me.  He can back up everything I say."

"And you mean to tell me, Reelfoot, that you trailed this beef to the
Cayler cabin and then allowed the men inside to get the drop on you and
run you off?"

"They threw down first," Reelfoot insisted sullenly.  "They got the
drop.  What could we do?"

"I don't know," replied Billy Wingo dryly.  "I wasn't there."

"Perhaps," put in the irrepressible Riley Tyler, "the parties of the
second part forgot their guns."

"A gun ain't much good when the other feller's got the drop," Simon
said sourly.

"The trick is," observed Billy, his manner that of one stating a newly
discovered fact, "the trick is, Reelfoot, to get the drop first."

Reelfoot gaped at him.  Then his jaws closed with a click.  But they
reopened immediately in violent speech.  "What about my cows?" he
squalled.  "What you gonna do about them cattle?"

"We can't unscramble any eggs for you, Reelfoot, not being magicians,
but maybe we can dump the rustlers for you.  How will you have
them--shot or half-shot?  Now, son, you shut up, close your trap,
swallow your tongue or something.  Riley Tyler is the only one allowed
to swear around me.  Where do you want to cool off--in here or out in a
snowdrift?"

Simon Reelfoot subsided into a chair.  He produced a plug of tobacco
from one capacious bootleg, a clasp-knife from the other, snicked open
the claspknife and haggled off a generous chew.

Billy nodded approvingly.  "That's better.  Shotgun and I will be with
you in two minutes."

Simon Reelfoot glared out of the window.  Billy Wingo, whose eyes, for
all their casualness, had not strayed from Simon for a minute, had not
overlooked the pucker of worry that had appeared between Simon's chin
and straggly eyebrows at the mention of the two minutes.  With folk
like Simon it is always well to proceed with caution, to learn the real
reason, not the apparent one at the bottom of every move.  Quite so.
Why was Simon worried?

Simon's gaze returned from the world without.  It skimmed across Billy
Wingo, dodged around both Shillman and Tyler, and dropped to the floor,
where it fastened upon and clung to the nobbly tips of the Reelfoot
boots.

"I don't guess there's any tearing rush," he mumbled.

Strangely enough or rather naturally enough, Billy experienced no
surprise at the remark.  "No hurry, huh?" he observed.  "A minute ago
you were in a hot sweat to have us do something right away quick.  And
now you ain't.  What has changed you, Mr. Reelfoot?  I ask to know."

"I want the job done right," was the lame explanation.  "If you hustle
off too sudden you might forget something."

"What do you think we're liable to forget?" queried Billy.

"How do I know what?  But I know it don't pay to go off half-cocked."

Again Simon Reelfoot's eyes strayed to the window.  When the eyes
swiveled back to meet those of Billy Wingo, the pucker of worry had
been wiped from Reelfoot's eyebrows.

"No," he resumed, in a tone that was unmistakably relieved, "it don't
pay to go off half-cocked."

"No, it don't," concurred Billy, wondering greatly, both at the change
in Simon's expression and the relief in his tone.  Why?  He desired to
know why.  And he made up his mind to know why.  For among his other
vices, Simon was friendly with Rafe Tuckleton and his precious gang.

Billy Wingo, shoving cartridges through the loading-gate of a
Winchester, slouched casually past the window through which Simon was
looking.  He perceived, kicking his way through the snow, Mr. Tom
Driver, the local Justice of the Peace.  There was no one else in sight.

"Lordy, how the snow dazzles your eyes," remarked Billy, stepping back
and squinting.  "Is that Tom Driver coming here?"

"Where?" inquired Simon Reelfoot, and looked through the wrong window.
Yet when Simon had glanced through the other window a moment before, he
must have seen the judge.  Hum-m!  Billy Wingo continued thoughtfully
to shove cartridges through the loading-gate.

Entered the judge.  "Good morning, gentlemen!" was the judicial
greeting.  The judicial eyes absorbed the sheriff's preparations.
"You're not going anywhere, are you, Bill?" he inquired, hooking a
chair up to the table and sitting down after he had hung up his hat and
coat behind the door.

"Reelfoot's had two cows shot," explained Billy.  "He thinks he knows
who did it.  Shotgun and I are going to see about it."

"Only two cows," said the judge.  "Then your presence isn't absolutely
necessary.  You can send Riley Tyler instead.  I have a little business
to go over with you, Bill--a county matter.  And----"

"Is it important?"

"I think it is."

"All right.  I'll stay.  Riley, I guess you'd better go with Shotgun."

It was pure chance that enabled Billy to catch the gleam of
satisfaction in Reelfoot's eyes.  He had just happened to be looking at
the man.  Satisfaction, yes.  Why?  Why was Simon glad chat he, Billy
Wingo, was not going with him on the trail of the beef-killers?

When Shotgun and Riley were gone away with Reelfoot, Billy looked
across at the judge and nodded.

"Fly at it," said he.

Without haste the judge fished some papers from his pocket and opened
them on the table.  He did it awkwardly.  His fingers might have been
all thumbs.  He seemed to have difficulty in finding the paper he
wanted.

Billy Wingo, his eyes drowsy-looking, watched silently.  "What's it all
about?" he asked curiously.

"Jake Kilroe," replied Judge Driver.  "He's been selling liquor to the
Indians."

"He always has."

"I know he has.  And it's a disgrace to the community.  It's got to
stop."

Billy stared at the judge even more curiously.  For this high and moral
tone he did not understand at all.  It was not like the judge.  It was
not in the least like the judge.  No, not at all.

"Stopping liquor-selling to the war-whoops is none of my job," pointed
out Billy Wingo, "the man you want to see is Henry Black, the United
States Marshal at Hillsville.  Besides, what have you got to do with
it, anyway?  You're not a Federal judge?"

"But the Federal authorities have ordered me to cooperate with them,"
the judge said smoothly.

"Which one asked you?" probed Billy Wingo.

"The second deputy."

"Slim Chalmers, huh?  When did you see Slim Chalmers?"

"Day before yesterday."

"Here?"

"No, over at Hillsville."

"I didn't know you'd been out of town," Billy Wingo burrowed along.

"Just got back this morning."

"No trouble getting through?"

"Not a bit.  This chinook has thawed the drifts."

"Did you go by stage?"

"No, I rode."

The judge was answering these apparently most unnecessary questions
without a quiver or trace of annoyance.  Billy made another cast.

"Did you ride your gray horse?"

"No, the black."

"I hope you wore a coat."  The gravity of Billy's tone could not have
been bettered.

"An overcoat?" smiled Judge Driver.  "Naturally."

"That's good, that's good.  I like to see you looking after your health
thisaway.  You'd be a valuable citizen to lose, Judge.  I dunno what
we'd do without you.  I don't indeed."

What had gone before had been bad enough in all conscience.  But this
was even worse.  Yet the judge took no offense.  He merely smiled
blandly upon Billy Wingo and proffered the latter gentleman his cigar
case.  Billy declined with thanks.  Whereupon the judge drew a long and
very black cigar from the case and bit off the end.

"It's funny I didn't meet you in Hillsville," mused Billy, turning his
head as if to look at the stove but in reality looking at a mirror
hanging on the wall beside the stove that showed on its face an
excellent reflection of Judge Driver's features.

As he expected, the judge gave him a quick sharp glance, but what he
had not expected was the demoniac expression of hatred that flashed
across the judge's face as summer lightning flashes across the face of
a dark cloud.

Billy Wingo turned a slow head.  His eyes met those of the judge
squarely.  Gone was the expression of hatred.  In its place was one of
courteous regret,--regret that he had been so unfortunate as to miss
his friend Sheriff Wingo in Hillsville.

Billy nodded indifferently.  "That's all right.  I wasn't in
Hillsville.  My mistake.  Sorry."

The judge stared in frowning puzzlement.

It was at this juncture that the door opened and Skinny Shindle
entered.  He greeted the two men surlily and laid a note on the desk in
front of Billy.

"I stopped at Walton's on my way back from Hillsville," said Shindle,
"and Tom's niece gimme this.  She said I was to be sure and give it to
you soon as I could.  Seemed worried like, I should say."

"When did she give you the note," Billy inquired casually.

"When I stopped there for a drink.  I was only there about five
minutes."

"When was that?"

"Oh, round half-past two."

"And you came straight here?"

"Sure I did.  You don't think I was gonna stop anywhere a day like
this, do you?"

Without another word Shindle pulled his fur cap forward, turned and
walked out.  He closed the door with a slam that shook the building.
Billy Wingo opened the note.


DEAR BILLY:

Please come out here as soon as you can.  Come to-night without fail.
I need you.


It was signed with Hazel Walton's full name.

Billy folded the note carefully.  He did not look directly at the
judge.  He looked at him by way of the mirror.  He was not unduly
astonished to perceive that the judge was watching him like the
proverbial hawk.

Billy unfolded the note, read it again, then refolded it.  He started
to put it into a vest pocket, though better of it, balled it into a
crumple and tossed it into the cardboard box that served for a
waste-paper basket.

He got to his feet, pulled out his watch and glanced at the time.

"Four-thirty-two," he muttered, apparently oblivious to the judge's
presence.  "I'll have to hurry."

He crossed the room to an open door giving into one of the inner rooms.
Passing through the doorway, he pushed the door partly to behind him.
Turning sharply to the left he sat down on a cot that creaked.  The
foot of the cot butted against the jamb on which the door was hung.
Billy threw himself sidewise and applied his eye to the crack between
the door and the jamb.  His feet at the end of the cot were busy the
while, gently kicking the wall and iron-work of the cot.  Any one
hearing the noise would have been reasonably assured that Billy Wingo
was employed in God knows what, at a distance from the door of at least
a cot length.  What he might be doing did not matter.  The point was to
give the judge the impression that he was not close to the doorway.

Evidently the judge was thus impressed.  Billy saw him lean forward,
pluck the wadded-up note from the wastebasket and dive noiselessly
across the room to the stove.  Without a sound the judge opened the
stove door and dropped the letter on the top of the blazing wood.
Closing the door as noiselessly as he had opened it, the judge returned
to his chair, sat down and crossed one knee over the other.  His
expression was that of the cat that has just eaten the canary.  Billy
could almost see him licking his demure chops.

Billy returned to the office.  He was carrying a box of cartridges and
an extra six-shooter.  His regular six-shooter, with its holster and
belt, hung on the wall behind the table.

"About Jake Kilroe now," said Billy, sitting down at the table and
snicking open the box of cartridges, "about Jake Kilroe--what does the
marshal want me to do?"

"Get evidence against him," was the smooth reply.  "Enough to convict
him, of course."

"Of course.  Not enough to convict him would help us very little.
Yeah.  Any suggestions, Judge?"

"What kind of suggestions?" the judge inquired with just a trace of
impatience.

"How I'm to start in--what do you guess?  I don't know much about Jake,
y'understand.  For instance, where does Jake get his liquor in the
first place?"

"How should I know?"

"I dunno.  Thought maybe you might.  Judges are supposed to know a lot.
But if you don't, you don't, that's all."

Judge Driver sat up a trifle straighter in his chair.  He looked at
Billy with some suspicion.  It could not be humanly possible that Billy
was joking with him, yet----

"I guess I'd better start in this afternoon," continued Billy briskly.
"There's nothing like a quick start.  And the marshal would like it
too.  Suppose you and I, Judge, go down to Jake's and see what we can
see."

"I thought you were going somewhere else," demurred Judge Driver.

"What makes you think so?"

"That note--  You said you had to go some place in a hurry."

"Did I?  Well, I am.  I'm going down to Jake Kilroe's, and you're going
with me, huh?"

"Look here," said the judge, the light of desperation in his eyes, "you
don't have to go down to Kilroe's now.  That can wait.  The marshal
ain't in such a fright of a hurry as all that.  Go on and do whatever
you have to do.  I didn't mean--I don't want this to interfere with
your personal business, and I'm sure the marshal wouldn't.  He'll
understand.  I know he will.  You go on and do whatever you have to do,
Bill."

"I will," murmured Billy.  "I will.  Where are you going, Judge?"

"Oh, I guess I'll be drifting along, Bill," smiled the judge,
half-turning on his way to the door.  "You don't need me any longer."

"Yes, I do too," Billy declared fretfully.  "You come on back and set
down.  I've got something here I want to read you."

Involuntarily the judge's eyes strayed to the wastebasket.  He came
back and sat down.

On the table between the extra six-shooter that Billy had finished
loading and the box of cartridges was a small leather-bound book.
Billy picked up this book and turned to the index.  He ran his finger
down the page till he came to that which he sought.

"'Morality, rules of, where consonant with those of law,'" he read
aloud, and turned back to page twenty-eight.

Judge Driver stared at Billy Wingo in some amazement.  What on earth
was the sheriff driving at.  Rules of morality?  Well!

"This book," said Billy, glancing across at the judge, "is a copy of
the grounds and maxims of the English laws, by William Noy, of
Lincoln's Inn, Attorney General, and a member of the Privy Council to
King Charles the First."

"What in God's name," demanded the now thoroughly amazed judge, "has
that to do with me?"

"I want to read you something," persisted Billy.  "You know that our
laws were practically taken from the English laws.  Our grounds and
maxims are the same as theirs.  What's good law with them is good law
with us, and _vice versa_.  You're a judge.  You know that as well as I
do.  Don't you?"

The judge nodded.  "I suppose so."

"It says here," resumed Billy Wingo, "in section thirty-three under
Moral Rules, that the 'law favoreth works of charity, right and truth,
and abhorreth fraud, covin, and incertainties which obscure the truth;
contrarities, delays, unnecessary circumstances, and such like.  Deceit
and fraud should be remedied on all occasions.'  How about it?  Don't
you agree with Mr. William Noy?"

"He's right; but there's nothing new about it.  I knew it already."

"Then you'll understand me, perhaps, when I tell you that I intend to
get to the bottom of everything that has gone on here this afternoon."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that there has been more 'fraud, covin, and incertainties which
obscure the truth' scattered round in this room to-day than by right
there should have been.  I don't mind a little.  Human beings are odd
numbers, anyway.  You've got to take all that into consideration."

"I don't understand you."

"Then, too," pursued the unheeding Billy, "'contrarities, delays,
unnecessary circumstances, and such like,' I despise.  They give me a
bad taste in my mouth.  Don't they you?"

"They would any one," acquiesced the judge, and made to rise.  "Well,
now you've read me what you wanted to, I won't keep you any longer.  I
know you must be in a hurry to get away.  We'll let the Kilroe business
wait over a few days."

"Sit down, Judge," Billy Wingo murmured softly, his hand resting as if
by chance on the butt of the six-shooter lying on the table.  "Sit
down, do."

The judge hesitated.  Then with the well-known hollow laugh, he sat
down.  He looked at Billy Wingo.  The latter looked at him in silence
for a space.

"Judge," he remarked suddenly, "deceit and fraud should remedied on all
occasions.  Tell me why you put that letter in the fire?"

The judge continued to sit perfectly still.  It might be said that he
was frozen to his chair.  Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, his right
hand began to steal upward under the tail of his coat.

"I wouldn't, Judge," continued Billy, "I just wouldn't if I were you."

The judge's hand hung straight by his side.  "You're getting in pretty
deep, Bill," he observed with a cold smile.

"But not as deep as you are already," said Billy Wingo, with an even
colder smile.  "You haven't answered my question yet--about the burning
of the letter.  Why, Judge, why?"

"Give it any name you like," replied the jurist carelessly.  "I don't
feel like answering any more questions."

"Yet a li'l while back you didn't mind answering any questions I felt
like asking.  Was it to gain time, Judge--to gain time till Skinny
Shindle came in and did his part with the note from Miss Walton?  Was
it, Judge, was it?  Dumb, huh?  Aw right, perhaps you'd rather tell me
why Simon Reelfoot acted about the same way, except Simon was special
careful to make us mad besides--mad when it wasn't necessary to make us
mad if Simon was playing a straight game, but necessary enough if Simon
wanted to gain more time.  Yeah, Simon sure beat around the bush time
and again before he came to the point.  I expect you were delayed
getting here, huh, Judge?  Simon kept looking out of the window alla
time, I remember."

Billy Wingo felt silent and contemplated the judge.  The latter stared
back, his face impassive.

"Be advised," said the judge suddenly.  "You can't buck us alone.  You
should know that."

"I should--maybe," returned Billy Wingo.  "But I feel like taking a
gamble with you.  So instead of going to Kilroe's, we'll do what the
letter said and go out to Walton's to-day."

The judge lifted his eyebrows.  "We?"

"We," confirmed Billy calmly.  "You're going with me."

"No," said the judge.

"Yes," insisted Billy Wingo.  "And what's more, I'll lend you a suit of
my clothes and my white hat and my red-and-white pinto.  Which there
ain't another paint pony colored like mine in this county; and just to
make it a fair deal, I'll wear your buffalo coat and your fur cap, and
I'll ride one of your horses,--that long-legged gray, I guess, will be
all right."

The judge's face wore a curiously mottled pallor that gave it the hue
of a dead fish's belly.  "Are you insane?" he gasped.

"Not me," denied Billy Wingo.  "It's like I said.  I'm gambling with
you.  I guess we understand each other, Judge.  Ain't it luck, you and
I being about of a size?  Dressed up in my clothes with that white hat
and all, you'd have to excuse anybody for mistaking you for me.
Ca-a-areful, Judge, careful.  Don't do anything we would be sorry for.
And don't take it so to heart; perhaps he'll miss you."

For a space he considered the judge, then he said:

"I guess we're ready for Riley, now."

Despite his professional calm the judge almost bounced out of his
chair.  "Riley!  Where----"

"In the kitchen with the door open," explained Billy.  "He didn't go
with Shotgun and Reelfoot a-tall--that is, not far.  Only round the
house to the back door.  Reelfoot wasn't completely successful in
separating me from my deputies.  You didn't catch me whispering in
Riley's ear while he was getting ready, did you?  I thought maybe you
wouldn't.  Your back was turned.  Moral: Never turn your back when
there's a mirror behind you.  Riley, you'd better come in now."

Whereupon there was a noise of bootheels, and Riley entered and smiled
cheerfully upon the discomfited judge.

"Howdy, your honor," said Riley Tyler.

The judge made no acknowledgment of the greeting.  He continued to gaze
before him with a set and stony face.

"Riley," said Billy Wingo, without, however, removing his eyes from the
judge, "I guess we'll need another witness.  I wonder if you could get
hold of Guerilla Melody."

Riley nodded and went out.

"And that's that," said Billy Wingo, smiling.

The judge's hands gripped the arms of the chair.  "You know that the
man Melody is an enemy of mine," he said in a shaken voice.

"I know that he is an honest man," returned Billy Wingo.

"I won't go," the judge declared feebly.

"You said that before," said Billy Wingo, in no wise moved.  "You'll go
all right.  Yes, indeedy.  Do you wanna know why?  I'll tell you.  You
see, Judge, I know what I'm up against.  I know that the only barrier
that stands between me and the graveyard is the lead in this gun.  I
like life.  I enjoy it.  Besides, I'm too young to die and too sinful
and all that.  Therefore it's my business to see I ain't cut off in the
flower of my youth, _et cetera_.  You're considerably older than me,
Judge, considerably.  The gray is in your hair like frost on a punkin,
and the devil has drawn two mighty mean lines down from your nose to
the corners of your mouth, and the crows have messed up your
eye-corners too, for that matter, and may the Lord have mercy on your
soul, you miserable sinner, because I won't--if you don't do exactly
what I tell you to do.  It's my life or yours, and it's not gonna be
mine."

"Baby talk," said the judge, but there was no conviction in his tone.

"You think so?  Aw right, let it go at that.  Here's the rest of the
baby talk: The first false move you start to make between now and the
time I'm through with you, you get it."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I?  Call me and see.  No trouble to show goods."

The judge hesitated.  It was obvious that he was of two minds.  He
chose the safer course--for the present.

"There is a law in this country--" he began.

Billy Wingo leaned forward, his chin jutting out.  His eyes were
unpleasantly cold.  They matched his voice when he spoke.

"Don't talk to me of the law," he said.  "It's you and your friends
that have made the law in Crocker County a spectacle for decent men.
Law!  You've dragged the statutes in the mud till you can't tell 'em
apart from the turnips underground.  Law!  You've prostituted your
office for a little filthy money here, there and everywhere, till it's
a wonder you're able to live with yourself.  How do you do it?  Don't
you ever get tired of your own stink, you polecat?"

This was too much.  The judge was, after all, a human being.  He had
his pride, such as it was, and courage of a kind.  He threw himself
sidewise, and at the same time his right hand flipped up under his coat
tail, flipped up and flipped out.

There was a flash and a roar and a spirtle of smoke.  The judge's
six-shooter was wrenched from his fingers and sent spinning across the
room.  The judge remained upon the floor.  There was no feeling in his
right hand.  But his right arm felt as if it had been struck with a
spike-maul.

The acrid smoke rose slowly toward the ceiling.

"You can get up, Judge," Billy Wingo said calmly.

The judge rose slowly and collapsed into the chair he had so abruptly
vacated.  He held his right hand before his face and waggled it.
Stupidly he looked at it.  The flesh of the trigger finger was slightly
torn.  It bled a little.

"The bullet didn't touch you," said Billy.  "The trigger guard did that
when the gun was twiddled out of your hand.  The lead hit the frame in
front of the cylinder.  Wait, I'll show you."  He crossed the room to
where the judge's six-shooter lay, picked it up and brought it to the
judge for his inspection.

"See how I trust you," said Billy sardonically, holding up the judge's
six-shooter within ten inches of the judge's eyes.  "You could almost
grab this gun out of my hand if you felt like it.  I really dunno but
what I hope you'll feel like it."

But the judge did not feel like it.  He perceived without difficulty
the gray splotch on the frame of the six-shooter that marked the spot
where Billy Wingo's lead had struck, and he felt absolutely no
inclination to gamble further with fate.  Not he.  No!

Billy tucked the judge's six-shooter into his waistband and ran a hand
over and under the jurist's outer clothing.

"You might be carrying a derringer or something," he murmured in
apology.

But he found no other weapon, and he returned to his seat to await the
arrival of Riley Tyler and Guerilla Melody.




CHAPTER TWELVE

THE TRAP

Guerilla Melody regarded the judge without expression.  "Huh," he
grunted.  "Huh."

The judge did not look at him.  He had cheated Melody in a cattle deal
the previous year and had since found himself unable to look Melody in
the eye.  Some villains are like that.  They are usually of the cheaper
variety.

"It's good and dark now," observed Billy Wingo, "and the moon will rise
in another hour.  We don't want it to be too high when we strike the
Walton ranch.  Why the smile, Judge?  Oh, I know.  You think we'll be
seen by one of your friends when we're leaving, and he'll get to the
ranch ahead of us.  I doubt it, Judge.  You know we ain't going by way
of Main Street.  No, we're going out back of the corral.  The
cottonwoods grow right up close to the back of the corral, and if we
lead our horses and hug the posts, there ain't much chance of anybody
seeing us.  No.  Come along, Judge, lessee how my clothes fit you."

Within the quarter-hour they rode out of a belt of cottonwoods into the
Hillsville trail, three wooden-faced men and the wretched judge.  The
latter rode in front, with head bowed on hunched shoulders.

Where the snow permitted they trotted, but most of the time they were
forced to walk their horses.  Four times before they reached the draw
leading to the Walton ranch they floundered through drifts that
powdered the horse's shoulders.

At the mouth of the draw the trail to Walton's was clotted with the
tracks of a few ridden horses.

"I guess," remarked Billy Wingo, "that Skinny Shindle came this way all
right when he brought that note from Walton's."

The judge shivered, but not with cold.  He was very miserable and
looked it.

The moon lifted an inquiring face over the rim of the neighboring ridge
and threw their shadows, thin and long, across the green-white snow.

"We turn here toward Walton's, Judge," suggested Billy, when the jurist
continued to ride straight ahead.

The judge pulled up.

"I'm not going to Walton's!" he cried aloud.  "I'm not going, I tell
you!  You can't make me!  You can't."

His voice broke at the last word.  He threw his arms aloft in a wild
gesture.  The features of the face he turned toward Billy were
contorted with emotion.  He gibbered and mowed at them in the
moon-light.  He looked like an inmate of Bedlam.  He was certainly in a
bad way, was Judge Driver.

Suddenly he lost his head.  He clapped heels to his horse's flanks in
an effort to escape.  But both Billy Wingo and Riley Tyler had been
waiting for precisely such a move ever since leaving Golden Bar.  Two
ropes shot out simultaneously.  One fastened on the red-and-white
pinto's neck, the other settled round the Judge's shoulders.  The paint
pony stopped abruptly.  The judge flew backward from the saddle and hit
the snow on the back of his neck.

The three friends dismounted and gathered around the judge.  Riley
loosened his rope.  The judge lay still and gasped and crowed.  The
wind had been considerably knocked out of him.  When he sat up, he was
promptly sick, very sick.  The paroxysm shook him from head to heels.

It was half an hour before he was able to stand on his feet without
support.  The three boosted him into the saddle, mounted their own
horses and proceeded along the draw.

Whenever the judge made as if to check his horse, which he did more
than once, Billy Wingo would crowd his horse forward and kick the
pinto.  Their progress may be said to have been fairly regular.

A mile from the ranch house they climbed the shelving side of the draw
and rode across the flat to where a straggling growth of pine and
spruce made a black, pear-shaped blot along the smooth white slope of a
saddle-backed hill.  The tail of this evergreen plantation ran out
across the flat from the base of the hill almost to the edge of the
draw they had just quitted.  A tall spruce, towering high above his
fellows, formed the tip, as it were, of the stem of the pear.

Beyond and below this spruce, where the draw met lower ground and lost
its identity as a draw, was the Walton ranch house.  On the flat the
evergreens barred the four riders from the eyes of any one watching
from the house.

The four men reached the trees, rode in among them.  Three of them
dismounted and tied their horses.  The fourth remained in the saddle.
Said Billy Wingo to the fourth:

"Get down."

The judge got down.  Swiftly his hands were tied behind his back, and
his eyes were thoroughly blindfolded with his own silk handkerchief.

"Now, boys," said Billy, lowering his voice, "I guess we know what to
do.  You, Judge, won't have to say anything, but if anybody else thinks
he has to say anything, he's got to do it in a whisper, and a skinny
whisper at that.  Let's go."

As Billy uttered the last low words Guerilla Melody seized the judge's
right arm and forced him into motion.  With Riley Tyler leading the
judge's mount, the three men scuffled in among the trees on the back
trail.

Billy Wingo stood silently in his tracks until the trio were out of
earshot, then he padded to the spruce and halted behind it.  He removed
his overcoat.  From a voluminous pocket he took what appeared to be a
roll of cloth.  He shook out the roll and discovered the common or
garden variety of cotton nightshirt, size fifty.

"If whoever's in the house can pick me out from the snow after I'm
wearing this, I'll give his eyes credit," he muttered, pulling on the
garment in question over his head.

He buttoned the nightshirt with meticulous care, fished a washed flour
sack from a hip pocket and pulled it over his head.  A minute or two
later he was joined by Riley Tyler.

"If I didn't know it was you," whispered Riley in a delighted hiss,
"I'd be scared out of a year's growth.  Those eyeholes are plumb
gashly."

"I expect," said Billy grimly.  "Get on your outfit.  I guess you ain't
needed, but we can't afford to take any chances."

Riley Tyler threw off his blanket capote, dragged from an inner pocket
a disguise similar to the sheriff's and hurriedly put it on.

"Don't come till you see the signal," cautioned Billy, "and if you hear
any shots before I give the signal, stay right here where the cover's
good and drop anybody you see running away.  Y'understand?"

"You bet."

"Judge swallow it all right?"

"Down to the pole.  He thinks we're all three with him."

Billy nodded.  "Better move along the draw about twenty yards," was his
parting order.  "You can't see the side the cedars are on from here."

Boldly, without any attempt at concealment, he walked straight to the
edge of the draw.  Below him barely fifty yards distant were the
snow-covered buildings that were the Walton ranch house, the bunk house
and the blacksmith shop.  He could not see the corrals.  They lay
beyond the crowding cottonwoods growing beside the little stream that
supplied the ranch house with water.

He half slid, half walked down the side of the draw and headed straight
for the ranch house.  He could not see lamplight shining through any of
the windows.  But there was a faint glow at the farthest of the windows
in the side of the house.  This window he knew was one of three
lighting the front room, a room that ran clear across the house.  This
side of the house was clear of young trees and bushes.  But on the
other side of the house, the north side, Hazel had planted young cedars
to serve as a windbreak.  These cedars grew within a yard of the house.

Without any fear of being discovered, so confident was he that it would
be impossible to see him against the white background, he approached
the blacksmith shop, slid between it and the empty bunk house and came
to the right angle end of the kitchen.  His gun was out, be it known,
but he held it behind his back.  He wanted no touch of blackness to mar
the hue of his costume.

At the corner of the kitchen he dropped on his knees and one hand.
Here behind the windbreak the snow was no more than two or three inches
deep, and he crawled along the side of the house toward the faintly
glowing window that was his goal, at walking speed.

Crouched beneath the window he laid his ear close to the window sill
and listened.  For a space he heard nothing, then feet shuffled across
the floor and there was the "chuck" of a log being thrown on the fire.
Then the shuffle of feet again.

Silence.

Inch by inch Billy raised a slow head above the window sill.  When his
eyes were level with the lower crosspiece of the sash, he paused.  For
a long time he could see nothing within the room but the fire in the
ruddy jaws of the fireplace with its attendant pile of logs, and a big
chair over which had been thrown a buffalo robe.  Then after a time he
saw, beyond the chair, the boot soles of a man lying on the floor.  The
body of the man lay in the shadow cast by the big chair.

There was something about those boot soles that told Billy that the man
was dead.

"I figured it would be this way," Billy told himself.  "I didn't see
how else it could be.  Damn their souls!  They don't stop at anything!"

He continued to stare unblinkingly into the room and after a time he
made out the dim lines of another man's figure sitting on the table
beside one of the front windows.  The head of this other man was turned
away from Billy.  He was watching the draw through the front window.
But there was no life in the draw--yet.

Billy waited.  He continued to wait.  His feet began to get cold.  They
gradually grew numb.  The hand that held the six-shooter began to have
a fellow feeling, or lack of it rather, with the feet.  He changed
hands and stuffed the chilled hand under his nightshirt into his
armpit.  A cramp seized his left knee.  He straightened it gingerly and
ironed out the cramp with the back of his gun hand.

The cold crept up both legs.  When it reached his middle a cramp fell
hammer-and-tongs upon his right knee, calf and sole of his foot.  He
straightened that leg and dealt with it like a brother.

S-s-suschloop!  A section of snow several yards square slid off the
roof and avalanched upon him.  At the sound the figure at the window
turned as if shot.  Billy, by a supreme effort of will, stifled the
impulse to dodge and held his body motionless.  He was covered with
snow.  Snow was down the back of his neck as well as on the window sill
in front of his mouth.  To all intents and purposes and to any eye he
was a pile of snow fallen from the roof.

Swiftly the figure on the table walked across the room to Billy's
window and looked out.  Billy remained with considerable less movement
than the proverbial mouse.  The snow, while it covered his head, did
not completely conceal his forehead and eyes.  But Billy reckoned on
the reflection of the firelight on the window-pane to blind somewhat
the man within.  For a few seconds the man stood looking out the window
over Billy's head.  The pile of snow he gave but the most passing of
glances.

But to the frozen nucleus of the snow pile it seemed that the few
seconds were hours and that the snow pile was subjected to the most
searching scrutiny.

The man returned to his post on the table by the front window, and
Billy breathed again.  He had been unable to distinguish the man's
features.  The light from the fire was not strong enough.

After another century of waiting Billy perceived that the fire was
again burning low.  There was a small spurt of sparks as the remnant of
the log fell apart.  The man slipped from the table and strode across
the room to the pile of logs and sticks beside the fireplace.

This was the moment for which Billy Wingo had been waiting.  He
scrambled on hands and knees to the front corner of the ranch house.
Whipping a box of matches from a hip pocket, he lit one in a cupped
hand.

He let the match burn his fingers before flipping it down.  He stood at
gaze, straining his eyes down the draw toward the Hillsville trail.
Even as he looked a dark object detached itself from some bushes
several hundred yards distant and moved toward the house.

Billy returned to his post at the window.  Slowly he raised his head to
the level of the lower crosspiece of the sash.  When his eyes again
became accustomed to the darkness of the room he saw that the man was
no longer near the fireplace.  He was standing at the front window,
staring down the trail.

On account of the soft snow Billy did not hear the approaching horse
until it had almost reached the ranch house door.  When the horse
stopped the man inside the ranch house moved quietly to the door and
stood at one side of it.  His hand moved to his leg and came away.

The rider dismounted.  Billy heard him rattle the latch of the door.

"Don't shoot!" he heard him say in an agonized whisper.  "Don't shoot,
for Gawd's sake!"

Billy, watching at the window, saw the man in the room fling open the
door.  For an instant the tall and hatless form of Judge Driver showed
black against the expanse of snow framed in the doorway.  Again came
the plea for mercy--a whisper no longer, but a wild cry of "Don't
shoot!  Don't shoot!  It's me!  Driver!" as the judge, realizing only
too well that any such outcry was tantamount to a confession of guilt,
plunged into the room.  Obviously his purpose was to escape the fire of
the avenging rifles that he had every reason to believe were somewhere
in the brush along the draw.  He was acting precisely as Billy had
reckoned he would act, and there was not the slightest danger of Billy
or any of his men shooting him.  But a very real danger lay behind the
ranch house door.  The judge's only chance lay in convincing the man
behind the door in time.

He convinced him.  The man yanked him roughly into the room and slammed
the door shut.

"Thank Gawd!  Thank Gawd!" babbled the judge, sinking back against the
door, "I thought you'd shoot me!"

"I damn near did," remarked the man, whose voice Billy now recognized
as that of a late arrival in town, named Slike.  "If you hadn't jerked
your hat off so's I could see your face, I would have.  When will Wingo
get here, and didja get him to come by himself all right?  Huh?  Why
don't you answer?  Whatsa matter?  Isn't he coming or what?  By Gawd,
_you're wearing his clothes_!  Where is he?"

"He's here!" gurgled the judge.

"Where?"  Slike's voice was a terrible snarl.

"Here--up on the flat."

Slike promptly seized the judge by the throat.  "Then you led him here.
What are you trying to do--double-cross me?"

"No, no!" gulped the judge, pulling at the other's wrists.  "I couldn't
help it!  He forced me to come!"

"Then you did lead him here, damn your soul!  You white-livered cur, do
you think I'm gonna hang on your account?  What did you tell him?
Answer me, damn you!"

To the accompaniment of a string of most ferocious oaths, Slike shook
the judge as the terrier shakes the rat.  The judge fought back as best
he could.  But he was no match for this man of violence.  Tiring at
last, Slike flung him on the floor and kicked him.

"I'd oughta stomp you to death!" he squalled.  "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing!  Nothing!" cried the judge.  "He must have guessed it!"

Dan Slike laughed.  It was a laugh to make you flinch away.  The hair
at the base of Billy Wingo's neck lifted like the hackles of a fighting
dog.

"Guessed it!" yelped Slike.  "Guessed it!  Aw right, let it go at that.
How far away is he?"

But the judge had his cue by now.  "He's two or three miles back," he
said faintly.  "If you start now you can get away."

"You know damn well there's too much snow," snapped Slike.  "How many's
he got with him?"

"One--two."

Slike kicked the judge in the short ribs.  "How many?  Tell the truth!"

"Tut-two."

"Three in all, huh? and you and me are two--say one man and a half,
anyway.  Two to one call it.  What's fairer than that, I'd like to
know?  We'll finish it out in the smoke right now."

"What?"  There was considerably more than pained incredulity in the
judge's tone.

"We'll shoot it out with 'em here, I said.  I ain't kicked all the
fighting blood out of you, have I?  If I have I can soon kick it in
again.  Here, come alive, you lousy pup!  Get the gun off that feller I
downed.  It's on his leg yet.  His Winchester is over there in the
corner.  It's loaded, and there's two boxes of cartridges on that
shelf.  Bring 'em all over here.  Then you take that window and I'll
take this one.  We'll give 'em the surprise of their young lives.  Get
a wiggle on you, Judge.  You've got a brush ahead of you.  Fight?  You
can gamble you'll fight!  It's you or them, remember!"

"Suppose he comes bustin' in the back way?" quavered the judge,
perceiving that he had indeed fallen between two stools.

"We'll try to take care of him.  But he'll come the other way, I guess."

But Slike guessed wrong, for Billy Wingo, judging that the
psychological moment had arrived, shoved his gun hand through a window
pane and shouted, "Hands up!"

"You dirty Judas!" yelled Slike and, firing from the hip, he whipped
three shots into the judge before he himself fell with four of Billy
Wingo's bullets through his shoulder and neck.

Shot through and through, Judge Driver dropped in a huddle and died.

Slike, supporting himself on an elbow, mouthed curses at the man who he
believed had betrayed him.  The murderer's supporting arm slid out from
under and he collapsed in a dead faint, even as Billy Wingo, with
window glass cascading from his head and shoulders, sprang into the
room.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

OPEN AND SHUT

"Well," said the district attorney, "you can't hold this man on any
such biased evidence as this."

"But you see I am holding him," pointed out Billy Wingo.

"They'll get him out on a writ of habeas corpus."

"They?  Who's they?"

"His friends.  I suppose the man has friends."

"Oh, yes," acquiesced Billy, "the man has friends.  Too many friends."

The district attorney looked away.  "You'd better let him escape--or
something," he suggested brazenly.  "We--we mustn't be made ridiculous,
you know."

"We?  We?  Don't get me mixed up with you, Rale.  I'm particular who I
bracket with, sort of.  Another thing, the last time you were in here
you went out on your head, remember.  Well, lemme point out that you're
here, I'm here, so's the door, and history is just the same thing over
again."

The close-set little eyes wavered.  "I tell you, Wingo, the case looks
black for you too."

Billy Wingo rolled and lit a placid cigarette before he spoke.  "Black?
For me?"  Inquiringly.

"I'm afraid so."

"You mean you hope so.  Go on."

"There are a great many strange things about the whole affair.  For
instance, why was Judge Driver wearing your clothes when the bodies
were found?  If, as you say, you saw the whole thing, why did you not
prevent the murder?  How do we know that you did not kill both Tom
Walton and the judge and then lay the blame on this stranger?"

"You don't know," admitted Billy.  "That's the worst of it.  But you
will know.  Yeah, you will know."

"I intend to look into your side of the case very closely, Wingo,"
declared the district attorney.  "It may be that everything has not yet
been told."

"There is more in this than meets the eye," nodded Billy.
"Considerable more."

"If you persist in holding this man for a hearing," said Rale
impressively, "it may--will, I should say--involve you.  I'd hate to
see you get into trouble."

"I'll bet you would," Billy concurred warmly.  "You'd hate it like you
do your left eye.  But I'm gonna gamble with you.  I'll hold the man
till the judge decides what to do."

"In that case, I'll send for Judge Clasp at once."

"Why Judge Clasp?  Why bother that old gent?"

"Because Driver's dead," the district attorney explained impatiently.
"We have to have a judge to hold the hearing."

"Oh, I know all about that.  I've sent for one."

"Who?"

"Judge Donelson."

"But he's the Federal judge, and he lives way over in Hillsville,"
objected Rale.  "Judge Clasp is nearer.  In a case of this kind when
the judge of a district is unavailable, the nearest judge takes over
the district.  The statutes----"

"The statutes say 'any judge,'" interrupted Billy Wingo.  "On this
point I am quite clear.  I looked it up to make sure.  'Any judge'
means 'any judge.'  Nothing else.  And you know that Judge Donelson is
a territorial as well as Federal Judge.  Technicalities can't pull your
wagon out of this hole, Arthur, old settler."

"I shall send for Judge Clasp at once," bumbled Arthur, old settler.

"If you send right away, he should be here by day after to-morrow.
Yep, day after to-morrow at the earliest."

"Judge Donelson can't get here till the day after that," said Rale
triumphantly.

"Oh, he can't, can't he?" smiled Billy.  "Unless he has an accident
he'll be here to-morrow.  You see, Arthur, I started Riley Tyler off to
Hillsville ten minutes after I arrested Slike.  That's why I'm gamblin'
that Judge Donelson will get here first."

The district attorney openly lost his temper.  "I don't regard the
evidence as given sufficient for indictment.  I shall ask the judge not
to hold him."

"Don't do anything rash, Arthur.  Remember the hearing will be at the
Walton ranch to-morrow afternoon."

"The Walton ranch!  It'll be held here in Driver's office, that's where
it will be held."

"Not a-tall.  I want Judge Donelson to see the layout.  Then he'll be
able to tell better what's what.  The Walton ranch to-morrow afternoon.
Don't forget."


"Your Honor, I don't see how this man can be held," protested the
district attorney.  "I claim that the sheriff's testimony is biased.
How do we know that it wasn't the sheriff himself who murdered both men
and wounded Slike?"

"You can easily see, Judge," put in the coroner smoothly, "How flimsy
the evidence is against the prisoner.  It is practically his word
against the sheriff's The prisoner has explained everything--how he was
coming to the ranch on business and was arrested by the sheriff the
minute he stepped inside the doorway.  Why, your Honor, it's the
plainest open-and-shut case I ever saw.  Absolutely nothing to it."

"The coroner's right," boomed the district attorney.  "And I hereby ask
that Dan Slike be released from custody and----" he paused dramatically.

"Well--" prompted Judge Donelson, his old eyes inscrutable.

"And I feel it my duty to charge the sheriff, William H. Wingo, with
the murder of Thomas Walton, the murder of Judge Driver, and assault
with intent to kill upon Daniel Slike."

"Didn't the coroner's jury bring in a verdict of 'at the hands of
persons unknown'?" inquired Judge Donelson.

"They did," admitted the district attorney, "but it was in direct
opposition to the evidence.  Indeed, the coroner instructed the jurymen
otherwise."

"Then he exceeded his duty.  But that by the way.  The jury brought in
a 'persons unknown' verdict.  However, I do not agree with the jury."

"I knew you would not," the district attorney cried triumphantly.

"No, I believe the person is known.  Sheriff, will you tell us in your
own words, how you happened to be on hand in time to be a witness of
the murder of Judge Driver?"

Like so many trained seals those present turned their heads to stare at
the sheriff.  Some eyes were friendly, some noncommittal, but the
majority were unfriendly.  This was because the crowd consisted largely
of county office-holders.  Billy gave a straightforward and detailed
account of everything that had led up to the murder of Judge Driver.

As he concluded his story Judge Donelson nodded a slow head.  "Why did
you not immediately enter the ranch house after you looked in the
window and saw the boot soles of the dead man?"

"Judge," said Billy, with a whimsical smile, "suppose now you went out
hunting and you wanted to get more than one deer and had only one
cartridge, what would you do--shoot the first deer you saw or wait till
you got two in line?"

"I see," nodded the Judge.  "I see.  Still, Sheriff, there is the word
of Dan Slike.  It would have been better had you had another witness."

"Another witness," said Billy.  "If that's all you want I have one.
Riley Tyler, stand up."

The younger deputy stood up and was duly sworn.  He deposed that the
sheriff's match signal to Guerilla Melody to send the judge down to the
house had been also a signal to him, Riley Tyler, to come down from the
flat and take position under the window directly opposite the one at
which the sheriff was posted.  All this had taken place according to
plan.  Riley Tyler had heard every word uttered by both the judge and
Dan Slike and had also seen Slike shoot the judge.  Furthermore he had
talked with the Federal deputy marshal in Hillsville and learned that
the marshal had never even thought of asking Judge Driver to approach
the sheriff concerning the alleged bootlegging activities of Jake
Kilroe.

Riley Tyler concluded his testimony and sat down, taking occasion as he
did so to wink at the district attorney.  The latter glared back with
frank dislike.

"The evidence I have just heard," said Judge Donelson, "is clear.
There is no shred, jot or tittle of it that throws suspicion on Sheriff
Wingo.  I will hold Daniel Slike for the grand jury.  If Judge Driver
were alive, I would hold him as accessory before and after the fact.
Do you still think, Mr. Rale, that Mr. Wingo should be held?"

"Why--uh--uh----" stalled the district attorney.

"Tell me," persisted Judge Donelson, "exactly what you think?"

But the district attorney did not dare tell Judge Donelson anything
like that.  Instead he said, with a smile he strove to make natural and
pleasant:

"Hold Mr. Wingo?  Certainly not.  I have misjudged him.  I am sure he
will not bear malice against me."

"Hold it against Mr. Rale?" said Billy, with the straightest face in
the world.  "Certainly not.  I have misjudged him.  But I am sure he
will not bear malice against me."

Even the judge smiled.

Dan Slike, lying on an improvised bed of blankets in the corner of the
room, raised his head.  "You'll never hang me, y'understand," said Dan
Slike.  "And you ain't got a jail in the territory big enough to hold
me after I get shut of these scratches.  I'll see you later, Sheriff."

Dan Slike added a curse or two and relapsed into silence.  Not a
likable person, Mr. Slike.  No, not at all.


"This," said Rafe Tuckleton, "is a helluva note."

"It's all your fault," the district attorney recriminated bitterly.

"You did most of it," flung back Rafe, always an enthusiastic player at
the great game of passing the buck.  "You know damn well----"

"Who thought of it first?" interrupted the district attorney.  "Who was
the bright li'l feller, I'd like to know?"

"Don't you try to ride me," snarled the genial Rafe.  "Dontcha do it."

"Aw, shut up; you gimme a pain!  Gawd, and I'll bet your parents
thought you was just too cunnin' for anything.  It's a shame they let
you live.  To think of all the fatal accidents that might have happened
to you, and didn't, almost makes a feller lose his faith in Providence.
'Oh, yes,' says you, 'Wingo will walk into the trap with his eyes shut.
It'll be just too easy.'"

"Well, the first part worked all right," protested Rafe Tuckleton.
"Dan downed Walton without any trouble.  How could I tell Driver would
slip up on his part?  I'm glad Slike downed him.  Served him right for
being a fool.  Reelfoot did his part all right, too."

"How do we know Reelfoot did?  How do we know what happened before the
fraycas at Walton's?  We don't.  We don't know anything except that Tom
Driver is dead, Dan Slike wounded in the calaboose, and Skinny Shindle
has skedaddled."

"Skinny tell any one where he was goin'?"

"He did not.  Soon as he heard that infernal Bill Wingo had pulled
through without a hole in him, Skinny saddled his horse and went
some'ers else a-whoopin'.  And I don't think he expects to come back.
Oh, it's a fine mix-up all round, a fine mix-up."

"Sh-sh," cautioned Rafe.  "Somebody coming--oh, it's you, Tip.  'Lo."

"Yeah, it's me, Tip," said O'Gorman, closing the door carefully and
sitting down on the only vacant chair.  "Look here, Rafe, what did I
tell you about downing Tom Walton?"

"I ain't downed Tom Walton," denied Rafe sullenly.

"You had it done," insisted O'Gorman.

"How do you know I did?" dodged Rafe.

"By the way it was gormed up."

"I suppose now if you'd planned it----"

"I wouldn't have planned it in the first place.  I told you to keep
your paws off, and now look at the damn thing."

"It wasn't my fault," barked back Rafe.

"Can't you say anything different?" the district attorney threw in
drearily.

"You don't even seem able to obey orders any more," said Tip O'Gorman.

"I don't have to take orders from you," flared up Rafe.

"No, you don't have to.  Nobody has to do anything they don't want to.
But we've decided, Rafe, that hereafter you sit on the tail-board.  You
don't pick up the lines again, see."

"Who's we?" demanded Rafe.

"Craft, Larder and myself."

"You can't do anything!" Contemptuously.

"No?  For one thing, we can keep you from shipping so much as a single
cow."

"How?"

"Our ranges surround you on three sides, and where we don't fit in, the
mountains do.  You can't drive through the mountains, and we won't let
you drive through us.  That's how."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, it's root, hog, or die, feller.  You gonna be good?"

"I--I suppose so."

"Good enough.  One slip on your part and you know what happens, Rafe.
Bear it in mind, and it'll be money in your pocket."

"You talk like a minister."

"I wish I was one, preaching the funeral sermon over your grave.  Lord,
what a stinking skunk you are, Rafe!"

"Look here----"

"Blah!  You are a skunk.  So crazy after money you had to go and hurt
li'l Hazel Walton.  Damn your soul, I told you not to do anything to
hurt her!  And you bulled right ahead!  You lousy packrat, you've
broken that child's heart!  She thought the world and all of her uncle,
she did.  I tell you, Rafe, you ain't fit to drink with a Digger or eat
with a dog!"

"I ain't gonna fight with you," declared Rafe Tuckleton.

"I was hoping you would," averred Tip.  "There'd be one tom-fool less
to worry about if you did."

"No, I can wait," said Rafe with a feline grin.

"Oh, I'll be watching you, you rattle-snake," nodded Tip.

"Go easy, you two!" snapped the district attorney, as a dog in the next
room began to bark.  "There's somebody comin' up the path."

The squabble went dead.

"Good thing the wind's yowlin' its head off to-night," observed Tip
O'Gorman.  "I forgot myself for a shake."

Rafe Tuckleton looked at the floor.  There was venom in his heart and
death in his thoughts.

Tip O'Gorman fingered out the makings.

He was shaking in the tobacco when Billy Wingo opened the door and
strode without ceremony into the office.  He was followed by Riley
Tyler.  The latter slammed the door behind him and set his back against
it.

"Three li'l friends together," said Billy, his eyes gleaming at them
beneath the peak of his fur cap.  "I saw your light as I was passing,
Arthur, and I thought I'd sift in and thank you for all those kind
words of yours yesterday.  I appreciated 'em, you bet.  You too, Rafe,
did about as well as could be expected.  Tip is the only one I can't
thank."

He smiled lazily on Tip.  The latter grinned back.

"It ain't my fault you can't," returned Tip cryptically.

Billy nodded, although naturally he did not grasp the other's meaning,
and said, "Got another li'l matter for you gentlemen.  Finding you all
together thisaway is gonna save me trouble.  I'm in luck to-night."

"Aw, spit it out!" Rafe directed rudely.

Billy looked pained.  "Our long-faced li'l playmate seems all fussed up
over something.  Well, boys will be boys, I suppose, and burned fingers
now and then have got to be expected."

He paused and regarded them gravely.  Rafe's answering stare was
darkling, the district attorney's uncomfortable, while Tip's was
impersonal.

"I hope you boys are feeling generous to-night," resumed Billy.

Rafe Tuckleton stole a glance at O'Gorman.  Generous?

"The fact is," went on the calm voice, "I'm takin' up a collection--a
collection for Tom Walton's niece, Hazel."

Billy thought that at the mention of the ranchman's name both the
district attorney and Tuckleton stiffened their slouching bodies, but
he could not be positive.  The lamp on the table gave a poor, weak
light.

"Her uncle's gettin' downed thisaway will be a bad blow for her.  He
was all she had.  Y'understand now--the girl won't ever know that this
is any benefit like.  She mustn't ever know.  It's insurance on Tom's
life, see?  Sam Prescott was keepin' the policy for him in his safe.
Tom must have forgot to tell her about it.  That's what Sam's going to
tell her.  How much will you boys give?"

Tip O'Gorman did not hesitate.  "You can put us down for a thousand
apiece."

"_What!_" chorused the district attorney and Rafe Tuckleton.

The sheriff cocked an eyebrow at the two men.  "You think it's too
little?  Well, I guess maybe you're right.  A thousand is enough for
Tip here, but you two are rich men.  Say twice that--two thousand from
each of you will be about right."

The two rich men were speechless.  But only for a moment.

"Two thousand!" gasped Rafe.  "Not a nickel."

"Not a thin dime!" contradicted the district attorney.

"Say not so!" said Billy Wingo.

Tip O'Gorman nodded.  "'Say not so,' is right."

Billy looked at the speaker approvingly.  "I'm glad Tip agrees with me.
I'll take the money in gold, greenbacks and silver.  No drafts."

The district attorney squealed like a stuck pig.  "No nothing, you
mean!  Whadda you think we are?"

"A couple of rascals," was the prompt reply.  "And there's a tax on
rascals.  _That li'l girl has got to be taken care of_."

Billy's voice was earnest.  But a sardonic devil looked out of his
eyes.  He yearned with a great yearning for the district attorney and
Rafe Tuckleton to join battle with him.  He knew that he could easily
take care of both.  Tip O'Gorman was the unknown quantity.  One could
never be quite sure what Tip was thinking.  One thing, Tip was neither
a murderer nor a dealer in murder.  That had never been Tip's way.  And
something told Billy that in the present crisis Tip would keep his
hands off.  The issue lay strictly between Rafe, the district attorney
and Billy Wingo.

The district attorney by a great effort recovered his mental balance.
"You are threatening," he bumbled lamely.

"Not a-tall," returned Bill.  "I only said you and Rafe are a couple of
rascals.  What's fairer than that, I'd like to know?"

"It's blackmail--extortion," the district attorney trotted on.

"Blackmail and extortion to subscribe money for the support of a girl
whose uncle has been murdered?  No, no, you don't mean it, Arthur, old
settler.  You mean that you and Rafe will be glad to do your parts.
That's what you mean."

"No."  Thus Rafe Tuckleton.

"Yes--and again yes.  Three times in fact.  Rafe, how about that last
deal of yours with the Indian agent?  Remember it?  The agent,
y'understand, gets drunk sometimes, and a drunk will talk.  Ever
thought of that?"

If Rafe had not thought of that, he thought of it now.

"And how about that last bribe you took?" pressed Billy, turning
accusingly on the district attorney.

The immediate shrinkage in the form of the district attorney was
plainly visible to the naked eye.  He went a trifle paler too.

"Do I get the two thousand apiece for Hazel Walton, Arthur?" demanded
Billy.

"Why-uh--yes, yes, of course.  I'd always intended to contribute.  I
was just fooling.  Yes."

"And you, Rafe?"

Rafe Tuckleton nodded a reluctant head.  "I'll pay."

"That's fine," said Billy heartily.  "I'll be around to-morrow for the
money."

Rafe Tuckleton did not attempt to demur at the shortness of time as he
had done with Dan Slike.  He recognized the utter futility of arguing
with a man like Billy Wingo.

"By the way," said Billy, staring hard at Rafe Tuckleton, "I wonder if
it was any part of Dan Slike's plan to kill Miss Walton too?"

Rafe's face went wooden.  "How should I know?"

Billy nodded.  "I was just wonderin'.  No harm in that, I suppose.
Lucky she wasn't there alla same."

"It was lucky," stated Tip O'Gorman.  "Do you know I've been doing a
li'l wondering myself.  Why wasn't she there?"

"She just happened to be visiting the Prescotts'," replied Billy Wingo,
his eyes on Rafe's face.

Rafe did his best to return the stare, but his eyes would drop despite
his best effort.

"You know that letter from Miss Walton Judge Driver threw in the
fire--the one you heard me telling Judge Donelson about?" went on
Billy.  "Yeah, that one.  It might have fooled me--I'm only human, you
know, if----"

"You're too modest," Tip interrupted dryly.

"If it hadn't been for one or two li'l things," resumed Billy.  "The
handwriting was a fine imitation--you couldn't beat it.  But I knew she
hadn't written it."  He paused, and began to roll a cigarette.

Rafe Tuckleton passed his tongue across his lips.  The district
attorney looked down at his locked hands.  Of the three Tip O'Gorman
was the only one to remain his natural self.

"G'on," urged Tip, "give it a name."

"You see," said Billy, "Skinny Shindle told me Miss Walton gave him the
note about 2.30 P.M.  Now on that afternoon I happened to be at the
Prescott ranch.  Miss Walton was there visiting Miss Prescott.  I
didn't leave the Prescotts' till nearly three o'clock, and Miss Walton
was still there and intending to spend the night.  That's how I knew
she couldn't have written that note."

"Nine miles from Prescott's to Walton's," said Tip.

"Nearer ten," corrected Billy.  "Skinny was sure careless.  So were
several other men.  You've got to make things fit."

He nodded kindly to the company and abruptly departed with his
companion.

"I wonder what he meant by 'making things fit,'" mused the district
attorney, following five minutes' silence.

"I dunno," Rafe mumbled in accents of the deepest gloom, "but you can
put down a bet he meant something."

"He did," declared Tip O'Gorman, "and I'm telling you two straight,
flat and final, you ain't fit to play checkers with a blind man.  It
makes a feller ashamed to do business with you, you're so thumb-handed,
tumble-footed foolish.  At the time the note was written from Walton's
the girl was at Prescott's.  Oh, great!  And he knew it alla time.  And
you two jokes wondered why your scheme fell through!  You know now,
don't you?  Gawd!  What a pair you are!  Oh, I've always believed that
a man makes his own li'l hell.  Whatever devilishness he does on this
earth he pays for on this earth.  You fellers are already beginning to
pay."

Thus Tip O'Gorman, the moralist.  He departed wrapped in a virtuous
silence.  He did not dare let the others know the actual worry that
rode his soul.  He knew it was only a matter of time when Billy Wingo
would be camping on his trail too.  Lord, how he'd been fooled!  He had
never suspected that the sheriff possessed such capabilities.  And how
had the sheriff learned of that flour deal between Rafe and the Indian
agent.  The flour supposed to have been bought through another man.
Rafe had not appeared in the affair at all, yet Billy Wingo knew all
about it.

And the bribe taken by the district attorney.  There was another odd
chance.  Besides the two principals, Rafe Tuckleton and himself, Tip
had not supposed that any one knew of the matter.  It was very
mysterious.

Tip could have kicked himself.  He alone was the individual responsible
for the whole trouble.  If only he had not proposed the election of
Billy Wingo--  But he had proposed it, and now look at the result!

"Say, Bill," said the greatly impressed Riley Tyler on the way to the
office, "what's this about that deal of Rafe's with the Indian agent?
You never said anything about it before."

"Good reason," grinned Billy, "it just occurred to me."

"Occurred to you?" puzzled Riley.

"Yeah, I don't actually know of any deal between Rafe and that thief of
an agent; but knowing Rafe and knowing the agent, I guessed likely they
had been mixed up together in a business way.  Seems I guessed right.
Same with the district attorney, only easier.  If he's taken one bribe,
he's taken forty.  Wouldn't be Arthur Rale if he hadn't."

Riley Tyler chuckled.  "Poker is one fine game," said Riley Tyler.

At the office they found Shotgun Shillman.

"What luck?" asked Billy.

"Plenty," was the reply.  "We went to the Cayley cabin first.  Nobody
livin' there.  Ashes in the fireplace might have been a week or a month
old.  But the balsam tips in the bunks were older than that.  They were
last summer's cutting--all stiffer than a porcupine's quills."

"As I remember that cabin," reflected Billy, "the balsam grew all
around it."

"They still do.  We found a quarter of beef hanging on a stub back of
the house.  'There,' says Simon, 'there's proof for you.'  'Yes,' I
says, 'let's see the cow it came off of.'  'Whatsa use?' says Simon.

"'Lots,' I says.  'C'mon.'  He did reluctant, bellowing alla time how
we'd oughta follow the tracks leading away from the house toward the
Hillsville trail a mile away."

"Were those tracks made by one man?" inquired Billy.

"Looked so to me--anyway, we went along on the line of tracks leading
to the dead cow.  It had been shot all right enough.  It oughta been
shot.  It had big-jaw."

"'You mean to tell me them fellers cut that quarter off a big-jaw cow?'
I says to Simon.  'Sure,' he says.  'Aw right,' I says.  'Let it go at
that.'  I poked around to find the other cow.  Simon raising objections
alla time to me wastin' so much time and trying to get me off the
trail.  Oh, he didn't care a whoop about me finding the second cow.
Wasn't one enough?  Oh, sure, to hear him talk!  But I found the cow.
It hadn't been shot a-tall.  Died of the yallers last fall.  And it had
just about half rotted before freezing weather set in.  'I suppose,' I
says sarcastic, 'both cows were killed about the same time.'  'You've
guessed it,' says Simon, bold as brass.  'Now all you gotta do is chase
right along back to the cabin and take up the trail like I wanted you
to do in the first place and trail 'em down.'  He acted real
disappointed when I left him standin' there and came away.  I'd have
arrested him right then only you said not to."

"Good enough," approved Billy.  "Plenty of time to arrest him later.  I
want to give him plenty of rope.  One of these days I'll get a subpoena
from Judge Donelson and serve it on him.  That'll give him plenty of
time to think things over between now and the trial."

"Simon ain't the kind to take things easy," mused Shotgun Shillman.

"He'll fret his head off.  About the time Slike is well enough to stand
prosecution, Simon Reelfoot will be ready to bust."

But the well-known best-laid plans are more breakable than the equally
well-known best-laid eggs.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT

"I tell you, Rafe," said Reelfoot in a panic, "they suspect me--they
think I'm mixed up in this murder business."

"Accessory before and after the fact," slipped in the district
attorney.  A reptile himself, he relished the wrigglings of another
reptile.  "If they prove it on you, you'll be hanged sure as Dan Slike
will hang."

"I ain't the only one they can prove it on," snarled Simon Reelfoot.

"Who have you got in mind?" Rafe Tuckleton said in a colorless voice.

"Both of you, for instance," Reelfoot informed him.

"You do us a grave injustice."  Thus the district attorney solemnly.

Rafe Tuckleton shook his head at Simon.  "Wrong tree.  You don't know
anything about us."

Simon Reelfoot gaped at both of them.  "Why, we fixed it up between us.
You know we did.  You even wanted two cows killed so's to make it look
lifelike to the deputies."

Rafe looked at the district attorney.  "The man's mad."

Simon's teeth snapped together like a cornered coyote.  "If you're
trying to put this thing all off on me--" he began, and stopped.

"We're not trying to put anything off on you," the district attorney
told him silkily.  "There's nothing to put off on you anyway.  Not a
thing.  You're nervous, that's all, Simon.  Your imagination is working
overtime."

"Sure is," corroborated Rafe.  "You don't think we've got anything to
do with the murder of Tom Walton, do you, Simon?"

The Reelfoot jaw dropped.  The man stared helplessly at Rafe and the
district attorney.  "Whatell did--  Say, what else was all that
rigamarole for then?"

"What rigamarole?"  Oh, so patient was the voice of Rafe Tuckleton.

Reelfoot gulped.  "You had me go to Wingo's office, and rile him up,
and spin him a lot of jerkwater stuff about my rustled cows, so's to
get him and his deputies all ready to go away with me, when Driver was
to come in with that stuff about Kilroe and keep Bill in town while the
deputies went with me.  Well, you know how only Shillman went.  But I
couldn't help that.  Anyway, I suppose you thought you was foxy not to
tell me the rest of the story about Skinny Shindle and the fake letter
and so forth.  Gents, you was foxy.  Yeah, you was foxy.  But I'm foxy
himself.  I can put two and two together and make four any day."

He paused and glared at the pair of them.  "I wondered what it was all
about.  Yeah, I wondered, and I asked you and you said it was to keep
Bill Wingo from mixing into a li'l stock deal.  Stock deal!"  Here
Simon spat upon the floor.  "Stock deal!" rushed on Simon.  "You never
said it was murder."

Rafe Tuckleton and the district attorney exchanged wooden looks.

"Now that you mention it," said Rafe, "I don't believe we did."

"I thought you didn't like Tom Walton," observed the district attorney.

Simon Reelfoot swore a string of oaths.  "I didn't like him, not a bit.
But I don't want to be hung for helping having him killed."

"That would be unfortunate," murmured the district attorney.

"I ain't sorry he was killed, of course," Simon fretted on, unheeding.
"That part was all right, but I didn't want to be mixed up in it.
There's no sense in doing a thing like that if you're gonna be caught.
And I don't mean to be caught!  You didn't have no right to get me into
this deal without telling me all the circumstances first," he concluded
weakly.

"Then you think you've been badly treated?" purred the district
attorney.

"I know it," declared Simon.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't come here for sympathy."

"What did you come for?"

"Protection.  What do you s'pose?  You've gotta protect me."

"Listen to him, Rafe.  Says we gotta protect him.  That new brand of
whisky at George's Place is certainly awful stuff.  If you'll take my
advice, Simon, you'll go a li'l easy on it till your system gets used
to it."

"Yeah, sosh up by degrees like," offered Rafe.

"Look here," said the exasperated Reelfoot, "either you fellers pull
suspicion off o' me, or I go to Wingo with the whole story."

"What'll that get you?" demanded Rafe.  "Nothin', just nothin'.  Wild
tales of dead cows and separatin' Bill from his deputies and all ain't
evidence.  Nawsir.  Think again, brother, think again."

"And, anyway," tucked in the district attorney, "what was wrong with
the wild tale?  It came straight enough.  There were the tracks and
there were the cows.  Who can say your story wasn't the truth?"

"I tell you, they _know_ it ain't the truth."

"How do they know?"

Simon did not make immediate reply.  It was the worst thing he could
have done.

"Well?" prompted Rafe.

"They--uh--uh--they know it."

"How, I asked you?"

"They didn't--Shillman got suspicious over the cows."

"Why did he get suspicious over the cows?"

Simon Reelfoot wriggled in his chair.  "Well--uh--I--he did, that's
all."

Rafe leaned forward.  His face was sharp with suspicion.  "_Why did
he?_"

"I--I----" Simon stammered, and bogged down right there.

"C'mon," directed Rafe inexorably.  "Spit it out."

"One of the cows had big-jaw," admitted Reelfoot.

Rafe sucked in his breath.

"What did the other one have?" almost whispered the district attorney.

"The other one died of the yallers last fall," said Reelfoot in a voice
that matched the district attorney's.  "But," he added hastily, "it
come on to freeze soon after.  I--I sort o' hated to kill two _good_
cows."

"Seeing that two good cows were all you were putting up in return for
the benefits you would derive from the--uh--political situation, you
could have afforded to lose them."  Thus the district attorney, staring
at Reelfoot.

The latter looked with sullen foreboding at Rafe.  The Tuckleton face
was bloated with rage.

"So that's how it is!" he choked out.  "You had your orders and you
muddled them out of rank meanness!  Too stingy to kill a couple of
healthy cows, you hadda risk everything with one that died last year
and another with big-jaw!  And then, after you've got 'em suspectin'
you good and strong through what's first, last, and only your own
fault, you come to us for help!"

"Where else could I go?" queried Reelfoot sulkily.

"To hell for all I care, you half-witted fool!  A big-jaw steer!  And
the other one half rotten, I'll bet!"

"I didn't think he'd notice it," defended Simon.

"You didn't think!  No, I'll gamble you didn't!  You never have!  You
couldn't!  My Gawd, you deserve to be hung!  I hope you are!"

"You forget, Rafe," said the district attorney, "that you and I don't
know what all Mr. Reelfoot is driving at."

But Rafe Tuckleton was too angry to keep up the farce any longer.  "I
hope the fool's hung!" he panted.

"I'll take care not to go alone," said Reelfoot, pressing his
advantage.  "You fellers will have to see that I'm protected or I'll
tell what I know."

"Blah!" blared the district attorney.  "You wouldn't dare snitch!"

"I'll dare more than that to save my skin," Reelfoot declared hardily.

Rafe Tuckleton returned to the charge.  "What in so-and-so and
such-and-such did you do such a fool trick for?  Don't you
know--couldn't you--oh, whatsa use?"

"You oughta told me all the circumstances," persisted Reelfoot.  "That
was _your_ fault.  If I'd knowed, I could have managed better."

"I expect--you couldn't," said Rafe Tuckleton, with an appreciable
pause after each word.

"What you gonna do about it?" Reelfoot wanted to know, fidgeting in his
chair.

"You'll be taken care of now, you needn't to worry."

"Oh, fine, fi-ine.  That helps a lot, that does, with either Bill Wingo
or one of his deputies over to my place about every other day, snoopin'
round and talking to my men."

"They do that, do they?"

"Yes, they do that."

"What of it?" demanded Rafe.  "They can't find out anything, can they?
You weren't fool enough to let on to your men--your foreman or anybody,
were you?"

"Sure not.  But----"

"But what?"

"I don't like 'em slouchin' round this way.  You dunno what'll happen.
They might find out somethin' you can't tell."

"If you didn't tell any of your men, you're safe," soothed the district
attorney, "so long as you keep your upper lip stiff.  You're just a
li'l nervous, that's all, Simon.  Nothing to worry you a-tall.  Here,
have another drink.  Rafe, shove the bottle over, will you?"

Rafe Tuckleton pettishly obeyed, muttering under his breath.  It was
only too painfully obvious that Reelfoot's remarks had upset him, and
he didn't care who knew it.

"Look here, Simon," he said suddenly.  "You wanna leave right here your
notion that you'll snitch if it comes to the squeak."

"I'll think about it," said Simon, setting down his glass deliberately.

"Because," Rafe continued, as though there had been no interruption,
"you wanna remember it's almost as easy to kill two men as it is one."

"I'd thought of that," said Simon, "and I brought two of my men with me
to-night.  They're down at the saloon waiting for me now."

"A lot of good they are down there," sneered Rafe.

"But they can do you and Arthur here a lot of harm later--if anything
happens."

"Don't you trust us?"

"Not so far as I can throw a calf by the tail," was the candid reply.
"I'm goin' now.  You fellers scratch your heads over what I've said.  I
ain't gonna go to the pen for anybody, and you can stick a pin in that."

When Simon was gone, the district attorney and Rafe sat in silence
while a man, had one been so inclined, might have counted three
hundred.  Neither looked at the other.  Rafe fiddled with his glass on
the tabletop.  The district attorney rolled a slow cigarette.

The district attorney was the first to break the silence with, "Simon's
got a bad case of nerves."

"We oughtn't to have used him," said Rafe.  "First thing you know the
tom fool will say or do something we'll all be sorry for.  I didn't
think he was like that."

"Maybe we'd ought to have told him all of it from the beginning."

"Not that.  No, he'd never have gone in it then.  He ain't got nerve
enough.  I'm afraid Reelfoot's days of usefulness to us are over."

"He's done good work in the past."

"The past ain't now.  And I tell you, Arthur, if Simon gets any more
jumpy than he is now, he'll kick the kettle over.  You hear me, he'll
do it, the pup!"

Rafe allowed the district attorney two full minutes to mull over this,
then he continued:

"We gotta get rid of him."

The district attorney looked over at Rafe, his upper lip lifting.  "I
suppose we gotta."

"We'll work the old game over again."

"Not on your life!  We turned it once!  And that was one too many."

"We had bad luck, that's all.  Just a li'l hard luck.  Look here,
didn't Simon say either Bill or one of his deputies were always
snooping round his ranch?  All right, what more do we want?  We can fix
it so's to get rid of two birds at a clip.  And it'll work this trip.
We'll do it all right."

"We'll have to."  The district attorney smiled grimly.

Rafe Tuckleton gazed speculatively upon his friend.  "How about Tip
O'Gorman?"

"Well?"

Rafe came flatly to the point.  "How about gettin' rid of him, too?"

But this was going too fast for the district attorney.  He shook his
head.  "No.  Too dangerous."

"Now look here," said Rafe, leaning forward and tapping the district
attorney's knee with a persuasive forefinger, "you're forgetting that
all this trouble we're having is due to Tip O'Gorman.  If it hadn't
been for him wanting a 'safe' man, Jack Murray would have been elected,
and everything about now would be fine as frawg's hair in January."

"Well, we had to give 'em one honest man," said the district attorney
cynically.  "The voters were getting ideas."

"Rats," snorted Rafe.  "What if they were?  I don't give a damn what
Tip or anybody says, we were strong enough to elect our whole ticket.
Huh?  No 'maybe' about it.  I know.  Tip's an old woman, I tell you.
He's gettin' too big for his boots.  He needs a lesson."

"Who'll give him one?"

"We will."

"No.  Not for a minute.  I know Tip.  I ain't locking horns with that
gent."

"Whatcha afraid of?  He can't do anything."

"Can't, huh?  Aw right, let it go at that.  Not any for me, thanks."

Again Rafe's persuasive forefinger came into action.  "Say, Tip ain't
any grizzly bear, feller.  He's only a two-legged man like you and me.
He can be put where he belongs."

The district attorney remained unconvinced.  "I hear you say it."

"Ain't you got any nerve a-tall?"

"Where Tip is concerned, not much," was the frank reply.  "I've seen
that man in action."

"Action nothin'.  That's just what's the matter with that man--not
enough action.  He'll go so far and no farther.  He don't want anybody
wiped out if he can help it.  You saw what a fuss he made over Tom
Walton's killing.  Lord!  He made me sick!  You might 'a' thought Tom
was a good friend of his.  I tell you, Arthur, that sort of
squeamishness don't get you anywhere.  Nawsir.  You gotta go the whole
hog or you'll wind up in the calaboose.  You bet I ain't for any of
them half-way plans.  It's kill a bull every time, or I don't shoot.
Tip O'Gorman must go."

"Lessee what Sam Larder and Crafty say," the district attorney offered
uneasily.

"No, not them, either of 'em," Rafe declared firmly.  "They're friends
of Tip's."

"You tell 'em just like you told me," suggested the other.  "Maybe you
could persuade 'em."

Rafe shook a decided head.  "Not a chance.  I know them.  They're soft
and bull-headed where Tip's concerned.  They think he's hell on the
Wabash, you know that.  Those three stand together always.  No, Arthur,
if we shove this deal through, we gotta do it alone."

But the district attorney remained dubious.  "It's too big an order."

"Not by a jugful it ain't.  Gimme the bottle."

Rafe poured out a stiff four fingers.  He drank it slowly.  Then he had
another.  His eyes began to gleam redly.  Suddenly he stood up and
struck the table with his fist.

"I'll show 'em," he exclaimed.  "Tip needn't think he can gimme orders!
Won't let you ship cows if you get your leg over the pole again, says
O'Gorman, Larder and Craft.  Just as if I'd done something out of the
way instead of tryin' to put one more polecat out of the world.  I'll
show 'em!  Say, Arthur, whatsa matter with buckin' Larder and Craft
after we put Tip out of business?"

"Wait till we do," replied the district attorney, who foresaw many
difficulties in the proposed operation.  "And if you ask me, I don't
know how we're going to do it."

Rafe Tuckleton scratched a tousled head.  "Jonesy might shoot him
cleaning' his gun," he proffered.

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

Rafe showed the requisite amount of contempt for such a foolish
question.  "It's more'n possible Tip might start cleanin' his own gun
about that time.  And I _could_ spare Jonesy if I had to."

"Jonesy might not want to take the chance.  You haven't thought of
that, have you?"

Rafe, by way of reply, took another drink.  When he set the bottle
down, the district attorney picked it up, held it against the daylight,
then looked reproachfully at his friend and put the bottle away in the
cupboard.

"Tell you what we can do," said Rafe.  "We can have Simon do it."

"Simon Reelfoot?"

"Who else.  Sure.  Why not?"

"You're crazy.  Simon may be a fool, but he has more sense than that."

"Simon drinks a skinful sometimes.  Ever see him when he gets that way?
He acts very rowdy.  Yeah.  I'm almost certain if, when Simon was under
the influence thataway, he was told that Tip had found out about his
share in the Walton killing and was making threats against him, that
Friend Simon would just naturally hop out and fill Tip full of holes."

"But I thought you were saving Simon for Wingo?  The sheriff's more
important than Tip just now."

It was evident that the district attorney was becoming more and more
worried at the prospect of giving Tip his quietus.

"We'll have to figure out something else for Wingo," said Rafe.  Then
he brought his open palm down on his knee with a crack like a pistol
shot.  The district attorney jumped in his chair.  "I got it!" cried
Rafe.  "I got it!  It just came to me when you said 'Wingo.'  We'll get
the three of 'em at one lick."

"I knew I didn't put that bottle away soon enough."

"Rats.  My head's clear as a bell--two bells, by Gawd!  Listen.  We'll
get Simon and that foreman of his drunk.  We'll sick the pair of 'em on
Tip O'Gorman.  They'll put the kibosh on Tip, and the word will be
passed for the sheriff.  He will go to make the arrest and they'll plug
him.  Being drunk, they'll be desperate and won't care what they do."

"Suppose the deputies go with Bill?"

"We'll have to fix it so they won't.  Oh, it'll be natural this time.
We'll wait till they're taking somebody over to Hillsville, or gone to
make an arrest or something."

"But the sheriff may swear in a posse to help chase 'em."

"There won't be any chase.  For a chase you gotta have horses, and
we'll take away their horses first thing.  No, it's a cinch Bill Wingo
will go to arrest 'em by his lonesome.  He's that kind."

"And we took him for a mark," was the district attorney's bitter remark.

"I didn't," lied Rafe.  "I always knowed what he was."

The district attorney did not contradict this statement.  Nothing was
to be gained by a fight with Rafe Tuckleton.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE BEST-LAID PLANS

March had come in a-roaring.  Almanac-wise it was passing out
a-bleating.  Except in the high places the snow was going fast.  The
frost was coming out of the ground, making it necessary for the
Hillsville stage to employ eight horses instead of six.  The gray geese
were flying northward.  Here and there on the southern flanks of the
lean hills the grass showed bravely green.  That uncomfortable person,
Dan Slike, was well enough to stand his trial.  Spring was in the air,
but winter still held sway in the heart of Billy Wingo.  He had not
been able to make up his difference with Hazel Walton, or rather she
had not made up her difference with him.  Manlike, or mulelike,
whichever you prefer, Billy Wingo was stubbornly determined that the
girl should make the first move.  True, he had seen her.  It was also
true that he had gone out of his way to see her.  Always his reception
had been friendly, but not the least cordial.  Obviously she had not
forgiven him his outburst.

Whenever he thought on what he was pleased to consider his
ill-treatment at her hands, he was prone to rail at the foolishness of
women.  He did not stop to reflect that there was another side to the
shield.  Certainly not.  The woman was clearly and wholly in the wrong.
Adam, I believe, was the first man to express this opinion.  His sons
have been following in his footsteps ever since.

Came a night of heavy rain and wind.  Billy Wingo, a lamp on the table
at his elbow, was reading a Denver newspaper.  A sudden gust drove a
spatter of rain across the windows.  There was a soft thump followed by
a sliding sound against the outside door.  Some one uttered in a
woman's voice a muffled wail.

Billy went at once to the door and lifted the latch.  The wind pushed
it back against him and flung a spray of wet into his face.  There was
something lying on the doorstep and sill, something that moved a
little.  Billy let the door fly open.  The something was apparently a
woman in distress.  Billy bent down, endeavoring to slip his hands
under her shoulders.  But the woman was heavy and her clothing was very
wet and slippery.  Billy bent a little lower and--Smash!


"He's coming out of it," a voice was saying.  "I saw his eyelids
flicker."

"You hit him a mite too hard," declared another voice.  "Y'oughta used
a club instead of that wagon wrench."

"I didn't know how hard his head was," offered a third voice, "and we
can't afford to take chances.  You know that.  Anybody, he's coming
along all right, so what's the odds?"

"He's ruined that pillow," complained the first voice.  "And I know
he's bled on through the sheets into the mattress.  Spoil the mattress,
that will.  Cake the feathers all up.  Make 'em nubbly."

"Don't be so dainty, Sam," laughed the second voice.  "You're so
all-fired fat what's a rough mattress to you?  Sleep on the floor, and
you wouldn't know the difference."

Billy kept his eyes shut, although he was now completely conscious.
His head ached like forty.  Seemed as if the whole top had come off and
dozens of little devils were inside hammering like mad.  He believed he
knew the owners of those three voices.  Sam Larder, Felix Craft and Tip
O'Gorman.  He opened his eyes.  Yes, he was right.  There they were,
the three of them.  But it was daylight, and a day of sunshine too.
And the last thing he remembered was a night of wind and rain.

Tip gave back his look with a smile.  Sam Larder and Felix Craft did
not smile.  Their faces were serious.

"Glad to see you're coming round," said Tip O'Gorman.  "Here, let me
fix that bandage.  Looks as if it might be slipping.  How you
feel--pretty good?"

"Pretty good--considering," replied Bill.

"That's fine, fine.  Want a li'l something to eat?"

"Rather have a drink."

The cool water revived him like wine.  He lay back on the pillows
greatly refreshed.  He thought his head ached a little less, perhaps.

"Where am I and how did I get here?"

"You're in my house," said Sam Larder.  "You were--uh--brought here."

"After the roof feel on me?" said Billy, fingering the bandage round
his head.

"Well, you see," said Tip, in some embarrassment, "we knew you wouldn't
have accepted our invitation unless you were knocked silly first.  But
I--I planned the whole thing, Bill--I didn't intend to keep you
senseless as long as this.  It's a matter of ten hours since you were
hit.  I didn't know but what maybe we were due to lose you, after all."

"That would have been a pity," said Billy.

"Wouldn't it?  Yeah.  Don't blame me for that crack, though.  I told
Crafty not to use anything made of iron.  But I'm afraid he used his
own judgment."

"I always do," said Felix Craft.

"Who was the woman?" inquired Billy.

"I was the woman," replied Craft demurely.

"That was one on me.  But I'm still wonderin'.  You fellers went to a
lot of trouble to carry me clear out here.  I suppose it's too much to
hope you were seen doing it."

"I don't guess we were seen," said Tip.  "We kind of took care not to
be.

"How long do you count on boardin' me, Sam?"

"Just a li'l while," was the reply.

"No longer than is necessary," slipped in Tip, with emphasis on the
last word.

"Necessary, huh.  _Necessary_.  I suppose you fellers think you'll be
able to get Dan Slike off by kidnappin' me.  You forget there's Riley
Tyler."

"We know there's Riley Tyler," said Tip, "like we know Riley and
Shotgun went to Hillsville yesterday and won't be back for three-four
days.  And about Dan Slike we don't care three whoops in hell.  To tell
you the truth, Bill, I'm surprised you don't know us better than that.
_We_ three didn't have any hand in that Walton business."

"I didn't really think you did," said Billy frankly, "but knowing how
you and Tuckleton----"

"No, no, Bill," interrupted Tip hastily, "don't go fussin' about Rafe.
That's a cat with another tail entirely.  Your business right now this
minute is with us.  Our business is with you.  Here we are.  Here's
you."

But Billy was apparently paying no further attention to Tip's words.
He was looking at the ceiling.  He was smiling.  He chuckled.

"Do you know," he said, glancing sidewise at Tip, "when I was a kid, I
often wondered how it would feel to be kidnapped.  I had a idea it
would be romantic sort of.  But it ain't, not a mite.  I feel like I'd
been on a tear--head, y'understand, and mouth all furry and _thirsty_!
Where's that pitcher?  Oh, I can sit up all right."

He swung up to a sitting position with a lurch.  "Here's how," he said,
reaching for the pitcher.

He drank his fill and again lay down, supporting his head on a bent
elbow.

"Crafty," he said severely, "why for are you monkeying with that gun?"

"I thought I had it hidden behind the table," replied Craft,
shamefacedly depositing a six-shooter on the table in front of him.

He folded his arms behind the gun, but Billy noticed that the fingers
of his right hand were touching the wood of the butt.

"The truth is," said Tip, "that we intend to watch you pretty closely.
But you haven't any kick coming.  You ain't gagged or hogtied even."

"Seeing that Sam's house is a mile out of town and a good eight hundred
yards west of the Hillsville trail, gaggin' me and tying me up are
hardly necessary.  Sam, that water sure gave me a appetite.  I feel
considerable better.  Suppose now you send along the chambermaid with
several eggs, more or less, let 'em lay, and two-three-four slices of
nice ham, and some fried potatoes, and bread and butter, and a li'l jam
if you have it--if not, I'll take what you've got handy and some
coffee, black, with sugar.  Better have her bring a full pot of coffee.
And Samuel, my own dear boyhood friend, will you send along the
golden-haired chambermaid?"

"That's the way," approved Tip, smiling, as Sam Larder slumped
kitchenward.  "Make a joke of it.  No sense in taking it to heart."

"Tip," said Bill, "I always knew you were an old scoundrel."

Tip looked hurt.  "The scoundrel perhaps, and only _perhaps_, mind you,
but I deny the age.  I'm only a short fifty."

"Plenty of time for you to be hung yet," admitted Bill.  "Felix, old
settler, that gun of yours is pointing right at me.  Is it easy on the
trigger?"

"Mighty easy," said Felix Craft, altering slightly the angle of the
weapon's barrel.

Billy hitched himself up to a sitting position.  By means of the bed's
two pillows he made himself comfortable against the wall.

"You spoke of some business," he said.  "Le's hear it."

Tip cleared his throat.  "It ain't much.  All we want is for you to
leave us alone."

"Seems to me you asked me something like that before," mused Billy.

"And your answer was unsatisfactory."

"What kind of an answer did you expect?"

"We expected you'd be a sensible man, the sort of feller who wouldn't
throw down his friends."

"You said that before, too."

Tip nodded.  "We still think maybe you can be brought to see our side
of it."

"We don't want to do anything we'd all be sorry for," Felix Craft
nipped in significantly.

"Hear the clanking chains," said Billy.  "The man's threatening me, I
do believe."

Craft returned his stare woodenly.

"You see," Tip remarked, "we expect to do a li'l business this year."

"Do you think this will be a good year for business?"  Billy cocked a
questioning eyebrow.

"We hope so, we hope so," pronounced Tip.  "I'll be open with you,
Bill.  If you keep on nosing into our affairs the way you've started
in, we'll lose money.  Couldn't help but lose it.  You didn't take
office till the first of January and business won't be done in any
volume till well into the year----"

"When the ground is hard," interrupted Billy, "and the volume of
business won't be apt to leave telltale tracks.  I get the innards of
your meaning."

"Exactly.  So you see how absolutely necessary it is for us to be sure
that you won't horn into any of our li'l deals."

"We intend to be sure," declared Craft.

"Tip," said Billy, "that man is threatening me again.  You stop him.
He makes me nervous.  Sometimes I almost think he means it."

"I'm afraid he does mean it," said Tip.  "I--we don't want to do you
any harm, Bill, physically or otherwise.  You understand, that, don't
you?"

"Seein' that you keep on tellin' me so over and over, I'll try and
believe it.  But what I want to know is if you decide finally to do me
harm, physically or otherwise, what kind of harm you'll do.  Will you
drop me over the cliff on a dark and moonlight night and dash my
quiverin' body to death on the cruel rocks below, or will you slip a
li'l wolf poison into my morning coffee, or will you just cut my throat
or what?  I'd like to know.  Honest, I would.  My curiosity is standin'
on its hind legs."

"It's no joke," Tip told him seriously.

"Of course it ain't.  Who said it was.  Not me.  I'm serious as lead in
your lung.  Likewise I'm scared to death.  If I was standin' up you'd
hear my knees clacking together.  Not to disappoint you I'll shake the
bed.  There!  How's that?"

He grinned at them disarmingly.  They did not return the grin.

"Might as well tell him now," suggested Craft.

Tip nodded.  "I was going to.  Bill, you left your office in Golden Bar
last night."  He paused, looking up at the ceiling.

"You needn't try to make me think you're making it up as you go along,"
Billy fleered with a wink.  "I know better.  Flap along, flap along."

"You took your rifle with you and both your guns," resumed Tip.  "You
went to the stable and saddled your red-and-white pinto and rode out of
town."

"Right down Main Street, I suppose, where everybody could see me?"

"Nothing so coarse as that.  You were careful to strike the shelter of
the cottonwoods that grow so close to the rear of your corral."

Bill's eyes widened with well-feigned enjoyment.  He was reasonably
sure he knew what was coming.  "I'll bet somebody saw me, alla same."

"Several people saw you, saw you so plainly that they could swear to
your identity on the witness stand."

Billy leaned forward interestedly.  "They _could_, but would they?"

"All five of 'em would."

"Five, huh?  Don't you think that's a good many folks to have on hand
so providentially, a night like last night?  Raining and blowing for
Gawd's sake, remember?  You don't want to override this thing--whatever
it is."

Felix Craft laughed sardonically.  "We won't.  Don't you worry any
about that, Bill.  We've thought it out pretty average careful."

"That's good.  I'd be sorry to see you fellers make any mistakes.
Go'n, Tippy, old settler.  You've got to where me and my gallant steed
are a-skulking in the underbrush with half the town watching us like
lynxes.  What did I do next?"

"You haven't done it yet.  And whether you do it or not all depends on
yourself.  If you stay stubborn, then this afternoon you'll hold up the
Hillsville stage."

"Don't lemme forget myself too much.  Will I wear a mask?"

"Naturally--and your horse will be seen, your red-and-white pinto that
everybody knows.  It's something like the trick you worked on Driver
and Slike.  We listened very careful to your testimony at the hearing.
We're grateful to you for the idea, Bill."

Bill tossed away all credit with a wave of his hand.  "Oh, you clever
fellers would have thought of something just as good.  Trust you.
Next."

"Everybody on the stage will be able to swear to your clothes and your
horse and your guns.  One of your guns has a brass guard.  That gun
especially will be remembered."

"You do think of everything," Bill said in admiration.  "But does it
sound natural that I'd be using my horse, especially such a
conspicuous-lookin' horse as that red-and-white pinto, right where
everybody in the stage could see him?  Even if I am crazy enough to
hold up the stage, you've gotta give me credit for a li'l sense."

"I said there wouldn't be any coarse work," averred Tip.  "Your horse
will be tied in a li'l patch of woods put of sight of the stage, but
just about the time you're lining the passengers up on the trail, your
horse will bust out of the li'l patch of woods and show himself plain
for everybody to take a look at."

"Somebody will have to drive him out.  Suppose _he's_ seen, too?"

Tip shook a lazy head.  "Not him.  He won't be seen.  It will all look
mighty natural like an accident.  Somethin' scared the horse, that's
all."

"After I've robbed the stage what do I do?"

"There you have me," confessed Tip.  "I don't know what you'll do.  You
might ride away and keep going for several weeks.  That would be the
sensible thing to do."

"Or I can ride back to Golden Bar and be arrested by my own deputies
for stage robbery.  I don't suppose anybody would believe it if I said
I was kidnapped."

Tip smiled slightly.  "They might.  You never can tell what people
would believe."

Billy drew his knees up to the level of his chin and hugged them.

"No," he drawled, "too fishy.  Folks don't kidnap folks nowadays--only
in books.  Shucks, I'll bet you fellers were counting on just that
particular snag in human nature.  Looks like you've got me, don't it?"

Tip nodded his head.  "Looks like it."

"You've only got yourself to blame," said Felix Craft, studying the gun
on the table so handy to his fingers.

"True," acquiesced Billy.  "I've only got myself to blame.  So what
care I for poverty or precious stones?  Look here, fellow citizens, who
is going to take my part in this stage hold-up?"

"I will," said Craft modestly.  "I rode your pinto out of town last
night, and I think I made a good impression.  Yeah, I'm sure I did.
And I have more than a sneaking idea I can get away with the hold-up."

"Don't doubt it," said Billy.  "Don't doubt it for a minute.  You've
got nerve enough, I know that, and we're about of a size.  I--uh--I
_thought_ there was something familiar about that vest you're wearing.
And are those my other pants you have on?  The table hides 'em so I
can't tell for sure."

"They are your other pants, and your coat and hat are hanging on a hook
in the kitchen.  I had to put your spurs on my boots though.  Yours
were too small."

"Oh, I'm sorry," mourned Billy, genuine concern in his tone.  "If I'd
only known--  However, suppose some one in the stage puts a hole in
your face right over the eye, Felix.  Have you thought of that?"

Craft nodded.  "We have to take some chances."

"That's so.  You've got a sporting spirit after all, Crafty.  You'd
think running a gambling house so long would have taken it out of you,
sort of.  Might be your ranch has saved you.  And suppose I don't feel
like having you risk your valuable life, Crafty, what then?"

"Then the deal can be arranged," Tip answered for Craft.  "Give us your
word Bill, and you can walk out that door and ride back to Golden Bar
right after breakfast.  Right now, if you don't want to wait."

Billy looked incredulous.  "You mean to tell me, Tip, that you'd take
my bare word?"

"You're whistling we would," Tip declared heartily.  "Everybody knows
your word is good."

"I've never broken it yet, but don't you see, once broken, what good is
it?"

"But if you give it, you wouldn't break it.  We know you."

"But if I give my word to you to do this thing, I will have broken
it--to the territory.  When I took office I made oath to obey and
uphold the laws.  I guess maybe you forgot that."

Tip looked a trifle dashed.  "Well--" he began.

"You see," interrupted Billy, "If I broke my word to the territory, I'd
break it to you likely.  Anyway, what guarantee have you that I
wouldn't?"

"Looks like there was only one trail out," Craft said briefly.

"Gimme something to eat first," Billy implored, rubbing his empty
stomach.

"We'll do that much for you," said Tip.  "And while you're eatin' you
think it over.  There's a lot to be said for what we want you to do.
Think how easy it is, Bill.  Just go a li'l slow is all we want.  And
think what you get by it--complete freedom otherwise and that ten
thousand a year easy money we spoke of a while back.  Ten thousand
ain't to be sneezed at these days.  I dunno where you'd make it any
easier."

"Neither do I," Billy admitted frankly.

"You don't want to go to jail now, do you, Bill?" wheedled Tip.

"Sure not," was the prompt answer.

"Of course you don't.  And if you decide to accept our offer, Bill, the
secret will be left behind right in this room.  No one will ever know
anything about it.  To your friends you will be one of the straightest
sheriffs Crocker County ever had.  Oh, I know what you're thinking of.
You're afraid of what Hazel Walton might think.  But----"

"Let's leave her out of this," Bill struck in sharply.

"All right," acquiesced Tip, with a slight cough, "we will.  Alla same,
Bill, who's to ever know what you did?"

"I'd know for one," Billy observed simply.  "And suppose I tell
somebody?  You know I never could keep a secret."

"I told you how it would be, Tip," remarked Craft.  "He's too damn
honest for any use."

Billy nodded his gratitude.  "Felix, I thank you.  At least you are a
friend of mine."

"You forget me," said the disappointed Tip.  "If it hadn't been for the
ground-and-lofty talking done by yours truly, you, William, would have
already gone where the good Indians go.  I can tell you, Felix and Sam
are downright disgruntled with you."

"Felix, I take it all back," grieved Billy.  "At the first convenient
opportunity I shall drop a li'l arsenic in your coffee or a li'l lead
pill in your system.  I dunno which yet.  And that goes for you too,
Sam."

"What's that?" queried Sam, entering with a large platter of ham, eggs
and potatoes and setting it down on the table.  When Bill had
explained, he smiled grimly.  "Yep," said Sam Larder.  "You've been a
thorn in our well-known side for some time.  Trimming you off the
parent stem would do you--and us--a heap of good."

"I see," remarked Billy, sliding from the bed and hooking up a chair to
the table, "I see that the patient is not yet out of danger.  But the
doctors have not completely despaired of his life.  How about it, Tip?
You haven't given me up yet, have you?"

"Bill," said Tip irritably, "you're a fool."

"But not a damn fool," returned Bill with his mouth full.  "You'll have
to admit there is a method in my madness."




CHAPTER SIXTEEN

OBSCURING THE ISSUE

"Well," said Felix Craft, attempting a pleasantry, "how do I look?"

"You look," said Billy, following a meticulous survey of his
questioner's attire, "you look like Mr. Felix Craft, our genial gambler
and non-resident ranch owner."

"Shucks, I was hoping I'd look like you.  I'd sure enjoy making a good
appearance.  Maybe the mask will make a difference."

"Mask won't disguise your voice any."

"I'll talk like I had a cold.  Oh, I won't have any trouble making
folks think it's you."

Felix Craft spoke with tremendous confidence.  More than the occasion
warranted, thought Billy Wingo.

"Why don't you wear my star?" suggested Bill.  "Then folks would sure
think it was me."

"Too raw, and you know it.  Even you wouldn't do a fool thing like
that."

"Thanks for the compliment," Billy said humbly.  "Suppose now you get
plugged, Felix?"

"I won't get plugged.  Not me," declared Craft, pulling the six-shooter
with the brass trigger guard and making sure that the hammer rested on
an empty chamber.

"What makes you think you won't be plugged?" persisted Billy.

Craft darted a quick look at his questioner.  "Because I know I won't.
I'll have the drop on 'em, don't you see?  Nobody will dare cut down on
me."

"How do you know they won't?"

"I'm sure, that's all."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I am, that's why!" was the snappish reply.  Then in a
pleasanter tone Craft continued, "Because, Bill, I've figured out my
chances carefully.  Not once in a thousand times do stage passengers
resist a road agent."

"How about the Wells-Fargo guard?"

"He ain't riding this trip."

"How do you know he ain't?"

"Now don't you worry how we know, Bill.  We know, and you can bet on
that.  It's like I told you, we've figured this thing out to the last
li'l detail.  We----"

"You bet we have," cut in Tip quickly.  "For the last time, Bill,
hadn't you better change your mind?"

"I couldn't change it for the last time till I'd changed it at least
two other times, Tip," Billy drawled, one-half his brain busy trying to
fathom why Tip should have interrupted Craft so brusquely.  Tip never
did anything without reason.  Never.  And why was Craft so unnaturally
sure that he could hold up the stage without being shot?  Unnaturally,
exactly.  Because Felix Craft was one not given to explaining anything
he did.  Yet in this instance he had taken the trouble to explain at
some length.  Why?

Billy tilted back on the rear legs of his chair, cocked his heels up on
the table and stared at the ceiling.

"Well, how about it?" Tip demanded impatiently.  "You going to be
sensible?"

Billy waved a hand for silence and then sang in a whining bobtail bass:

  "Barney Bodkin broke his nose:
    Want of money makes us sad;
  Without feet we can't have toes;
    Crazy folks are always mad;
  A nickel candle's very small;
    Many fiddlers can't play jigs;
  One that's dumb can never bawl;
    Pickled pork is made of pigs.


"Ain't that a nice song?" Billy broke off, glancing round him for
praise.  "Lot of truth in that song, too.  Especially that part about
crazy folks.  They always are mad--like you and Felix, Tip, and our fat
friend, Mr. Samuel Larder.  Why all the delay, Felix?  If you really
are gonna to be a bold bad man, go'n and be one.  Don't dally round
here any longer.  Suppose you miss the stage?  You'd be disappointed.
So would I.  Because I don't want anything to prevent you from having a
fair crack at it.  I'd like you to have every chance--but I forgot, you
ain't taking any chances, are you?  This is a sure thing."

Billy, through half-shut eyes, was watching the men he was talking to.
He was watching Sam Larder especially.  For Sam was not a good poker
player.  Never had been.  His plump features were too expressive.  And
now the open-faced Sam was looking at Billy with a slightly worried
expression.  Furthermore, the worry was tinged with some astonishment.
At least, so it seemed to Billy.  Again why?

Here were three men, each of whom within five minutes had done that
which was not wholly warranted by the apparent facts.  He again had
cropped up and out those unnatural circumstances so ably dwelt upon by
Mr. William Noy.  As has been said, the law abhors such things and
seeks a remedy.  There is always a remedy; and investigation, patient
and thorough, will always find it.  Billy rather prided himself on
being a patient and thorough investigator.

Nevertheless he did not fail to realize that he was in a tight hole.
He felt the pinch already.  So he smiled at the three men his sunniest
smile.

"Looks like a wild night on the canal," he said calmly.  "I expect the
mules are pinning back their ears.  Yeah.  Going, Crafty?  Well, be
good and--oh, say, Crafty, ain't Jerry Fern the stage driver this trip?"

"I don't know," was the short reply.

"But you knew everything else," complained Billy, making a mental note
of another unnatural circumstance.  "Seems like you'd oughta know this,
too."

"Well, I don't," Craft tossed back over his shoulder, as he flung out
of the house.

The door slammed.  Billy looked at Sam Larder and grinned.  "If this is
Jerry Fern's trip, and I'm most sure it is, Felix will be out of luck.
Jerry is one stage driver who will always give a bandit a battle."

"Oh, I guess Crafty will get the drop on him all right," Sam Larder
averred easily,--too easily by half.

"I can see," said Billy with strange placidity, "I can see that I've
got to get out of here."

Both Sam and Tip laughed,--Tip heartily, Sam with a false note.

"Well, anyway," resumed Billy, "I've got my choice of hitting the trail
or being arrested."

Tip shook his head.  "You haven't any choice--none."

"Huh?" Surprisedly.

"Yeah.  You see, we talked it over again while you were asleep a while
back, and we decided if you couldn't see our way of it and be sensible
like we want, that we'd better just put you where you won't be mislaid.
Givin' you your choice of ridin' away or bein' arrested like I said at
first would be a bad move.  If you chose to hit the trail--  You're a
sport with ideas, Bill, and you might think up one to put the kybosh on
us.  But if you're in jail, your ideas won't help you much.  See?"

"I see I ain't gonna get a chance for my alley a-tall.  Who'll arrest
me--my own deputies?"

"No, we'll do that.  Here's the story: Your horse gave out and Sam
caught you trying to rustle a pony out of his corral.  Sam threw down
on you, held you up and when we, Sam, Crafty and I, y'understand
searched you, we found on you a couple of pocketbooks and Jerry Fern's
watch.  See?"

"I see, all right.  I see you haven't been quite open with our friend
Mr. Craft."

"How do you make that out?"

Billy hunched his shoulders.  He was observing the marked unease that
spread upon the countenance of Sam Larder.  Tip was forced to repeat
his question.

Billy gazed at him vacantly.  "Huh?  How--uh--oh, you want to know how,
do you?  Is that it?  Yeah.  Well, I'll tell you.  Here you knew alla
time that Jerry Fern was going to drive the stage this trip and yet you
didn't tell Crafty.  He didn't know who was the driver when I asked
him, remember?  You should have told him, Tip.  Skin game not to."

Tip laughed.  Was the laughter forced?  Billy thought it sounded as if
it were.  But he couldn't be sure.  Not with Tip O'Gorman.  For Tip was
a good poker player.  Still----

Billy wagged a forefinger at Tip.  "Why didn't you tell Crafty, you
careless child?"

"Crafty knew, all right," Tip stated.  "He was just joking with you, I
guess."

"I guess so too," drawled Billy Wingo.  "I guess so too."

He stood up and started to walk casually toward the door.

"That will be about far enough," said Tip.

Billy's hands fell away from the latch.  "If that gun goes off, it'll
make a fine mess on the floor."

"You come back and sit on the bed again," directed Tip, the six-shooter
trained unwaveringly on the captive's abdomen.  "Of course," he added,
"you might try the windows.  But even if I didn't drill you three times
where you live while you were doing it, you can't wiggle through those
windows.  Your shoulders are too broad and the sashes are too narrow.
That's why we picked this room.  Only one in the house with small
windows."

"I'd noticed that," said Billy, returning to the bed.  "How about a
drink, Tip?  I'm thirsty."

"Sam will get you a drink," said Tip.

Billy smiled.  "Why not you?  Can't you trust me with Sam?  Think I'll
corrupt his morals or something?"

"There's no telling what you'll do, Bill, and as I may have told you
once or twice we can't afford to take any chances."

"When am I going to be arrested for rustling one of Sam's horses?"

"Soon after Crafty gets here."

Billy's face assumed a peevish expression.  "Say, look here, Tip, I
don't just cotton to the idea of havin' Sam the one to throw down on me
and hold me up.  I've got my pride, such as it is, and I'd hate for
folks to go round blatting that a slow-pulling sport like Sam Larder
held me up.  Can't you make it yourself, Tip?  You've got a reputation.
I dunno that I'd feel so bad about it if it was you."

"Shucks, Bill, you're too sensitive.  I'm afraid we'll have to let the
scheme go through as it lays.  I don't believe in changing any part of
a plan once I've started to carry it out."

"There's something in that," admitted Billy.  "I'm a li'l superstitious
that way myself.  Ain't Sam taking a goshawful time to that drink?
Maybe you better step out and look for him."

Tip grinned.  "I hear him comin' now."

"Sam," said Billy, when the owner of the house appeared with the drink,
"Sam, how about a li'l hot something to eat?  I know it's only the
shank of the afternoon, but I'm hungry and I probably have a long hard
night ahead of me."

"You have, all right," concurred Sam.  "All your own fault, too.  But I
expect you know what's best."

Sam eased his fat self into a chair and began to construct a cigarette.

Billy elevated his eyebrows.  "Say.  I thought I asked you for
something to eat?"

Sam ran his tongue along the side of the cigarette.  "I heard you, but
I don't cook a thing till supper.  That's flat.  I been in and out of
that kitchen all day, and I've got enough, you bet you."

"You don't have to cook anythin' yourself.  Let your cook do it."

"I let him go to town for the day."

"I don't s'pose you could persuade one of your boys to throw a li'l
bite together for me, now, could you?"

Sam shook a decided head.  "I couldn't, Bill.  There ain't a boy on the
place.  I sent them all down on the Wagonjack to fence off a quicksand."

Billy closed his eyes to conceal the satisfaction in their depths.  Not
a man on the place!  Which was just what he had been working to find
out.  But the odds were still two to one, and an armed two to a
weaponless one at that.  When Craft returned, they would be three to
one, provided Billy still was a prisoner.

He surveyed his captors through drop-lidded eyes.  Sam Larder was
looking out of the window.  But Tip was on the alert, even as he had
been from the beginning.  And Billy knew well that Tip would not
hesitate to shoot.  Most decidedly the future did not look bright and
shining.  But Billy's was a confident nature.

"What's that?" queried Tip.

"What do--oh, that!  Simon says 'thumbs up,' you mean?  It doesn't mean
anythin' serious, Tip.  Just another way of saying, 'Faint heart never
won a bet in its life' and 'It's always darkest 'round midnight.'
Don't mind if I take a snooze, do you, Tippy, old boy?"

Billy rolled over on his stomach, rammed his head into the pillow and
completely relaxed his body, but, although his breathing soon became
deceptively regular, he was far from being asleep.  He was thinking as
purposefully as ever he had in his life.  He had to escape.  _He had
to_!  To permit his enemies to do this thing was intolerable.  There
was a way out.  Every strait, no matter how close and awkward it may
be, has its way out.

He built many plans while he lay there.  But there was a flaw in each
and every one of them.  His brain was still feverishly busy when Felix
Craft returned about the middle of the afternoon.

As the door opened and Craft entered, Billy sat up.  "Have a nice
time?" he drawled.

"Went through like clockwork," replied Craft, slumping into a chair
beside the table.

"Not even a li'l teeny-weeny hole in you anywhere?" Billy demanded
hopefully.  "Hell, I shore had a better opinion of Jerry Fern than
that."

"Jerry didn't do any fightin' to-day," said Felix.  "Handed over his
watch like a major."

"Yeah, Tip said you'd take his watch.  Funny you didn't know Jerry Fern
was driving this trip when I asked you.  Tip knew."

"Oh, I knew all right," Craft said carelessly.  "Lord A'mighty, I'm
hungry.  My stomach is sticking to my backbone closer than a postage
stamp to a letter.  I ain't had a thing to eat since breakfast.  Got
any more eggs and ham, Sam?"

"If you want anything to eat, you can cook it yourself," said Sam.
"It's like I told Bill here, I ain't goin' into that kitchen till
suppertime."

"That's always the way," grumbled Craft, kicking his chair back.  "Here
I ride from hell to breakfast and back--and I wanna say again that
having that hold-up fifteen miles from here was too much of a good
thing.  Just as well have had it two or three miles away.  It wouldn't
have made a bit of difference, not a smidgin, by Gawd."

"You know, Felix," defended Tip, "that we had it fifteen miles away so
the give-out horse of Bill's would look more natural."

"Damn his give-out horse," snarled Craft, moving stiffly toward the
hall leading to the kitchen.  "I wish it had give out before I was
born."

"So you found out how rough-gaited the pinto was, did you, Felix?"
Billy observed sweetly.  "Do you know, I had an idea you would.  Yeah.
You don't ride enough, that's whatsa matter.  Stick too close behind
your faro box, you do.  Y'oughta try the open air and the range more.
Tell you, Felix, I'll gamble you'll do more ridin' and less card
playin' in the next sixty days than you ever did in any two months of
your life before.  In round numbers I'll bet you ride more than six
hundred miles in the next two months.  Go you a hundred even.  The bet
payable in Golden Bar sixty days--say any time after the first day of
June."

"Humor him, Crafty," suggested Tip, glad of the diversion.  "Sometimes
they turn real violent."

"Make it five hundred even," said Craft, who was nothing if not
commercial.

Billy smiled pityingly.  "You poor feller!  But you've asked for it.
Five hundred she is.  It'll have to be a finger bet, because I haven't
a cent with me."

"Your word's good," said Craft and went on his way.

"How about you fellers?" Billy pursued brightly.  "Any chance of my
turning a honest penny?  I'll go you both the same as Crafty.  I
suppose my word's good."

"Better than gold," declared Tip, "but I don't see how you're going to
check up on anybody's riding."

Billy waved a complacent hand.  "That's the least of my troubles.  How
about it?  You fellers want to bet?  No?  Aw right, my loss is your
gain.  Tippy, I wonder if you'd mind opening the door and hollering to
Felix to fry me up a mess of eggs while he's at it?  Tell him to let
'em lay.  That's the way I like 'em.  I thank you.  Tip, you've made a
mistake."

"How?"

"Having that hold-up fifteen miles away and then having me arrested
here so close to Golden Bar.  You poor flap, is it reasonable to
suppose I'd hold up the Hillsville stage and then come scamperin' right
home, especially when I knew my horse had been seen?  You'll find the
judge and jury lookin' cross-eyed at that li'l bit.  Yeah, flaw in your
title, Tippy.  Y'oughta be more careful."

"Bill's right," said Sam Larder unexpectedly.  "I always thought
fifteen miles away was too far, and I know the jury will think it's
funny he came right back to Golden Bar.  That don't look natural.
Nawsir."

"Blah!" snorted Tip.  "You never thought anything about it till Bill
pointed it out to you, and at that, he's wrong.  And anyway, he ain't
arrested yet.  We can always rub out Bill if we feel like it.  This is
one county that has plenty of good places to leave a man--places where
he won't be found for years and years, and not then, judging by the way
the coyotes scatter a feller's bones.  Have you thought of that, Bill?
You'd better.  So far I've been dead against making you hard to find,
but if you keep on trying to show me where I'm wrong, maybe I'll accept
your view of the case."

This was plain speaking.  Billy accepted it at its face value.  Tip was
good-hearted enough.  He had proved it.  But he was desperate.  He had
proved that, too.

Billy smiled engagingly at Tip.  "Shucks, I was only talking to you for
your own good," he said in an injured tone.  "And here you go and get
all het up.  You make me more tired than a day's work."

"We may make you tireder," was the grim return.

When Felix Craft brought the eggs, he drew up at one side of the table
and Billy at the other.  The platter of eggs was between them.  Tip
looked on from his seat near the fireplace.  Sam lounged comfortably in
his chair.

Billy looked with a dissatisfied air upon the eggs.  "Ain't there any
bread, Felix?  One thing I like is to sort of smush a piece of bread
round my eggs till it gets all gooey and good.  A li'l butter on the
bread wouldn't hurt neither."

So Felix made another trip to the kitchen.  When he returned with the
bread and butter, Billy discovered that the pepper had been overlooked.

"For Gawd's sake use salt on 'em!" implored Felix.  "I never use
pepper, I don't.  Salt is just as good.  Healthier, too."

"But I don't like salt," protested Billy.  "I've got no manner of use
for it.  I want pepper, I do."

"Use salt," mumbled Craft, stoking busily.

Billy pushed right back from the table and refused to be comforted.  "I
want some pepper!  Whatsa matter with you jiggers--tryin' to starve me
to death?  Sam, you lazy lump of slumgullion, get me some pepper, will
you?"

"No, I won't.  I'm too comfortable and you're too finicky."

Bill glanced across at Tip.  "You going to refuse me too, Tip, old
citizen?"

"No," said Tip with a weary air, "I suppose not."

He arose and betook himself to the kitchen.  Returning with a large
old-fashioned tin pepper pot he thumped it down upon the table in front
of the captive.  "There y'are.  Now, stop your squalling."

"Thank you, Tippy, I will.  Yeah."

Billy scraped up to the table as Tip turned away.  "What's the matter
with this pepper pot, anyway?"

Tip turned to look.  Billy picked up the pepper pot slowly and stared
hard at it.  Felix Craft craned his neck.

"I don't see anything the matter with it," said Craft.

"Don't you?" murmured Billy, his fingers busy with the removable top.
"Look here."

Sam Larder did not move, but both Tip and Craft obeyed.  In fact, they
obeyed with such good will that the handful of pepper that Billy
instantly swept into their faces dusted up their nostrils as well as
into their eyes.

In throwing the pepper Billy had employed his left hand.  This left
hand had not completed the motion before Billy was reaching for the
platter of eggs with his right hand.

It was unfortunate for Sam Larder that he was a slow-going gentleman.
The platter struck him edgewise over the eye when his six-shooter had
barely cleared the holster.  The six-shooter thudded to the floor.  Sam
and his chair went over backward and lay together in a tangle amid the
fragments of broken platter and the remains of several eggs.  On the
way down some of the eggs painted Sam's countenance and part of his
shirt a bright yellow.  But Sam made no attempt to rise and scrape
himself off.  He was unconscious.

Billy, arriving in Sam's immediate neighborhood a split second after
Sam struck the floor, scooped up the fallen six-shooter and wheeled
back to face his other two enemies.  But they were too occupied with
their very real misery to be an immediate menace.  Felix Craft was
sitting on the floor, clawing at his eyes and swearing continuously.
Tip, coughing and sneezing, was not swearing.  Perhaps he had not
sufficient breath.  At any rate, he was on his feet, arms spread wide,
feeling his way along the wall toward the door giving into the hall.

Billy cat-footed up behind Tip and snatched away his six-shooter.  Tip
spun round at the touch, but Billy dodged away from the clutching hands.

Bang! a revolver bullet cut a button from his vest and tucked into the
wall at his elbow.  Billy's sudden movement had saved his life.  He
leaped back another two yards to get out of the smoke and crouched,
balancing his tense body on the balls of his feet.

He saw beyond the table Felix Craft with a gun in each hand.  The
gambler's face, despite the tears that overflowed his eyes and ran down
his cheeks, was fairly murderous.

"Tip!  Where are you?  Don't you move, Bill," Craft was saying, the
barrels of his two guns weaving to and fro uncertainly.  "Get away from
that door, Bill.  Don't you try and get away.  I can see you."

Billy leaned forward, picked up a fork from his set-out on the table
and flung it across the room.  It fell with a clatter.  Craft fired at
the sound.  The next instant Billy kicked him under the chin and
flattened him out.

"First time I ever saw a feller shoot by ear," observed Billy, calmly
divesting Craft of his gun belt and exchanging Sam's six-shooter for
his own gun with the brass-trigger guard.  "He did pretty good,
considering.  Tip, don't you try to bluff me, like Crafty, that you can
see.  Hey! do you want to be the third senseless man in this room?"

Tip answered the question by halting his groping way toward the
speaker.  He stood still, his body swaying, his muscular fingers locked
in the palms of his hands.  Billy stooped over the senseless Craft and
whipped off his neckerchief.

"Put your hands behind you, Tip," he directed.

"Damfi will!" Tip declared.

"I don't want to whang you over the head, Tip, but I'll have to if you
won't be good.  Stick 'em behind you."

Tip hesitated, then suddenly he thrust his hands behind him.  Billy
slipped around him, laid his six-shooter on a chair seat and drew the
handkerchief beneath Tip's crossed wrists.  The next instant Tip had
whirled about, Tip's knees were between his legs and Tip's long arms
were wrapped round him in an under-hold.

Tip was essaying the wrestling chip Cumberland men call the swinging
hype.  It is a crack chip and when well done is disastrous to an
opponent.  But it must be well done--the right arm under, hyping with
the right leg and striking outside with the left.  Fortunately for
Bill, Tip, although his right arm was under in a strong hold, had made
the mistake of sticking his left knee between Bill's legs.  He struck
outside with his right leg and missed.  With the right arm under, he
had not the leverage he should have had.

Billy, fighting for his life, dropped his arms--back-heeled Tip and ran
over him.  Thump!  The wrestlers, Tip underneath, landed full upon the
senseless back of Felix Craft.  Tip freed a hand, writhed his body
sidewise and struck viciously at Billy's unprotected stomach.  He
struck too low and the blow glanced off Billy's hipbone.  Billy,
striking in turn, drove a smashing right against the point of Tip's
chin.  Tip merely grunted and struck again at Billy's stomach.  Billy
parried the blow with his left and brought up his knee with the
laudable intention of kicking Tip in the abdomen.

Blinded though he was, Tip apparently sensed what was impending, for he
crowded his body against Billy and struck outside with all his might.
In an instant Tip was on top and Billy underneath.  The older man
jammed both thumbs into Billy's windpipe and wrenched himself astride
Billy's body.  The strangling Billy spread wide his legs, hunched up
his knees, planted both feet against Tip's ribs and straightened his
legs with a jerk.  Tip's hands were torn loose from Billy's throat and
Tip himself crashed backward against the wall.

Billy scrambled to his feet and without the slightest hesitation
clipped Tip over the head with the barrel of his six-shooter.  Tip
remained where he was.  Billy stood over him, pistol poised, till he
made sure he was senseless.  Then he took pains to make fast the trio's
respective arms and legs with strips torn from a nightgown belonging to
Sam.  He likewise removed his spurs from Craft's heels to his own.

This being done, he stripped Tip and Sam of their gun belts, gathered
up all the guns and ran out into the kitchen.  Here, on the floor,
Craft had thrown his saddle, bridle and saddle blanket.  Bill added the
lot to his burden and sped out to the corral.  The pinto was there,
looking very tired.  Bill hastily unstrapped his rope and dropped the
loop over a rangy-bodied chestnut with good legs and a mule stripe.
This animal he bridled and saddled, left it standing and ran back to
Sam's storeroom for another set of horse equipment.  It was his
laudable intention to pack the unconscious Felix into town and jail him
for the stage-coach robbery.  It was a bold plan, but Billy always
rather favored the bold plan.  The plan had not occurred to him till
almost the instant of throwing the pepper so he had had no time to
thoroughly mature it, but it seemed to contain more elements of success
than any other because it would forestall his enemies' scheme so
neatly.  With Craft in jail and wearing the clothing worn by the
robber, to which clothing the complaisant Jerry Fern and his passengers
would undoubtedly be prepared to swear, it would be hard indeed, if
Bill could not fasten the robbery on him, Craft.

He swore bitterly as he pulled taut the cinch strap of the second
horse.  Fastening the robbery on Craft was one thing, obtaining his
indictment and conviction were decidedly two others.  What though Judge
Donelson would do his best to see justice done, the doing of said
justice would rest in the laps of twelve men, each and every one of
them the opposite of good and true.  But at least he, Billy Wingo,
would not be the victim of an outrageous conspiracy.  There was that
much gained.

He led the two horses to the kitchen door and went within to fetch out
Felix Craft.

It must have been his good angel who caused him to look through the
front window.  He looked and saw a cloud of horsemen scouring toward
the ranch house.  Sam's field glasses were on the shelf above the
window.  He opened the window, snatched up the glasses and focussed
them on the approaching riders.  He immediately recognized, to his
great disgust, half a dozen of Sam Larder's punchers.  Obviously they
had completed the fencing-off of the quicksand sooner than expected.

"This," said Billy, dropping the glasses and leaving the room at speed,
"is no place for me."

At the first sight of the riders he had abandoned the plan of taking
Felix Craft to town.  He would be hard put to escape himself.  A
burdened led horse was an impossibility, even if he had had time to
carry out Craft and tie him to the saddle.  The punchers would be at
the ranch house in another sixty seconds, and if they should discover
him with their bound and unconscious employer and two of his friends,
they would shoot first and ask questions later.  Any one would,--under
the circumstances.

Billy topped his mount, struck in the spurs and fled.  The other horse
he perforce left standing.

As he flashed past the corner of the building, one of Larder's punchers
raised a yell.  Some well-meaning fool fired.  Zung-g! the bullet
buzzed overhead.  Smack!  Zung-g!  Smack!  Several bits of lead either
ripped past his ears or tucked into the posts of the corral he was
skirting.  It was borne in upon him that the Larder employees were
mistaking him for a horse thief, or some one worse.

He leaned over his saddle horn and began to ride.  From the Larder
corral to a clump of trees on the edge of a draw was a long hundred
yards.  As Billy galloped in among the trees he glanced over his
shoulder.  The corral concealed the horsemen.  He pulled up at the edge
of the draw, slid down the bank in a shower of stones and dirt, turned
sharp to the left at the bottom and tore ahead.  A mile farther on he
looked back.  No one was in sight yet.

"Ropin' themselves fresh horses," was his muttered verdict.  "Damitall,
running away was about the worst thing I could have done, after all!
But what else was there to do, I'd like to know?  If I'd stayed I'd
have been plugged for a holdup and now I'm a heap likely to be lynched
for a horse thief and a hold-up both."

He knew what he might expect from the brisk Larder outfit after Sam had
given it his careful version of the stage robbery.

"And that goes double for the rest of the county," he said to himself,
staring ahead over the flattened ears of his racing horse.  "It looks
like a cold day for Billy Wingo.  I'll have to do some almighty tall
hustling, that's a cinch."

Two miles and a half from the clump of trees at the back of Larder's
corral he turned his horse and scuffled up the right-hand bank of the
draw.  At the top he looked back.  He could see the clump of trees
quite plainly and below it, in the bottom of the draw, were several
black beads.  He counted four beads.  No doubt the remaining beads were
spreading out to right and left to head him off.

"Thank Gawd for the mule stripe," he muttered piously, trotting onward.
"We'll diddle 'em yet, old-timer."

Old-timer cocked an ear.  His muscles were moving rhythmically, his
long free stride was steady and collected.  His breathing, while
audible, showed no catchiness or other sign of distress.  He was good
for many miles yet, this chestnut with the mule stripe.

"Alla same, I've got to have another horse," Billy decided.  "The
quicker this feller gets back on the Larder range the better."

He didn't quite know how to get another horse.  When he came in town to
assume the duties of his office he brought with him from his ranch two
horses besides the red-and-white pinto.  His remaining horses he had
turned out into the hills, upon whose tops, when the snow flew, they
could grub up a living without too much difficulty.  These hills lay
sixty miles away beyond the Tuckleton range, and every horse on them
would be carrying a grass belly.

"Not one of 'em fit for hard riding right off the reel," he told
himself, and cursed a little.  "Looks like Sam Prescott was my one best
bet."

He came to a stream and rode in it till almost sunset when he left it,
dismounted beside a tall cottonwood and shinned to the top.  To his
earnest satisfaction he saw, hopelessly distant and following utterly
wrong lines, the tiny black beads that were his pursuers.

"And that's that," said Billy Wingo, rustling groundward rapidly.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WHAT HAZEL THOUGHT

Nate Samson, weighing sugar for Hazel Walton, looked at her sidewise.
"Heard the news, Hazel?"

She removed her gaze from the flyspecked window and stared abstractedly
at Nate.  "What news?"

Nate swelled his chest with satisfaction.  Some people enjoy being the
bearers of evil tidings.  Besides, Nate had stopped going to see Hazel.
Somehow he had been made to feel that his visits were not the bright
spots in her drab existence that he had considered them to be.  There
was more than a little malice in Nate's make-up.  And the news----

"Somebody killed Tip O'Gorman in his own house last night."

Nate's hand pushed the sliding weight several notches along the scale
beam.  Red Herring, the town marshal, slouching with seeming
aimlessness against a showcase at the other end of the counter,
covertly watched the girl.

"Somebody killed Tip O'Gorman in his own house last night," said Nate.

Hazel wondered why Nate's eyes never left her face.  "Tip O'Gorman!  He
was one of Uncle Tom's friends.  Who did it?"

Nate's eyes were fairly devouring her.  The man looked positively
pleased.  "They don't know yet.  But--"  He paused.

She waited.  What was he goggling and boggling at?  "Well?"

"They found Bill Wingo's quirt on the floor beside the body and right
inside the door a snakeskin hat-band the whole town knows belongs to
Bill."

Hazel's cheeks began to glow.  "That doesn't prove anything," she
declared in a level voice.  "Bill owns three quirts to my knowledge,
and he hasn't worn that snake hatband since last July.  It began to
stretch then and was always working up off the crown, and he couldn't
tighten it without ruining the skin, so he stopped wearing it."

"It worked off the crown once too often last night," offered Nate.

Hazel's black eyes were glittering through slitted eyelids.  Really,
Nate Samson should have been warned.

"You think Bill did it?" asked Hazel Walton.

Nate nodded.  "So does everybody else."

This was not strictly true.  Billy Wingo had several warm friends.

"At any rate," Nate pursued with relish, "there's a warrant out for
Bill."

"Another warrant!"  Hazel's hand moved imperceptibly nearer a
broad-bladed cheese-knife that lay on the counter.

"Another warrant.  You bet another warrant.  That makes three counts
he's wanted on--stage robbery, rustling that chestnut horse of Sam
Larder's and now this murder.  I always said Bill Wingo was too good to
be true."

Hazel Walton made no further remark.  She reached for the cheese-knife.
Nate Samson ducked under the counter.  The cheese-knife whirred within
an inch of his prickling scalp and stuck quivering in the edge of a
shelf.

"Liar!" announced Hazel in a loud, unsympathetic tone.  "I'm only sorry
I haven't a gun with me.  Talking like that about a man you're not fit
to say hello to.  Here, I don't want any of this stuff!  You can keep
it."

So saying, she toppled over her whole pile of wrapped purchases and
marched out of the store.  The marshal followed her to the door.  He
returned to his post at the counter a minute later.

"It's all right, Nate," he said.  "She's gone over to the other store."

Nate Samson emerged slowly.  His pouchy cheeks were pale with fear.
There was a dew of perspiration on his forehead.

"She--she threw a knife at me," said Nate Samson.

"It's stuck in the shelf behind you."  Thus the marshal with
indifference.

"That's assault with a deadly weapon," averred Nate, freeing the deadly
weapon and putting it carefully out of reach of other possibly petulant
customers.  "Why didn't you arrest her, Red?"

"She missed you, Nate.  She'd have had to cut you some before I could
arrest her.  'Threaten or Inflict a wound,' the statutes say, and she
didn't do either.  No."

"But she might have," grumbled the discomforted Nate.  "If I hadn't
dodged, she'd have split my head open."

"That's so," the marshal assented with relish.  "Do you know, Nate, I'm
glad it happened.  I dunno that I'd have thought of it if I hadn't seen
her buzz that knife at you."

"Thought of what?" fretted Nate, stopping to gather up the parcels that
had cascaded over his head to the floor.  "What you talking about,
anyway?"

The marshal settled himself to elucidate.  "I know that Bill had cut
you out with Hazel and----"

"No such thing," Nate contradicted sharply, with a reddening cheek.
"No such thing.  You got it all wrong, Red.  I stopped going to see
Hazel because it was so far and all.  I--uh--I got tired ridin' all
that distance."

"All right," the marshal gave in pacifically, "you stopped goin' to see
her because it was so far from town.  Bill started going to see her,
and he went to see her right smart for a spell."

"He didn't go any more than that good-for-nothing flibberty-gibbet of a
Riley Tyler or any other of half a dozen chaps," declared Nate.

"Aw right, aw right, have it your own way for Gawd's sake!  If you
don't shut up, I won't tell you what I think!"

"I'll tell you what I think!  I think I'm a idjit to let you stop
around my store alla time and fill your fat stomach to the neck with my
prunes and dried peaches and sweet crackers, It would be bad enough if
you took the salt fellers, but not you.  Oh, no, not a-tall.  Mr.
Herring has to have sweet ones!"

"I like them best," Mr. Herring said matter-of-factly.  "Lessee, where
was I?  Oh, yeah, you had gotten wore to a frazzle by the distance to
the Walton ranch, and Bill had started goin' in that direction,
himself.  Then this winter sometime he stopped goin' to see Hazel,
didn't he?"

"She got tired of him--naturally."

"You dunno what happened.  Neither do I know.  But that they had a
fight is as good a guess as any, and Love's young dream went bust.  We
all thought so, didn't we, and while we were trailin' Bill we didn't
take Hazel into consideration a-tall.  But what happens to-day when you
run down Bill to her face.  She slings a knife at you so prompt and
free you almost lost four fifths of your looks.  She said things too,
and all going to show that they've made it up and she's in love again
with Bill.  Well then, if she's in love with Bill, he's either coming
to see her off and on or else she knows where he is."

"Not necessarily.  It don't follow a-tall."

"You've soured on the girl, that's all the matter with you.  I tell
you, Nate, if a girl as pretty as Hazel Walton is in love with a
feller, do you think for a minute he wouldn't come to see her
sometimes, or anyway let her know where he is?  Why, you poor flap,
he'd be a wooden man if he didn't do one or both of those things.  And
Bill Wingo ain't anybody's wooden man.  Not that boy.  He's an
upstandin' citizen with all his brains and legs and arms and fingers
and feet, and that's the kind of hairpin he is."

"All that's a heap interesting, but let's hear the point of the
joke--if there is one."

"The point is that if a gent was to watch Hazel Walton and her
traipsings to and fro, by and by he'd get news of Bill Wingo.  And I'm
a great li'l watcher myself--especially when there's two thousand
dollars reward, like there is for Bill.  It's worth some trouble.  Tell
you, Nate, I'm glad I dropped in here this morning."

"You're marshal," pointed out Nate.  "You can't leave town."

"I ain't supposed to work all night--only day-times and part of the
evening.  It's a cinch Bill won't make any social calls in daylight and
it's a cinch the distance from town to Walton's won't tire me out like
it has you."

"Putting it that way," said Nate, suddenly perceiving an opportunity to
make a little easy money, "putting it that way, maybe I'll go too."

"It ain't necessary," protested the marshal, alarmed at the bare
thought of dividing a profit.  "I can manage it myself."

"I'll help you, though."

"Look here, whose scheme is this, huh?"

"You may have thought of it," conceded Nate, "but she was my girl
first, and I got as much right to go out there again and see her as you
have, and I got as much right to that two thousand dollars as you have."

The marshal swore frankly.  "I'll never tell you anything again.
Taking advantage of a feller this way.  I thought you were my friend."

"I am.  We'll go out together, huh?"

"We will not," contradicted the marshal.  "So you can just as well stop
stretching your mouth about it."

"Is that so?  Is _that_ so?"

"Yes, that's so.  This is my private party, and you wanna keep paws
off."

"Aw, go sit on yourself!"

"Remember what I told you," the marshal said in part and took his
departure.


Arrived home, Hazel unhitched and unharnessed, turned the team into the
corral and carried her purchases into the kitchen and dumped them on
the table.  She hung up her man's hat on one of the hooks that held the
Winchester, and fluffed the hair about her temples by the aid of the
mirror that hung below the Terry clock her uncle had brought West with
him.  She had always liked the Terry clock,--from the cheerful painted
pumpkins and grapes that graced the patterned top to the peculiar
throbbing ring it gave on striking the hour, she liked it.

And on a day the old clock was destined to repay that liking full
measure, pressed down and running over.

While she was fixing her hair, the clock struck three.

Silently she unwrapped her bundles and stored away the contents in
crock and box and drawer.  A tidy person, Hazel.  Then, because she was
still in a temper with Nate Samson, she changed her dress, donned a
pair of overalls and began to scrub the kitchen floor.

"Liar!" she said aloud, scraping a vigorous brush under the dresser.
"Liar!  I hope your old store burns up!"

So occupied was she with her thoughts and her work that she failed to
hear the approach of a rider.

"'Lo, Hazel," was the rider's greeting delivered across the doorsill.

Hazel's brush stopped swishing to and fro.

"Hello, Sally Jane," she said smilingly, supporting herself on one arm
and pushing back the hair that had fallen over her hot face.  "Put your
horse in the corral and come on in."

"I tied him to the wagon," said Sally Jane.

Out of respect for the wet floor she jigged on her heels across to a
chair and seated herself, hooking her heels in a rung.  Sally Jane
looked at Hazel with speculation in her eyes.

"You look mad, dear," Sally Jane said.

"I am," declared Hazel, and began to sizzle anew.  "Just listen," she
continued, hopping up to seat herself on the table, "to what I heard in
town this morning.  Nate told me--"

"----there now," she concluded.  "What do you think of that for a
put-up job?  Why, it's not even clever."

"No," agreed Sally Jane.  "Too many articles belonging to Bill.  Either
the quirt or the hatband, but not both.  I'd like to know how they got
hold of them."

"They?"

"Or he.  It may have been one man, and it may have been more than one.
You can't tell.  Tip had enemies--several.  But I'm afraid the gang
won't take that into consideration,--much.  All they'll be able to see
is the quirt and the hatband.  And on top of what's happened already!
Confound it, Bill shouldn't have disappeared this way.  All his friends
know he didn't--couldn't have either held up the stage or really
rustled Sam Larder's precious horse, which, by the way, was found mud
to the ears near Sam's corral this morning.  Fact, Dad told me.  But
why didn't Bill stay and face the music?  That's what I'd like to know.
He should have known he'd only hurt himself by running off this way.
That's where he made one big mistake."

At which Hazel jumped right off the table.  Her black eyes snapped.
"He didn't make any mistake!" she cried.  "He did just right!  I know
he did.  If he ran--went away--he had a good reason and you can't tell
me different, Sally Jane Prescott!"

The older girl threw out a hand in mock alarm.  "There, there, honey,
calm down.  I didn't mean anything against your precious Bill.  Not a
thing."

"He's not my precious Bill," denied Hazel with vigor.  "He's just a
good fuf-friend."

Sally Jane looked at her shrewdly.  "What makes you think your--friend
didn't make a mistake in going away?"

"Because he couldn't make a mistake if he tried.  That's why."  Oh, the
defiance in the voice of Hazel.

"Heavens above, child!  Men are only human beings and human beings make
mistakes.  Bill's a man, and he's liable to make mistakes like any
other one of them."

"Not Bill," Hazel contradicted flatly.  "He--he's different.  He----"

Alarums and excursions without--the gallop of several horses, shouts of
men, the jingle and stamp of riders dismounting at the door.  Entered
then Felix Craft and Sam Larder with drawn guns, in their rear the
district attorney, likewise with weapon displayed.

"Whose horse is that?" Craft demanded, fixing Hazel with a baleful eye.

"If you mean the one tied to the wagon," replied Hazel, "it belongs to
Sally Jane Prescott."

"What of it?" demanded Sally Jane, appraising the trio with a cool
glance.

"Visitors in my kitchen take off their hats," reminded Hazel severely.

The three men sheepishly removed their hats and sheathed their firearms.

"That's better," said Hazel.  "You don't know how silly you looked,
rushing in here brandishing your guns that way.  I was quite frightened
for a minute."  Here she giggled and winked at Sally Jane.

"We thought maybe Bill Wingo was here," said Craft.

"And what made you think Bill Wingo was here?" asked Hazel.

"That horse outside," he replied, watching her shrewdly.  "Do you mind
if I search the house?"

"I certain do mind!" cried Hazel.  "You dare search this house!  Just
you try it!"

"I'll bet the man's here," struck in the district attorney, pushing to
the front.  "Good thing we surrounded the house first.  If you've got
Bill Wingo hidden anywhere, you give him up, do you hear, Hazel?"

"Miss Walton to you, do you hear, Rale?"

He eyed her a moment venomously.

"Gettin' particular, ain't you?" he sneered.  "Any one would think--"
His tongue ceased suddenly to wag as she dipped the floor brush in the
dirty water of the bucket and drew back her arm.

"Yes?" prompted Hazel, her eyes beginning to glitter with a dangerous
light.

"Nothing," capitulated the district attorney and tried to smile.  "I
was thinking of a joke I heard last night, Miss Walton."

"That's better," approved Hazel.

"Look here," said the district attorney, "if Bill Wingo ain't here,
what did you go to town for to-day and buy all those supplies?"

Genuine astonishment showed on Hazel's countenance.  "Those supplies
were my regular supplies.  Don't you suppose I buy something to eat
once in a while?"

"Queer you should have come in and got that stuff the day after Tip
O'Gorman was murdered."

"We figure," said Sam Larder, "that Bill Wingo will have to eat right
along, and that unless he's left the country, it's natural he'll get
his supplies from his friends, and we know that you drove in town and
bought supplies this morning."

"Well, I've told you who I bought 'em for," snapped Hazel.  "Anything
else?"

"There is," said the district attorney smoothly.  "We're going to
search the house."

"You won't take my word that Bill Wingo isn't here?" demanded Hazel.

"In a matter like this we can't," replied the district attorney.

"One moment," murmured Hazel, stepping back.

The next instant she had jerked her Winchester off the hooks and cocked
the hammer.  "Now," she resumed, holding the weapon level with her
belt, "now go ahead and search the house."

The district attorney, with a haste that was ludicrous, slid behind the
fat bulk of Sam Larder.  Even Felix Craft smiled.

"She's bluffing," declared the district attorney.  "I'll go out and get
the marshal."

He departed hurriedly, to return almost immediately with Red Herring.
The latter, sheepish as to the face and with shambling legs, advanced
into the room.  The district attorney pointed dramatically at Hazel.

"Arrest her," he directed.

"Huh?" remarked the marshal, eyeing Hazel's artillery.

"Arrest her, I said.  To threaten with a deadly weapon is a statutory
offense."

"Well, I dunno," balked the marshal.

"Go on and arrest her.  I'll back you up."

"Will you?"  Absolutely no enthusiasm on the part of the marshal.

"G'on!  What are you waiting for?" barked the exasperated district
attorney.

"I'm waiting for her to put up her gun," was the truthful reply.

"What you afraid of?  She won't shoot.  She's only bluffing, I tell
you."

"You arrest her then.  I ain't none sure I got a right to.  I'm only
supposed to make arrests in town.  You better get one of the deputies
to arrest her, Arthur, I--I'd rather you would."

The marshal oozed outdoors.  The district attorney said something.

"No more of that," Sam Larder enjoined him.  "You stop your cussin',
you hear.  There's ladies present."

"Where?" the district attorney demanded, staring about him insolently.

"My father will ask you what you mean by that," said Sally Jane.

"I didn't mean you," mumbled the angry man, perceiving that he had gone
a little too far.  "I--I was a li'l hasty, I guess.  No offense,
ladies, I hope."

He achieved a clumsy bow and again faced Hazel.  "Now, look here, you
can't go on acting this way, you know.  You're only hurting your own
case.  Be reasonable, be reasonable."

"And let you poke all through my house!" she snapped him up.  "Not
much.  I don't want any trouble, but I'll have to shoot the first man
that goes beyond this room."

"Told you you'd get her all stirred up," said Sam Larder.

"We didn't want you to come along anyway, Rale," contributed Felix
Craft.  "You're too buffle-headed for any human use.  Y'oughta take
things more easy with the girl.  If you'd left it to us, everything
would have been all right."

"I suppose busting in with your guns pulled is one way of taking it
easy."

"I notice you had yours out," supplied Felix.

"I thought the man might be here, same as you," defended the district
attorney.

"Which is why you let us go first," sneered Sam.

"When you're quite through bickering among yourselves--" drawled Hazel.

"I wish you'd point that rifle somewhere else," the district attorney
remarked uneasily.

"It's all right where it is," was the instant return.

"I could arrest you, you know, if I wanted to," he pointed out.

"I heard you say something like that to the marshal," nodded Hazel.

The district attorney stared a moment.

"Huh!" he muttered finally and strode to the door.  "Hey, Red!" he
called.  "Come here a minute, will you?"

"Now I ain't gonna arrest her for you and that's flat!" announced a
sulky voice without.

"Nobody's asking you to.  Come in, man, come in."

The marshal sidled in, stumbling in his efforts to keep one eye on the
district attorney and the other on Hazel's Winchester.

"You were in Nate Samson's store this morning, weren't you, Red?"  It
was more of a statement than a question.

The marshal immediately gave the district attorney the full benefit of
both eyes.  "Huh?"

"You were there when this girl, Miss Walton, made some purchases,
weren't you?"

"Yeah," admitted the marshal.

"When Nate told her of the murder and the warrant sworn out again Bill
Wingo, what did she do?"

"Why--" stuttered the marshal.

"She flew into a rage, didn't she?  She threw a knife at Nate, didn't
she?"

"Who told you all this?" the marshal wished to know.

"Nate told me."

"Damn Nate, that's all I got to say," pronounced the marshal, disgusted
at the duplicity of a former friend.  "I was wonderin' where you got
the notion so sudden of coming out here.  Damn that--  Excuse me, Miss,
for cussin'.  What's that you want to know, Rale?  Yes, I was there and
she slung a knife at Nate.  With any luck she'd had hit him and serve
him right, the flat-tongued snitch."

"There now," exclaimed the triumphant district attorney, "you hear
that, Miss Walton?  You drove into town the morning after the murder.
When you are told of the murder and the warrant, you fly into a passion
and try to kill the inoffensive storekeeper who told you the news.  Not
content with this, you throw what you've already bought at the
storekeeper and make your purchases at the other store.  I have learned
that among the purchases were twelve boxes of .45-90 rifle cartridges
and six boxes of .45 caliber Colt cartridges.  I have reason to believe
that these cartridges are not intended for your personal use.  In fact,
I am positive you bought them for the murderer, William H. Wingo."

The marshal glanced quickly at the district attorney.  He himself had
not been aware of the ammunition item.  The marshal inwardly cursed the
district attorney and Nate Samson.

"Well," boomed the district attorney, when Hazel did not instantly
speak, "what have you to say?"

"Plenty," said she then.  "I bought those cartridges for my personal
use.  This Winchester is a .45-90 and my six-shooter is a .45.  I guess
I've got a right to buy ammunition now and then if I like."

"Rats!" snarled the district attorney, stiff in his conceit.  "What
does a girl want with two hundred and forty rifle cartridges and three
hundred revolver cartridges?  Those revolver cartridges especially?
You won't have use for 'em in ten years.  You bought them for Bill
Wingo.  You can't fool me!  You know where he is, you know you do, and
I know you do, and I intend to put you in jail as a suspicious
character until you tell us where he is."

"What a filthy animal you are, anyway, Rale!  I didn't know such things
as you lived!"  Thus Sally Jane, her upper lip fairly, curling with
disgust.

"When I get back to Golden Bar, Miss Walton," fumed the district
attorney, unmoved by the insult, "I intend to swear out a warrant for
your arrest, and have it served by deputy sheriffs.  If necessary, I
shall swear in deputies other than the two men, Shotgun Shillman and
Riley Tyler, for the purpose of serving this warrant.  I intend to have
the law obeyed."

"She ain't busted any law that I can see," struck in Sam Larder gruffly.

Neither he nor Felix Craft had intended to go as far as an actual
arrest of the girl.  They were bad enough, in all conscience, but they
drew the line somewhere.

Felix Craft shook his head.  "No arrest, Arthur.  That don't go."

"I can arrest her, I tell you," insisted the district attorney.

"No," said Craft firmly.  "Miss Walton," he went on, turning to the
girl, "we were a li'l excited when we came in here.  Seeing that horse
outside and all, we got the idea that maybe Bill was here.  Will you
give us your word he isn't?"

"Why, certainly," she said.  "Bill isn't here, I give you my word."

"Fair enough," said Craft.  "We'll be going.  Come along, Arthur, move."

He and Sam hustled the district attorney out between them.  Craft
called in the cordon of horsemen that had surrounded the ranch-house.

"Crawl your horse, Arthur," ordered Craft.  "What you waiting for?"

Arthur, swearing heartily, did as directed.  "I don't see why you don't
want me to have her arrested," he said in part as they rode townward.
"A few days in the cooler----"

"No sense in it," declared Craft.  "A lot of folks in the county
wouldn't like it either, she being a woman and a good-lookin' one
besides.  You leave her alone."

"Yeah," slipped in Sam, "wait till you get some real evidence against
her.  Suspicion ain't anything."

"It would be enough for me to arrest her all right," persisted the
district attorney.

"Blah!  You couldn't hold her a week," averred Craft, "and you know it.
And lemme tell you, I don't believe she knows any more about Bill Wingo
than I do.  You know they busted up this winter some time."

"Changed your tune mighty sudden," sneered the district attorney.  "On
the way out you were as sure as the rest of us we'd get some kind of a
clue at Walton's.  Those cartridges----"

"Dry up about those cartridges!" exclaimed Felix.  "You got cartridges
on the brain."

Then the wrangle became general.

Hazel, standing in the doorway, watched the cavalcade disappear around
the bend in the draw.

"I guess," she said, taking a box of cartridges from the top shelf and
snicking open the sealing with a finger nail, "I guess I'd better load
this rifle."




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE BARE-HEADED MAN

"But I rode over here especially to bring you back with me to stay a
while, a long while, as long as you like and longer."  Thus Sally Jane,
looking injured.

Hazel shook her head.  "Can't, dear.  Honestly, I'd like nothing better
than to go a-visiting, but I've just got to look after the ranch."

Sally Jane gazed at her friend a moment in silence, then: "You don't
really have to stay here, Hazel.  You only think you do.  You'd much
better come over and stay with us.  You know I'd love to have you, and
this is no place for you all alone by yourself this way.  Suppose----"

"Who'd hurt me?" interrupted Hazel.  "Anyway, I'm not going to be
driven off my own ranch by anybody.  I'm going to stay here until I
find a buyer for the place."

"But that may be a year," objected Sally Jane.

"It may be several years.  Money's awfully tight just now, the
Hillsville cashier said, the last time I was over."

"I don't care, somebody--some man ought to be here.  Can't you get Ray
back earlier than usual?"

Hazel shook her head.  "I don't want to, Sally Jane.  He went east to
Missouri to visit his folks, and I'm not going to spoil his good time.
He'll be back in time for the spring round-up, though."

"That won't be till next month," objected Sally Jane.  "Anything might
happen in the meantime.  Land alive, just look at this afternoon!"

"Well, look at it.  Not a thing happened to hurt, did it?  Lord, Sally
Jane, men are the easiest things in the world to handle when you know
how."

"You don't give them half enough credit," said Sally Jane dryly.
"Scratch a man and you'll catch a savage every time.  Beasts!"

"Rats!" remarked Hazel, and gave her head a toss and turned her
attention to practical things.  "_Look_ at this clean floor!  _Look_ at
the dirt they tracked in!  Oh, the devil!  I could swear!"

She fetched a fresh bucket of water and began to scrub the floor anew.

"I'm going," announced Sally Jane.  "Once more, Hazel, won't you change
your mind and visit with us for a while?"

Hazel shook her head.  "I only wish I felt able to.  But you don't have
to go yet.  Stay to supper, do.  Let the male parent get his own supper
for a change.  It won't hurt him.  And there'll be a fine old moon
to-night about eight."

"I promised Dad French bread for to-night, or I would.  I can't
disappoint him.  So long.  Ride over first chance you get."

When Sally Jane was gone, Hazel hurried to finish the scrubbing of the
floor.  When she had wrung out the last mop rag and hung it to dry
behind the stove, she fed the chickens and horses, took the ax and
bucksaw, went out to the woodpile and sawed and split a man's size jag
of stove wood and kindling.

In the red glory of the sunset she returned to the house with her arms
piled high with wood.  She made sufficient trips to fill the woodbox,
then started a fire in the stove, put on the coffeepot and ground up
enough coffee for four cupfuls.  She liked coffee, did Hazel Walton.

Bacon and potatoes were sputtering in their respective pans on the
stove before it was so dark that she was forced to light the lamp.

She had slipped back the chimney into the clamps and was waiting for it
to heat so that she could turn up the wick when the faintest of creaks
at the door made her look up.

She did not move, just stood there staring stupidly at the bareheaded
man that blocked the open doorway.  For the bareheaded man was Dan
Slike, his harsh face rendered even less prepossessing than usual by a
week's stubble of beard.  A six-shooter was in Dan Slike's hand, and
the barrel was pointing at her breast.

"Don't go makin' any move toward that rifle on the hooks back of you,"
said Dan Slike, slipping into the room and closing the door behind him.
"If you do, I'll have to beef you.  I don't wanna hurt you--I ain't in
the habit of hurting women, but by Gawd, if it comes to me or you, why
it'll just naturally have to be you.  Dish up that grub a-frying there
on the stove.  I'm hungry.  Get a move on."

At that she turned in a flash and reached for the Winchester.  She had
it barely off the hooks when Dan Slike was beside her.  With his left
hand he seized the gun barrel and shoved it upward.  And as he did so,
he smote her across the top of the head with his pistol barrel.

A rocketing sheaf of sparks danced before her eyes and her knees gave
way.  She sank to the floor in a dazed heap.  He dragged the Winchester
from her failing grasp as she fell.

He began to work the lever of the rifle with expert rapidity.  A
twinkling stream of cartridges twirled against his chest and fell to
the floor.  Carefully he gathered all the cartridges and dropped them
into the side pocket of his coat.  The unloaded rifle he leaned against
the door jamb.

Hazel slowly raised her body to a sitting position.  She clung to a leg
of the table for support.  She passed a hand very tenderly across the
top of her head.  She felt a little nauseated.

Dan Slike, watching her with hard, bright eyes, strode to the stove and
poured himself out a cup of coffee.  He spaded in a spoonful of sugar
and stirred the mixture meditatively.  But he did not cease to watch
her.

"You'll be all right in about ten minutes," he said calmly.  "I didn't
hit you so awful hard.  I didn't go to.  Gawd, no!  I figure always to
be as gentle with a woman as I can.  No sense in bein' rougher than you
got to be, I say."

He drank the coffee slowly, with evident enjoyment.

"Nothing like coffee when your cork's pulled," he rambled on, sloshing
round the last of the coffee in the bottom of the cup.  "It beats
whisky, but now that I've had the coffee I don't care if I do.  Got a
bottle tucked away somewhere, li'l girl?"

She was still unable to speak.  Her mouth had an odd, cottony feeling.
She shook her head in reply to his question.

"Is that so?" he said in the chatty tone he had been using.  "I guess
maybe you're mistaken."

He set the cup down on the table, reached down and twisted his fingers
into her hair.  With a yank that brought the tears springing to her
eyes, he said:

"About that bottle now--ain't you a mite mistaken?  What's the matter?
Cat got your tongue?"

Again he pulled her hair, pulled it till the tears ran down her cheeks,
and she moaned and cried in purest agony.

"C'mon!" directed Dan Slike.  "Quit your bluffin', you triflin' hussy!
You ain't hurt a-tall.  And I can't stay here all night while you sit
on the floor and beller.  Stand up on your two legs and bring me that
bottle.  And no monkey business either.  Say, have you got a
six-shooter?  Answer me, have you?"

"No!  No!  I haven't!  I haven't another gun."  She told him this lie
in such a heart-breaking tone that he was constrained to believe her.

"I'll have to take your word for it," he grumbled.  "But you remember,
girl, the first false move you make with a knife or anything else, I'll
blow you apart.  Damn you, get up!"

With which he gave her hair such a terrific twist that the exquisite
pain expelled all her initial fear of him, and she leaped at him like a
wildcat, her nails curving at his eyes.

Dan Slike dodged backward, set himself and swung his right fist without
mercy.  He was no boxer.  The accurate placing of blows was beyond him.
So it was that the swing intended for her jaw landed on her cheekbone,
a much less vulnerable spot.  Nevertheless the smash was enough to send
her spinning sidewise over a chair and piled her sicker and dizzier
than before in a corner of the room.

She lay still and panted.

"You see how it is," he pointed out.  "You ain't gainin' a thing by
fighting me.  Might as well be sensible first as last.  But lemme tell
you if you keep on a-fussin' at me thisaway, I'll sure have to be rough
with you."

He sat down on the edge of the table and rolled a cigarette.  Lighting
it he drew in a slow luxurious lungful.

"One thing I gotta say for your sheriff," he observed behind a barrier
of smoke, "he gimme plenty of tobacco while I was his guest.  I can't
say but he took right good care of me--for a sheriff."

His incarceration having deprived Dan Slike of conversational
opportunities, he was now experiencing the natural reaction.  He was
talking too much.

"Fed me well too," he resumed.  "Oh, I ain't complainin'.  I--Hell,
your grub's beginnin' to burn.  I'll just move those frypans back.
Feelin' any better, girl?"

He came and stood over her, hands on hips, and looked down at her
grimly.  She shrank away, her wide eyes fixed upon him in fright and
loathing.

It was evident that he found his survey of her satisfactory, for he
kicked her in the side.  Not hard.  Simply as an earnest of what lay in
store for her in case she chose to continue contumacious.  "Get up," he
commanded.

The nausea and most of the dizzy feeling had evaporated.  She was
perfectly able to get up, but it was intolerable that she should do the
bidding of her uncle's murderer.  She continued to lie still.

"Get up!" he repeated, and kicked her again--harder.

She got up, gasping, a hand at her side.  She felt as though one of her
ribs was broken.  His long fingers fastened on the tender flesh of her
shoulder.  He shoved her across the room.  She brought up against the
stove.  Instinctively she thrust out a hand to save herself.  Her bare
palm smacked down upon the hottest stove lid.

She sprang back with a choked cry and clapped the burned hand to her
mouth.

Dan Slike laughed merrily--for him.  "Serve you right.  You're too damn
pernickety, anyway.  Aw, whatcha blubberin' about, cry-baby?  Dontcha
know enough to put some bakin' soda on the burn and tie a rag round it?
Ain't you got any brains a-tall?  Pick up that kettle!  Just pick it
up!"

Her unburned hand fell away from the kettle.  She had seen the
six-shooter flash out at his last words.  She knew now that this man
meant what he said.  He would kill her, even as he had killed her uncle.

With a shudder that began at her knees and ended at the nape of her
neck she went to the cupboard and took out a carton of baking soda.

"Here," he said roughly, when he saw that she was making a poor job at
bandaging, "here, you can't tie that one-handed.  Lemme."

He bandaged the hand, made fast the bandage with a too-tight knot.  He
obviously lingered over the business, deriving pleasure from her state
of terror.

It has been shown that Hazel was not lacking in courage.  Indeed, she
had more than the average woman's share of it.  But this man staggered
her mentally.  She did not know what he would do next and was in a
panic accordingly.

"Scared stiff," he remarked, as he twirled her about and headed her
toward the stove.  "You don't like me a-tall, do you?  Nemmine.  Lessee
how your grub tastes."

She had set the table for herself before he came in.  He sat down at
her place, his eyes bright upon her.  Fumblingly she filled a plate
with bacon and fried potatoes.  She brought him another cup of coffee
and placed the condensed milk and the sugar within his reach.

"Spoon," he said shortly.

She took the one from the cup he had just drunk from and handed it to
him.  He caught her wrist.  The spoon fell with a clatter.

"You're so scared of me, you can't hardly breathe," he said calmly.  "I
don't like li'l girls to be scared of me, so you can just get you
another plate and cup and saucer and sit down there on the other side
of the table and eat your supper with me."

To eat supper with her uncle's murderer!  Here was a grotesque jape of
fate.  It was unthinkable.  Absolutely.  The man divined something of
what was passing in her mind.

"All in the line of business, li'l girl," he said, with a backward jerk
of his head toward the front room where he had killed her uncle.  "I
didn't have a thing against him--personally."

"There were dishes here on the table," she babbled hysterically.  "They
found them here after--after--showing how he'd fed you first, and----"

"Sure he fed me," he interrupted.  "I was hungry, hungrier than I am
now.  Alla same, you gotta eat supper with me.  I want you to, and I
always get what I want."

He twisted her wrist to emphasize his wish.  She uttered a little moan.
"Don't!  Oh, don't hurt me any more!  I'll do what you want."

Beaten, body and soul, she went to the cupboard and got herself plate
and cup and saucer, knife and fork and spoon.  Her six-shooter was in
the next room, hanging in a holster on the wall.  A loaded shotgun
stood at the head of her bed.  But it is doubtful that even if the
weapon had been within short reach, she would have dared attempt to use
either.  Dan Slike had scared her too much.

She sat down opposite the man and tried to eat.  It required every atom
of will power to induce her throat muscles to permit her to swallow.
Dan Slike watched her with savage satisfaction.  He found the situation
intensely amusing.  To murder her uncle and later eat a meal with the
niece.  What a joke!

"I haven't forgotten about that bottle," he remarked suddenly, pushing
back his chair.  "You thought it had slipped my mind, I guess, didn't
you?  I always have a drink after meals, or my victuals don't set good."

Without a word she went to the cupboard and brought back a bottle of
whisky.  He took it from her and held it up against the lamplight.

"This is only half full," he said severely.  "You got another round
somewhere?"

It was fright and not the lie that made her stammer.  "Nun-no."

Oddly enough, he saw fit to believe her.  Perhaps it was because he had
just eaten and was at bodily ease with the world.  She stood before
him, arms limp, eyes on the floor.  He drew the cork from the bottle
and took a long pull.

"Good whisky," he vouchsafed between the third and fourth drags.  "I'll
take what's left with me--if you don't mind."

He was going then!  Her poor terrified heart beat with a trifle more
spirit.  She looked up.  Their eyes met.

"Don't look so happy!" he snarled.  "Maybe I'll take you with me!"

He eyed her discomfiture with a sinister look.  He uttered a short bark
of a laugh.  "Dontcha fret.  I ain't got time to fuss with any female.
Not that I would, even if I had time, so don't go flatterin' yourself
any.  Women ain't in my line.  You're all a squalling bunch of Gawd's
mistakes, every last one of you, and you can stick a pin in that.
Women?  Phutt!"

So saying, Dan Slike turned his head slightly and spat accurately
through the open draft into the stove.  An engaging gentleman, Mr.
Slike!

"I saw two mules and a horse in the corral when I came by," he resumed,
dandling the whisky bottle on his knee.  "Looks like a good
horse--better than the one I left up in the timber.  I'll ride your
horse and lead the other.  Where do you keep your saddle and bridle?
In the shed, huh?  Aw right, you can show me when we go out.  Listen, I
expect to-morrow some time you'll have a few gents a-callin' on you.
Yeah, to-morrow.  It'll likely take those Golden Bar citizens till
about then to pick up my trail.  You needn't to look too hopeful.
Those jiggers don't know they're alive.  I saw 'em scatterin' off
hell-bent the wrong way before I ever started this way, you bet.  Why,
hells bells, I even topped a horse behind a corral with the woman right
in the house gettin' supper, and she never knowed it.  Tell you, girl,
I'm slick.  And if I didn't have more sense in the tip of my finger
than all those fellers and their li'l tin sheriff and his li'l tin
deputies, I'd be a heap ashamed of myself.  Say--about that sheriff; I
heard folks talkin' in the street this afternoon and they said the
sheriff had skedaddled because he'd murdered a sport named O'Gorman.  A
fi-ine sheriff he is, to slop around turnin' tricks like that.  A
fi-ine sheriff, and you can tell him I said so."

He drove in the cork with the heel of his hand and slipped the bottle
into a side pocket of his coat.  Standing up, he tapped her smartly on
the shoulder.  "Get me that hat over there on the hook.  I left town in
such a hurry I clean forgot to fetch mine along."

Silently she brought the hat.

"Why do you women always wear hats too big for you?" he grumbled, after
trying it on.  "I couldn't keep this thing on my head."

She had brought an Omaha newspaper from town that day.  It lay
outspread on the table.  He tore off a half page, plaited it neatly and
stuffed the thickened strip in behind the sweatband of the hat.

"It will fit me now," he said briskly, pulling on the hat.  "Gimme
those cantenas and saddle pockets hanging on the wall."

She obeyed stumblingly.  Into the cantenas, from her store of
provisions, he packed bacon, coffee, a sack of flour a third full, a
tin can full of salt, another can filled with matches, a salt pack full
of sugar, several cans of tomatoes and peaches, a frying-pan and a
small can of lard.  In the saddle pockets he stowed away the twelve
boxes of rifle cartridges, the six boxes of revolver cartridges and a
knife, fork and spoon.  The long-bladed butcher knife he nonchalantly
slipped down his boot-leg.

"I'll tie the coffee pot on the saddle," he said, buckling the billet
of a cantena flap.  "It's too wet to go in here.  Can't take a chance
on spoiling my flour.  C'mon, le's go find the saddle."




CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE PERSISTENT SUITOR

"You see," said Dan Slike, as he topped his mount, "I ain't really been
hard on you.  I didn't ask you for a nickel.  I only took what I
needed.  And if you hadn't fought me like you did, I wouldn't have laid
a finger on you.  Think of that and be happy."

He whirled the horse and rode away toward the lower ground behind the
house, the coffeepot clacking rhythmically against the barrel of the
Winchester Hazel had vainly hoped he would forget to take with him.

Hazel remained standing beside the corral gate.  Suddenly she was
conscious of a great weariness.  She was as one who has traveled a
day's journey without food.  Her arms and legs were leaden.  Her head
ached, her body ached, her spirit ached.

With dragging steps she returned to the house.  From the cupboard she
brought forth the bottle of whisky she had lied to save and poured a
stiff four fingers into a teacup.  She drank off the liquor in three
gulps.  But she was so spent that, other than a fit of coughing, there
was no effect.

The lamp was burning low and fitfully, filling the kitchen with a smell
of burning wicking.  She had forgotten to refill it that morning.  She
put away the whisky bottle, turned out the lamp and filled it by the
faint light from an opened draft-chink.  But in reaching for the
chimney, she knocked it to the floor and broke it.

Apathetically, every movement mechanical, she found another chimney and
adjusted it in the clamps.  A smell of burned hair suddenly filled her
nostrils.  A lock of hair had fallen against the lamp chimney.  She put
her hand to her head.  Her hair was in a slovenly tangle over one ear.
She did it up any way and skewered it fast with a few pins.

Crunch!  The remains of the lamp chimney crackled under foot.  She
brought out the dustpan and brushed and swept up the pieces.  She
carried the broken glass out to the trash pile.  When she returned to
the kitchen, there was a man standing in the middle of the room.

Nothing had the power to surprise her now.  She would not have been
amazed had the devil himself popped into the room.  The man turned at
her entry.  He was Rafe Tuckleton.  He glowered down at her.  She shut
the door and put away the dustpan and brush behind the wood-box.

"What do you want?" she asked lifelessly.

"Who's been here?" he demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the
table.  "Two plates, two cups, two saucers--who you been entertaining?"

Entertaining!  Good Lord!  Hazel sat down on the wood-box and laughed
hysterically.

He was around the table and confronting her in three strides.  "Who's
been here?" he kept at her.

"Dan Slike," she said with a spasmodic giggle.

"You're a liar," he told her promptly.  "Dan Slike didn't come this
way.  He--he went another way.  There's a posse on his trail now.
You've had Bill Wingo here, that's whatsamatter."

"I haven't," she denied, wagging her head at him.  "Dan Slike was here,
I tell you."

"The hell he was.  You must think I'm a fool.  Bill Wingo's been here,
I tell you.  Think I don't know, huh, you deceivin' hussy!  Trying to
make small of me, carryin' on with other men, huh?"

She said nothing.  It is doubtful if she heard him, for all his roaring
voice and gesturing fists.  Billy Wingo!  _Her_ Billy--once.  He had
loved her too--once.  What a queer, queer world it was.  Everybody and
everything at cross-purposes.  Yet there was a reason for it all.  Must
be.  Even a reason for Rafe.  She looked up at Rafe.  He was glaring
down at her with a most villainous expression on his lean features.

"How long has Bill Wingo been gone?" he demanded.

"It wasn't Bill," she insisted doggedly.  "It was Dan Slike, and he's
been gone maybe half an hour."

"Say, whatsa use of lyin' to me?  You're an odd number, by all
accounts, but you ain't so odd you could sit here and eat and drink and
carry on with your uncle's murderer.  You can't tell me _that_."

She was regarding him with curious eyes.  "I thought you always said
Dan Slike didn't kill my uncle?"

"Well--uh--you see, everybody else seems to think he did.
And--ah--maybe I was wrong.  Anyway, say I was.  For all I know to the
contrary, he did kill your uncle.  What's fairer than that, I'd like to
know?  You think he killed Tom Walton, don't you?"

She continued to stare at Rafe.  "I know he did."

"Then how do you expect me to believe you ate supper with him?  You're
foolish.  You had Bill Wingo here, and we'll settle this Wingo business
right now.  You see, don't you, how you can never marry the feller?
This Tip O'Gorman murder has queered him round here for keeps.  Sooner
or later he'll hang for it.  You'd look fine wouldn't you, the widow of
a----"

"Don't say it," she cut him short.  "Billy Wingo is no murderer.  He
fights fair, which is more than I can say for you.  However, you can
set your mind at rest.  I'm not likely to marry Billy Wingo, or anybody
else."

"Then what do you care whether I call him a murderer or not, if you
don't love him?" he probed.  "I thought a while back you had taken my
advice and busted it off with Bill, but now after hearin' what you
tried to do to Nate Samson, and all that ammunition and grub you bought
to-day, the day after Tip was killed, why I began to think maybe you
was startin' in to play the Jack again.  I told you last fall I was
gonna have you myself.  You ain't forgot it, have you?"

His eyes, savage and mean, held hers steadily.  "I come over here,
to-night to get you.  I'm taking you back with me to-night to my ranch.
To-morrow you can marry me or not.  It'll be just as you say."

"You're taking me to your ranch!" she gasped.  "_Me?_"

He nodded.  "You, nobody else."

She laughed harshly without a note of hysteria.  "You're two hundred
years behind the times.  Men don't carry off their women any more."

"Here's one that will," he told her.  "You're going with me,
y'understand.  And you needn't stop to wash your face or change into
petticoats either.  I'm not letting you out of my sight.  If you wanna
take any extra duds along, you can wrap 'em up.  What's the answer--you
going willing or will I have to tie you up in a bundle?"

"You idiot, even your friends wouldn't stand you turning such a trick
as this!  I'll bet you couldn't get your own men to help you.  That's
why you had to come alone."

His suddenly bloating features gave evidence that her shot had told.
Bending down, he shook her shoulder roughly.  And now for the first
time she smelt his breath.  It was rank with the raw odor of whisky.
So that was what had given him the wild idea of carrying her off by
force.  The man was drunk.  Sober, he was bad enough.  Drunk, he was
capable of anything.

She reached stoveward for the lid lifter.  Rafe seized her wrist and
jerked her sidewise.

"None of that!" he snarled.  "Gonna get your clothes or not?"

"I'll get them," she said calmly.  "Let go of my wrist."

If she could win into the next room where the six-shooter was hanging
on the wall, it might be possible to--but he did not release her wrist.

"I'll go with you," he told her with a leer.  "You're too slippery a
customer to trust alone."

As he turned with her, the lamplight fell full on his face, and she saw
that his eyes were bloodshot!  He also saw something that had hitherto
escaped his notice.  He saw the whisky bottle on the shelf in the
cupboard.  She had neglected to close the cupboard door.

"I'll have a short drink first," he said, and dragged her to the
cupboard.

He was holding her left-handed.  She was on the wrong side to reach his
gun.  Nevertheless she swung her body in front of him and snatched
wildly at the pistol butt.

He did not divine her intention but thought she was trying to keep him
away from the whisky.  The result was the same, for he wrenched her
back with a twist that started the tears in her eyes.

Holding the bottle in one hand, he drew the cork with his teeth, spat
it out and applied his lips to the bottle neck.  He swallowed long and
generously.  Hazel saw his Adam's apple slide up and down a dozen
times.  At such a rate the man would be a fiend in no time.

"Let me get my clothes," she begged.

Anything to get him away from the liquor.  But Rafe was not so easily
separated from his old friend.

"Wait a minute," he said peevishly, lowering the bottle and fixing her
with his bloodshot gaze.  "Don't be in such a hurry.  Here, have one
yourself."

He thrust the bottle toward her.  She took it from him, held it to her
mouth and then the bottle seemed to slip from her fingers.  She
snatched at it, juggled it a split second and--the bottle smashed in
bits on a corner of the stove.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she cried, quite as if she had not contrived the
catastrophe on purpose.

"I'll make you sorrier!" Rafe exclaimed and without more ado cast both
arms around her.

He was striving to kiss her and she, face crushed against his rough
shirt, fought him like the primeval female every woman becomes in like
circumstances.  Her right hand clawed upward at his face.  Her left
arm, doubled between their two bodies, she strove to work free so that
she could grab his gun.

Rafe received three distinct clawings that considerably altered the
appearance of one side of his face, before he was able to confine those
active fingers.

"Here!" he bawled in a fury.  "I'll fix you!"

He tried to seize her by the throat and his thumb slipped by mistake
into her mouth.  She promptly clamped down hard on the thumb.  With a
yell, Rafe released his grip on her body and worked a thumb and ring
finger into her cheeks in a frantic effort to force open her locked
jaws.

Suddenly she opened her mouth.  Rafe sprang back a yard, shaking a
bleeding thumb and swearing, and as he sprang she dragged the
six-shooter from his holster.

Her palm swept down to cock the gun.  But Rafe was as quick to see his
danger as Dan Slike had been.  He made a long arm as he hurled himself
at her and knocked the barrel to one side at the moment of the shot.
Before she could fire again, he had torn the weapon from her grasp and
flung it across the room.

"You tried to murder me!" he panted.  "You tried to murder me!"

She dived headlong beneath his arm, but he caught the slack of her
overalls as she went by and dragged her to a standstill.  She
immediately butted him in the stomach with her head.  He stumbled back
but caught her arm.  Her head flashed down and her teeth fastened on
his wrist.  Again he broke the grip of her teeth by the application of
ring finger and thumb to her cheeks, and then he reached purposefully
for her throat and began to strangle her in dead earnest.

She kicked and thrashed about like a wild thing in a trap,--as indeed
she was.  Her nails scratched desperately at his arms.  She might as
well have been petting him.  Tighter and tighter became the choking
grasp of those long fingers.  She could not breathe.  Her temples were
bursting.  Her head felt like a balloon.  With her last flare-up of
failing strength, she kicked him on the knee-cap.

He jumped back against the wall, dragging her with him, and began to
shake her as a dog does a rat.  And then the old Terry clock did that
for which it surely must have been originally made.  For, as his
shoulders struck the wall, his head knocked away the support of the
bracket that held the clock.  Involuntarily he ducked his head.  It was
the worst thing he could have done, giving, as it did, the clock an
extra foot to fall.  It fell.  One corner struck him fairly on the
temple and knocked him cold as a wedge.

When Hazel's reeling senses had reestablished their equilibrium, she
found herself on the floor, lying across the inert legs of Rafe
Tuckleton.  She raised herself on her two arms and looked at him.  He
was breathing very lightly.  It occurred to her that it would not worry
her overmuch if he breathed not at all.

She dragged herself on hands and knees to where he had thrown his
six-shooter.  She picked it up and threw out the cylinder.  Evidently
Rafe was accustomed to carry his hammer on an empty chamber, for there
were four cartridges and a spent shell in the cylinder.  She ejected
the spent shell, crawled back to the senseless Rafe and plucked two
cartridges from his belt.

She loaded those two empty chambers and cocked the gun.  Then she
pulled herself up into a chair at the table, and leaning across the
cloth, trained the six-shooter on Rafe's stomach.

And as she sat there watching a senseless man through the gunsights, it
suddenly seemed to her that she was not one person, but two,--herself
and a stranger.  And the Hazel Walton that had gone through the
evening's adventures was the stranger.  She herself apparently stood at
one side observing.  But she saw the room and its contents with new
eyes, the eyes of the stranger.  It was a most amazing feeling, and she
was oddly frightened while it lasted.

Slowly the feeling passed as her muscles renewed their strength, and
her jangled nerves steadied and quieted.  She came back to herself with
a jerk as Rafe Tuckleton stirred and put his hand to his head.  She saw
the hand come away covered with blood.  That side of Rafe's head being
in the shadow she had not previously noted that it had sustained a
shrewd cut.

Rafe groaned a little.  He rolled over and sat up, his chin sagging
forward on his chest.  He moved his head and looked at her vacantly.
The blood ran down his cheek and dripped slowly off his chin.

The light of reason glared of a sudden in Rafe's eyes.  She could see
that he was absorbing the situation from every angle.

"I'll give you five minutes to pull yourself together and get out," she
announced clearly.  "If you're still here by the time I've counted
three hundred I'll begin to shoot."

Rafe started to go by the time she reached sixty.  With the six-shooter
pointing at the small of his back, her finger on the trigger, step by
step she drove him out of the house to where he had left his horse.

Hazel watched him ride away and after a little become at one with the
moonlit landscape.  She walked back to the house.  She felt that she
was taking enormous strides.  In reality she was stepping short and
staggering badly.  She went into the kitchen.  She closed the door,
dropped the bar into place and fell into the nearest chair.

"My God!" she said aloud, "I wonder what will happen next?"




CHAPTER TWENTY

A DISCOVERY

"I tell you I ain't satisfied," nagged the district attorney.

"Say something new," growled that amiable person, Felix Craft.

"If you fellers weren't blinded by a pretty face, you'd see it like I
do."

"The girl said those cartridges were for her own personal use," pointed
out Sam Larder, scratching a plump ear.  "I believe that girl."

"You can't believe any girl most of the time," denied the district
attorney.

"And where a girl's feller is concerned, you can't believe her any of
the time.  Sam, can't you understand a girl will lie just for the fun
of it, if she hasn't any other reason.  It's female nature to act that
way.  You've got to take it into consideration and make allowances
accordingly, when dealing with a woman.  You can't trust 'em, damn 'em,
one li'l short inch."

Sam grinned at Felix.  "Ain't he got a pleasant nature."

"Milk of human kindness has curdled in him complete," declared Felix.

"Never you mind about any milk of human kindness.  I ain't got a
smidgin of it with a girl like Hazel Walton, the lying hussy."

"Do you know, Arthur," said Sam solemnly, "I don't believe you like
that lady."

"I don't," admitted the district attorney, and wondered why both men
laughed.

"Be a Scotchman," advised Sam Larder, "and give her the benefit of the
doubt."

"I'd like to give her a good swift week or two in jail," snarled the
district attorney.  "That would bring her to her senses.  That would
make her talk."

"Well, you can't do it," said Felix, weary of the argument.  "So why
waste your breath?"

"Tell you what I can do," said the district attorney, brightening with
hope.  "I can go out to Walton's and question her some more."

"Good Gawd, ain't you had enough ridin' for one day?" said Sam.

"I'm good for a li'l bit more."

Felix laughed.  "I had to laugh to-day.  First time you ever went out
with a posse, I guess.  Guess they must have thought you were crazy."

"I know damwell Shotgun and Riley Tyler thought so," declared Sam.
"They kept a-looking at you almighty hard."

The district attorney nodded.  "They're a suspicious pair, those two.
I'll give you fellers credit.  If it hadn't been for you, I'd never
have been able to bluff it through!  I don't think anybody suspects
anything out of the way."

"Only that you're a damfool, Arthur.  And they don't suspect that.
They're absolutely sure of it."

"Alla same," said Felix, "it's a good thing Sam Prescott wasn't along.
It would have been just like him to make out those tracks we followed
were a day old instead of one hour."

"I was worried some," admitted the district attorney, "when Shotgun
Shillman said they were too old to be the marks of Dan Slike's horse."

"That didn't bother me," declared Felix.  "I knew it would be all right
if we could contradict him fast enough and loud enough before anybody
else could agree with him.  Folks are like sheep thataway.  They'll
most always believe the boys makin' the most noise.  No, Shotgun didn't
bother me any.  What made me feel like scratching my head was where the
tracks crossed the stage trail.  There were the hoof-marks and
wheeltracks of the stage overlying the horse-tracks we were following.
I drew a long breath when I had 'em blotted out, you can gamble on
that."

"Was that why you rode ahead and twisted your horse round and round on
the trail so funny?"

"Sure that was why.  Why else do you suppose?"

"I never thought of the stage passing," said the district attorney.

"No, you wouldn't, of course not.  I don't see, Arthur, when you made
those tracks so careful in the first place you couldn't have kept off
the stage trail.  It wasn't necessary, and it mighty near put the
kibosh on the whole deal."

"I wanted to end the trail in the west fork of the Wagonjack," defended
the district attorney.  "It seemed like a good place."

"It was--only for the stage trail being in the way," said Felix warmly.
"If that infernal Wildcat Simms had come up half-a-minute earlier he'd
seen how those horse tracks lay, same as I did.  Oh, lovely!  Wouldn't
it have been a joke?"

"Well, it ended all right, anyway," offered the district attorney
pacifically.

"I didn't like to have that Slike jigger get off that-away," grumbled
Sam Larder.  "I'd like to see him hung, the lousy murderer!  I wish we
could have worked it some other way."

"There wasn't any other way," the district attorney hastened to assure
him.  "We couldn't risk having Slike tried.  He'd have snitched on Rafe
Tuckleton, sure as fate.  It was the only thing for us to do, and you
know it."

Sam nodded.  "I know, but----"  He left the sentence unfinished.

"Now that we've got Dan out of the way," the district attorney pattered
on, "we've got to glom onto Bill Wingo, and the sooner the quicker.
Me, I'm going out to Walton's to-night and question Hazel some more.
You boys don't have to go, you know.  I can get hold of somebody, I
guess."

"We'll go," said Sam Larder decidedly.  "I ain't a heap attracted by
your methods with the ladies, and I intend to see the girl gets a
square deal."

"Me too," chimed in Felix Craft.

The district attorney was none too well pleased and showed it.  "I'll
get two other jiggers then," he grumbled.

"Why not another posse?" suggested the sarcastic Mr. Larder.  "Us three
might not be able to handle her by ourselves."

"Suppose Bill Wingo is there, then what?  We took a big bunch before
and----"

"And got damwell laughed at by the whole town for our trouble," snapped
Sam.  "Serves us right.  Wild goose chase, anyway, and to-night will be
another.  C'mon, if you're goin'."

The moon was high in the heavens when the three men came to the mouth
of the draw leading to the Walton ranch.  A quarter-mile up this draw
they came upon a man standing beside a horse.  This man they surrounded
immediately.  He proved to be the town marshal, Red Herring, engaged in
the prosaic business of tightening a slipped cinch.

"What are you doing here," demanded the district attorney.

"Same thing you're doing," the marshal returned sulkily.

"It ain't necessary for you to be watching the Walton ranch," said the
crotchety district attorney.

"I got as much right to the reward as the next one, I guess," flared
the marshal.  "If I wanna watch the ranch, I guess I got a right to do
that too.  You don't want to cherish any idea that you own the earth
and me too, Artie Rale!"

"Well, you can ride along with us if you want to," condescended the
district attorney.

"Thanks," said the marshal, with sarcasm, "I kind of thought I would,
anyway."

Two hundred yards short of the bend in the draw that concealed the
ranchhouse from view the district attorney's horse which was leading,
snorted at something that lay across his path, and shied with great
vigor, coming within a red hair of throwing the district attorney off
on his ear.

The district attorney swore and jerked the animal back.  Then he
dismounted hurriedly and ran forward to view at close range the object
that had startled the horse.

The three others pulled up and followed his example.

"My Gawd!" shrilled the district attorney.  "It's Rafe Tuckleton!"

It was indeed Rafe Tuckleton.  There he lay on his back, his legs and
arms spread-eagled abroad, his body displaying the flattened appearance
a corpse assumes for the first few hours after death.  Rafe's throat
had been slit from ear to ear.  His head was cut open and lay in a pool
of blood.  His face was scored with scratches.  There was blood on his
coat and vest and shirt, they found on examination.  The district
attorney ripped open the shirt and found four distinct stab wounds in
the region of Rafe's heart.  From one of these wounds protruded the
broken end of a broad-bladed knife.

"Pull it out," urged Sam Larder, with a slight shudder, his fat face so
white that it showed green in the moonlight.

"I can't," said the district attorney.  "Jammed in between his ribs, I
guess.  That's what busted her.  See if you can find the handle, Red."

"There it is," pointed out the marshal.  "Right by his elbow."

"Oh, yeah," said the district attorney, picking up the knife handle.
From force of habit he fitted the broken part of the knife remaining
attached to the handle to the part protruding from the wound.  Of
course they fitted perfectly.

The marshal ran his hand along Rafe's naked waist.  Then he lifted one
of Rafe's arms and let it go.  The arm snapped stiffly back into
position.

"Been dead about two hours," proffered the marshal.

"About that," agreed Felix.  "What you lookin' at, Arthur?"

"This," replied the district attorney, holding up the handle of the
butcher knife.

With his fingers he traced two initials on the wood.  The initials were
T.W.

"You can't tell me," said the district attorney belligerently, "that
this butcher knife didn't come from the Walton ranch."

Sam Larder stated his belief at once.  "She couldn't have done it,
Arthur.  Why Rafe's carved up like an issue steer.  She----"

"She's a woman," interrupted the district attorney.  "And a woman will
do anything when her dander is up.  And we know what this particular
woman will do when she's mad.  Didn't she try to split open Nate
Samson's head when he was hardly more than joking with her?  Didn't she
throw down on us with a rifle without any excuse a-tall?  I tell you
this Hazel Walton is a murderess, and I'm going to see her hung."

"Are you?" said Felix Craft.  "Seems to me you've overlooked a bet.
Didn't we run across Red Herring at the end of the draw?"

"Now look here, Craft," cried the marshal.  "You can't hook this
killing up with me!  I can prove I was in Golden Bar an hour ago.  I
can get people to swear I was."

The district attorney nodded.  "Red's innocent of this, all right.  He
couldn't have done it.  It wouldn't be reasonable.  He always was
friendly with Rafe, and this was a grudge killing.  It couldn't have
been robbery, because nothing of Rafe's was stolen; watch, money, it's
all here.  It's Hazel Walton, and you can stick a pin in that.  C'mon,
let's go."




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY'S NIGHTMARE

Behind the corral of Guerilla Melody, at the tip end of Golden Bar,
Main Street, a small spring bubbled to life amid rocks.  It was the
custom of Guerilla Melody to slip out to this spring for a long cool
drink of fresh water each night before going to bed.

On the night of the first of April, Guerilla, having spent a short but
profitable poker evening with several friends in a saloon, reached the
spring at eleven o'clock.

"I thought you were never coming," announced a peevish voice from the
black shadow of a large rock.  "I've been waiting here since nine
o'clock."

"You talk much louder, Bill," said Guerilla calmly, "and you'll wait
here a while longer--say about twenty years longer or fifteen, if the
judge feels good-natured.  Man alive, ain't you got _any_ sense?"

"I was lonesome," Billy excused himself.  "I've got to talk to
somebody.  And anyway, a feller hardly ever gets more'n ten years for a
hold-up where nobody's killed."

"But where somebody is killed the penalty is worth considerin',"
pointed out Guerilla Melody.  "And Tip O'Gorman was found yesterday
morning lying on the floor of his front room dead as Julius Caesar, with
your quirt beside him, and your snakeskin hatband inside the door."

"Tip killed!  Tip!"

"Yes, Tip, and on account of the quirt and the hatband there's a
warrant issued for you for the murder, and two posses are out looking
for you."

"I saw them," said Billy placidly.  "I thought it was on account of the
stage hold-up.  And they think I downed Tip?"

"Half the town's sure you did, and half is sure you didn't, and the
other half is straddlin' the fence."

"That makes three halves," Billy said dryly.  "Golden Bar must have
considerably increased in population since I left."

"You know what I mean," snapped Guerilla, irritated at what he chose to
consider callous flippancy on the part of his friend.  "And Tip ain't
the only one cashed.  Rafe Tuckleton passed out last night."

"How?"

"Throat cut, head cut, and three knife cuts through his heart.  Hazel
Walton is in jail charged with the job."

Billy Wingo stiffened where he sat.  Hazel Walton in jail!  For an
instant he couldn't realize it.  His fingers closed on Guerilla's
forearm.

Guerilla jerked away the arm.  "You don't need to cut my arm in two,"
he remonstrated, tenderly fingering the member in question.  "I didn't
have nothing to do with it.  Lord A'mighty, Bill, I'll bet you squeezed
a muscle out of place."

"My mistake," apologized Billy.  "I forgot myself for a minute."

"Then I don't want to be around when you remember yourself.  I----"

"What evidence is there against Hazel?" Billy cut in sharply.

"In the first place there's the knife that killed Rafe," said Guerilla,
seating himself beside his friend in the shadow of the rock.  "Butcher
knife with T.W. on the handle that Hazel admitted was hers when they
showed it to her.  But she said Dan Slike had taken the knife--stuck it
in his boot when he left.  Then there was Rafe's own gun which Hazel
had lying on her kitchen table, showing he'd been there.  She admitted
that too, but said he'd attacked her, and she'd managed to get hold of
his gun after the clock fell on him, and drive him out."

"Rafe attacked her, huh?  And she drove him out?"  Billy leaned back
against the rock in order to steady his shaking body.  When he spoke,
he found some difficulty in keeping his voice down.  "_He attacked her
and she drove him out_!  Then what in hell is she arrested
for--defending herself?"

"Now, listen, Bill, you know me.  I believe anything that girl says, no
matter what.  But there are some other people harder to convince.  The
district attorney, and he's got a good many others stringing their
chips with his, says how this story of Rafe's attacking her ain't true.
That Rafe wouldn't hurt her on a bet, because he liked her too much.
And to back that up, here's Rafe's foreman, Jonesy, steps up and swears
Rafe told him he was going to see Hazel last night and ask her to marry
him.  Hazel says Rafe was drunk when he came to see her, and Jonesy
says he wasn't.  So there's that."

"Weren't there any tracks round Rafe's body to show----"

"You know yourself there was a li'l freeze last night and the ground
stiffened up some, and I guess the district attorney and the three
others who found Rafe were so flustered they walked all over the ground
round Rafe and wiped out every sign there was."

"Who was with the district attorney?"

Guerilla told him and resumed the thread of his discourse.  "When the
district attorney and the other witnesses examined the Walton premises,
they found plenty of evidence that there'd been a fight, and they found
a lot of supplies gone, cartridges, grub and such, Hazel had bought in
town the morning before."

"Is that all?" asked Billy when Guerilla paused.

"Lemme get my breath," Guerilla begged indignantly.  "The whole
business is so tangled and mixed up it's hard to tell it straight.  No,
it ain't all.  The district attorney says those supplies were bought
for you and they were taken by you.  Hazel's ridin' horse, the one used
to be her uncle's, that's gone too--with you."

"If Rale thinks I was at Hazel's, it's reasonable to assume I might
have had a hand in killin' Rafe my own self.  That goes double for Dan
Slike, seeing he had the knife last."

"It's reasonable all right enough, but then you and Dan Slike ain't
noways available, and Hazel is right handy.  Rale admits you might have
done it, and he keeps yawpin' the evidence is strong against Hazel, and
he would be false to his oath of office if he didn't put her in jail."

"False to his oath of office!  Rale!"

"Yeah, ain't it a joke?" contemptuously.

"But how did Slike get hold of the butcher knife, that's what I want to
know?  He didn't have it on him when I arrested him last January."

"That's the damndest part of the whole deal, Bill.  Hazel says Dan
Slike came to her place before Rafe did, and it was him took the
supplies and her horse and her hat and that very same butcher knife
which gave Rafe his come-uppance.  Slike beat her almost senseless too,
she said."

Billy Wingo looked up at the stars.  His lips moved.  But no sound
issued.  After a moment he said, in an oddly dead tone of voice, "How
did Slike escape?"

"Far as anybody can tell, he made him a key somehow and unlocked the
jail door and walked out.  Anyway, Riley Tyler found the door open
yesterday afternoon and Dan's cell empty.  And the district attorney
lost a horse and saddle."

"The district attorney, huh?"

"The district attorney."

"It was to some people's interests to have Dan Slike escape," Billy
said musingly.

"You bet it was, and I'm gamblin' somebody let him out all right,
but--well, I dunno.  Anyway, Rale, he led the posse that trailed Slike,
him and Felix Craft.  Nobody could have been more energetic than those
two."

"If they were so energetic and there was any kind of a trail, which
there should have been, because it was a warm afternoon, it's queer
they didn't run up on Slike at Hazel's."

"That's the funny part of it.  The trail led in the opposite direction
toward Jacksboro.  The posse followed it clear to the West Fork of the
Wagonjack, where they lost it on the rocky ground on the other side."

"Slike might have doubled back."

Guerilla Melody shook his head.  "Not without gettin' caught--if he
rode to the West Fork first.  Besides, Hazel says he came to her house
a li'l after sunset, and he escaped, near as we can figure out, between
three and four.  So you see he'd never have had time to make it to
Walton's from the West Fork by sunset."

"Did Hazel say how long he stayed?"

"About an hour."

"An hour!  Then Slike knew he wasn't being followed.  He never went to
the West Fork a-tall."

Guerilla nodded a grave head.  "I never was sure he did, especially
after Shotgun Shillman told me when he got back that the tracks they
followed to the West Fork looked a damsight older than they had a right
to, always supposin' they were made that afternoon.  Oh, you can't
blame Shotgun, Bill, or Riley either.  The district attorney was in
charge of the posse, and him and Felix and the rest of his friends said
it was the wind a-blowing so hard made the tracks look old.  And there
was a tearin' breeze, worse luck."

"Do you know somethin', Guerilla?  It wouldn't surprise me a whole lot
to find out the district attorney his own self made that trail to the
Wagonjack."

"It would surprise me if you _found it out_.  You ain't catchin' him so
easy.  Not that feller."

"Leave it to me.  And he provided Slike with the horse too.  You'll
see."

"I'm sure hoping I do.  I'd like nothing better than to see Art Rale
stretching the kinks out of a new rope."

"Stranger things have happened.  I guess I'd better go see the district
attorney."

Guerilla Melody chuckled as one does at a pleasantry.

"I mean it," pronounced Billy.  "He needs a li'l straight talk, and
he's going to get it prompt and soon.  Luckily he likes fresh air."

"Fresh air?" puzzled Guerilla.

"Leaves his window partly open at night," explained Billy.  "Which
being so, I'll be out of luck if I can't creep in and give him the
surprise of his life."

"He may not have gone to sleep yet.  I'll find out."

Before Billy could stay him, Guerilla was gone.  Fifteen minutes later
he returned.

"He's abed, snoring like a circular saw working on a knotty log,"
Guerilla informed him.  "But there's a light in the kitchen."

"That means his housekeeper's up--probably settin' bread for to-morrow.
Ain't she quite a friend of yours, Guerilla?"

The darkness veiled Guerilla's blush.  "I see her now and then."

"Then go see her now," urged Billy.  "It's kind of late for an evening
call, but you can tell her some kind of a lie.  If she likes you,
she'll believe it.  You go see her and keep her in the kitchen for the
next thirty minutes.  Then meet me here."

The district attorney, lying on the broad of his back in bed, suddenly
snored his way into a nightmare.  He dreamed that he was in the woods,
that he had lain down upon an inviting bank and that a ninety-foot pine
had fallen upon his chest, to the prejudice of his breathing.  He
squirmed and wriggled but the tree was immovable.  It was slowly
crushing the walls of his chest.  The district attorney gasped--awoke,
and discovered to his horror that his bad dream was partly true.  There
was something roosting on his chest.  If not a tree, it was at least
confoundedly heavy.  Furthermore, adding as it were to the interest of
the occasion, a something chilly and hard was rooting into the angle of
his chin and neck.

The something on his chest spoke in a carefully restrained whisper.
"Keep very quiet."

The district attorney would have shivered had he been able to move that
much.  He knew that voice.  It belonged to Billy Wingo.

"You shouldn't have left your window open," pointed out Billy.  "Your
insane love for fresh air will be the death of you yet."

The district attorney did nothing but gasp faintly.

"Would it be more comfortable if I sat on your stomach instead?" asked
the oppressor prodding the other man in the throat with his gun muzzle.

"I--I--cuc-can't breathe!" the district attorney choked out.

"Just a minute," said Billy, feeling beneath the pillows, but finding
no weapon, he slid from the district attorney's chest to the side of
the bed.  "You didn't expect to see me so soon, did you, Arthur?"

"No," was the truthful reply, "I didn't."

"I was counting on that.  I hear you arrested Miss Walton."

"I--er--I had to," explained the district attorney, beginning to feel
that, in the matter of Miss Walton, he had perhaps been a trifle hasty.

"Fool mistake.  You didn't have any evidence against her a-tall."

"But--" began the district attorney.

Billy cut him short.  "No evidence a-tall.  Not a smidgin.  No.  You
were too previous, Arthur, with your duty and your oath of office.
Damn your duty, damn your oath of office.  I've got a sneaking idea,
old settler, that you are cluttering up the face of the earth.  Be
reasonable now, don't you think so yourself?"

But this was more than the district attorney was willing to admit.
"I'll tell you what I think," he grunted.  "I think if Hazel Walton
didn't kill Rafe Tuckleton then you did."

"About _Miss_ Walton there ain't any ifs, nary an if.  She didn't do
it.  There is a reasonable doubt that I did, several reasonable doubts,
in fact.  Anyway, Arthur, try keeping your suspicions to yourself to
oblige me, will you?  Lord knows one murder and a stage hold-up are
enough crimes to be charged with at one time."

"You thought you were very clever," sneered the district attorney,
"getting that girl to pack your supplies out from town for you.  Didn't
have nerve enough to do it yourself.  Had to hide behind a woman's
skirts and get her in trouble, didn't you?"

"You mean about the horse and cartridges and grub that Slike took from
Walton's?"

"I mean about the horse and cartridges and grub that you took from
Walton's.  Slike had nothing to do with that.  Slike didn't go to
Walton's.  He went north to the West Fork, where we lost his trail."

"You're sure of this?"

"Sure?  Of course I'm sure.  Didn't I trail him to the river myself.
Didn't--  Say, where'd you get your information?"

"A li'l bird told me.  But he asked me not to mention his name.  Sorry."

The district stared helplessly into the shadowy features of the man at
his bedside.  The moonlight shone in at the open window through which
Billy had entered.  The rays touched a corner of the bed, turning the
bedpost to shiny ebony and the counterpane to dull silver.  The
district attorney could hear the murmur of his housekeeper's voice in
the kitchen.  Some man then, was in the kitchen with her.  Lord! if he
dared yell for help!

As though sensing what was passing in the mind of the district
attorney, Billy jabbed the gunsight up under the man's chin.  "Don't
gamble with me, Arthur.  Think how your friends would miss you."

But Arthur had already decided against doing any gambling.  "What do
you want?" he whispered.

"I've been hoping you'd ask me that.  It gives me an opening and shows
you're willing to be reasonable.  Yeah.  Arthur, I want you to set Miss
Walton free."

"You go to hell," was the sharp return.

"You don't understand," said Billy, in his lightsome whisper.  "You're
thinking because I'm talking to you so bright and merry that I don't
mean what I say.  Listen--" the whisper lost its airness and became a
ruthless, snarling growl--"listen to me.  Because of what you've done
to her, it's all I can do to keep from strangling the breath out of you
here and now.  If I talked to you the way I feel like talking to you,
I'd lose my temper and you'd lose your life.  I'm trying to hang on to
both--for now.  Don't make it any harder for me than you have to."  He
paused.  "About Miss Walton," he continued in his former tone.  "I'll
give you your choice.  Let her go, and I won't down you by Sunday
night."

"Huh?"

"Sunday night.  If she isn't out of jail and the warrant against her
withdrawn by noon to-morrow, I give you my word that I'll down you on
or before midnight Sunday.  And I have a habit of keeping my promises."

The district attorney knew this to be true.  But he was a wriggler by
nature.  "I--" he began.

"You can do it," interrupted Billy.  "You have the power."

"I can't," denied the wretched man in the bed, now more than ever aware
that he had made a mistake in arresting Hazel, yet not at all clear in
his mind how to set matters right without being ridiculed into
political extinction.  Yet if he didn't set matters right, he would
lose his life.  Metaphorically speaking, he eased himself down between
the horns of the dilemma and considered.  "I can't," he repeated after
a moment of silence.  "I can't let her go after arresting her.  Judge
Donelson wouldn't understand it.  The Governor would remove me from
office."

"You're a liar.  Judge Donelson would understand it all right if you
explained it carefully.  So would the Governor.  They are human beings,
even if you aren't."

"Well," bumbled the district attorney, "maybe I _could_ manage it.  But
look here, what's the use of me letting her go?  You couldn't run away
with her.  _You'd_ be caught, sure as fate, and then where would you
be?"

"I don't intend to run away with her or without her.  Only a fool runs
away.  A man of sense stays comfortably in the background waiting for
the cat to jump."

"You ran away," pointed out the district attorney.

"Not at all.  I'm staying comfortably in the background, waiting for
the cat to jump."

"But--"  The district attorney stopped abruptly at the word.

Billy Wingo smiled.  The district attorney saw his white teeth gleam in
the darkness.  "But you can't understand if I stayed in the vicinity
why I haven't been caught," he completed the sentence for the other
man.  "I realize your posses have been very active."

"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler are in league with you!  They led the
posses astray on purpose.  I'll get their hides for this!"

Billy quieted the district attorney with a gesture that drove the man's
head almost through the pillow.

"There goes your snap judgment again," complained Billy.  "Shotgun and
Riley are doing their duty.  They've done their damndest to catch me.
You hurt my feelings when you hint that I may be tampering with them.
You don't really think I have, do you, Arthur?  Both Shotgun and Riley
are straight as strings, aren't they, Arthur?"

The gun muzzle pressed ever so gently upon Arthur's Adam's apple.
"They are," he apologized.  "Both of 'em."

"And you'll free the girl to-night?"

"To-night?  Why not to-morrow?"

"To-night.  I don't like her having to sleep in that calaboose.  You
let her out and tell Shotgun Shillman to take her to Sam Prescott's
right away--right away, to-night, y'understand?"

"All right," capitulated the district attorney.  "I'll do it if I lose
my job.  But you needn't go swarmin' off with any idea that you'll
cheat the gallows.  You'll swing, my bold boy, for that O'Gorman
murder.  There's nothing you can do to me that will fix up that
business for you--not if you were to kill me here and now.  Judge
Donelson wouldn't allow me to withdraw that warrant, even I wanted to.
The evidence is too strong."

"So you really think I downed Tip?" Billy asked curiously.

"I know it."

"And held up the stage?  Unofficially, Arthur, are you holding that
against me, too?"

"You held up the stage.  Jerry Fern saw your horse.  So did all the
passengers.  Your clothes were identified, too.  Jerry told the
passengers to pay particular attention to your clothes and the brass
guard on your gun and be able to describe 'em later.  They did, and
everbody in town recognized 'em.  Oh, we've got you."

"So clever of you--and cleverer of Jerry Fern.  He told the passengers
to remember what I wore, did he?"

"Naturally," said the district attorney hastily.  "It was the obvious
thing to do."

Billy nodded.  "Of course it was.  Bright man, Jerry.  Tell you,
Arthur, suppose I bring back Dan Slike, would that help me in--my
trouble?"

"How do you mean?"

"You want Dan Slike caught, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"Liar," Billy said to himself.  Aloud he remarked.  "You've come
around, I see.  You really believe now that Dan Slike killed Tom Walton
and Judge Driver?"

"Certainly, he killed them," avowed the district attorney.  "And when
he's caught we'll hang him."

"That's the proper spirit, Arthur.  I have a theory that, since it
seems certain that Dan Slike didn't go to Walton's after he escaped, he
went north to the Medicine Mountains."

"Why?"

"You followed his trail north to where the West Fork swings due west
and there you lost it, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, it's certain Slike didn't follow the Fork down.  That
would bring him to the country east of here, and Tom Read County is no
place for a murderer.  Now, what he did was ride the rocky ground along
the Fork till it swung north again, when he'd either swing north with
it straight for the Medicine Mountains, or else ride a li'l west of
north and hit the Medicines away to the westward of Jacksboro.  And in
the Medicines you might as well look for a needle in a bale of hay.
He'll lie low there for a spell, probably during spring and summer.
You may depend on it, that's what he's done."

"I believe you're right," agreed the district attorney, striving to
inject a note of excitement in his whisper.  "I'll have a posse riding
that way to-morrow."

"Not a posse.  Too many men in a posse.  He'd be able to keep out of
their way, Slike's no ordinary murderer, Rale.  Remember that.  He's a
killer from Killersville, and he probable knows more about keeping out
of sight than a grizzly bear.  But one man would have a chance to get
him.  He wouldn't be expecting one man, do you see?"

"I don't see what you're driving at."

"I mean I'll make a bargain with you, Rale.  I'll trade you Slike for
myself.  You will prosecute these cases against me, if I'm caught.  It
lies with you whether I get a chance for my alley or not."

"How?"

"You could fail to take advantage of points as they come up.  You
could.  You're clever enough, Gawd knows.  Now, in the O'Gorman deal
I'd plead not guilty.  I killed Tip in self-defense, see?  Well, you
could let me prove I did mighty easy.  Same with the hold-up.  I'll get
me a clever lawyer who'd take advantage of some flaw in the indictment.
You would draw up that indictment.  I don't believe we could risk flaws
in both indictments, could we?"

The district attorney could hardly believe his wicked ears.  It simply
was not possible that Bill Wingo could be such a simpleton as to
believe that.  "Flaws in both indictments would be a li'l too raw,"
said the district attorney, almost suffocating in the effort to
dissemble his glee.

"Yes, well, all right.  In the O'Gorman murder trial, you'll let me
prove my case, and in the other you'll stick in a flaw.  The Tuckleton
case you can't do a thing with.  There's not enough evidence, so you'll
have to let it drop.  What do you think of the proposition, Dan Slike
for Bill Wingo?  You can make a record with Dan Slike too.  He hasn't a
friend in the county.  Another thing.  That last bribe of yours I
mentioned a while ago.  I'll throw in what I know about that for good
measure with Slike."

"But why stand your trial at all?" fenced the district attorney.  "Why
not try to escape?"

"You forget that not ten minutes ago you told me I couldn't possibly
escape.  You were wrong, naturally.  But I don't want to escape.  If I
did, I'd have these things hanging over me the rest of my life.  No
matter where I went, I'd always be looking for a warrant waiting for me
at every bend in the trail.  No, the only sensible way out is to get
this thing over with and settled as soon as possible.  I don't want to
leave Crocker County.  I like it here."

"Oh," murmured the district attorney, believing that he knew the reason
why Billy Wingo did not care to leave the county.  It was a good and
sufficient reason, and he expected to release it from jail that very
night.

"But you'd have to get supplies from time to time," he said leadingly.
"Your description is in every town by now."

"I'll only go to Jacksboro when I have to buy anything," explained
Billy, "and as it happens, I never was there but once and that was five
years ago.  If I let my beard and hair grow, who'd know me?  It would
take somebody from Golden Bar to recognize my voice, and I'll take care
to keep out of the way of anybody from Golden Bar.  Oh, it'll be safe
enough.  I'll make my camp somewhere on Coldstream Creek and work all
through the Medicines from there.  I'll get Dan and bring him back.
How about it now--willing to make it easy for me at the trial?"

The district attorney could hardly control his voice.  At last the
devil had delivered his enemy into his hands.  Now he could pay him
back for kicking him out into the snow.  You bet he could.  "I'll do as
you suggest," he said, "and drop the Tuckleton case in so far as you
and Miss Walton are concerned, and I'll let you win on the other two
counts--provided you bring back Dan Slike."

"Fair enough.  In the meantime I want a free hand.  You'll have to call
off the posses that are out after me.  You can do that without exciting
suspicion.  Look how long they've been out."

"I'll manage it," declared the district attorney.  "You think the
Coldstream is a good place to camp?"

"Sure it is.  I've been there before."

"Don't risk going to any other town than Jacksboro."

"I won't," said Billy.  "Be sure of that.  Well, I guess I'd better be
draggin' it.  You'll be wanting to let Miss Walton out.  By the way,
don't forget that I'm not leaving the neighborhood till I hear that
Miss Walton is safe at Prescott's and the warrant against her
withdrawn.  Just bear that in mind, Arthur."

"I will," Arthur said warmly.  "Shall I suggest to Miss Walton that a
letter would be sure to reach you at Jacksboro--under an assumed name,
of course?"

"It would be hardly worth while," replied Billy.  "Unless I catch Dan
Slike sooner, I don't expect to be in Jacksboro under a month.  Yeah, a
month, anyway."

"A month, huh?  Here's wishing you luck."

Billy failed to observe the brazenly outstretched hand.  "Thanks," he
drawled.  "So long."

But in spite of the agreement it was noticeable that he kept the
district attorney covered till his bootsoles touched the ground beneath
the window.

"Are you crazy?" demanded Guerilla Melody when he had heard all, or
thought he had, rather.  "You don't actually sure-enough trust him, do
you?"

"Certainly not," Billy replied calmly, flicking the ash from his
cigarette.  "Certainly I don't trust him.  That's why I told him what I
did."

Guerilla Melody screwed a forefinger into the side of his head.
"Wheels, wheels, wheels, hear 'em buzz."

"You don't understand, Guerilla.  You're all right lots of ways, and
I'm your friend, and don't let anybody tell you different, but you
haven't any brains, not a brain."

"Now, look here," began indignant Guerilla, "if you----"

"Shut up and listen," Billy cut him short.  "I ain't going to the
Medicine Mountains a-tall."

"Where _are_ you going?"

"South--after Dan Slike.  Don't you see, this fool district attorney
won't think of skirmishing after me _south_ of Golden Bar.  But I'll
bet he'll have posses combin' the Medicines within seven days.  And if
I haven't read him wrong, he'll have a warrant for the Tuckleton murder
issued for me, too."

Guerilla nodded a grave head.  "With Miss Walton out of it, he'll have
to cinch it on to somebody else.  But I don't see yet how finding Dan
Slike, always supposin' you do find him, is going to help you any.
You'll still have to stand your own trial.  And you ain't thinkin' that
Arthur Rale----"

"Oh, angels ever bright and fair!  The man doesn't see it yet!  I
intend to bring in the murderer of Tip O'Gorman and the man who held up
the stage, too, while I'm at it.  In words of one syllable _that_ is my
plan."

The expression on the face of Guerilla Melody was one of awe diluted
with doubt.  "All by your lonesome?"

"Why not?"

"Maybe I'd better go with you?" offered Guerilla.

"No," said Bill decidedly, "I'd rather you were here in Golden Bar.
Then you can tell me the news now and then.  Outside of you and Shotgun
and Riley, there ain't a soul in town I can trust, and for official
reasons I can't go near the deputies.  So I guess you're elected,
Guerilla."

"Aw right," said his friend.  "You're the doctor.  Have another drink?"

"Not to-night.  Look at the time.  Here we've been gassin' a solid
hour.  I didn't have any business coming into your house anyway.  Never
can tell who might walk in on us."

"You better wait till I find out from Riley if Rale kept his word about
Hazel Walton."

"I won't have to wait here for that.  When you come back from talking
to Riley, if everything is O.K. and Hazel has started with Shotgun for
Prescott's, you set a lamp on your kitchen table and open and close
your kitchen door four times.  If Rale hasn't moved, open your kitchen
door and stand in the door-way for half a minute.  I'll be watchin'
from the ridge--  Huh?  Sure, I've got field glasses.  Borrowed a pair
from Sam Prescott same time I borrowed a horse.  So long, Guerilla!"

Guerilla Melody blocked off the light of the lamp with his hat while
Billy opened the door and vanished into outer darkness.

Twenty minutes later, Billy, sitting his horse on the crest of the
aforementioned ridge, saw a rectangle of light at the tip end of town,
show and go out four distinct times.  He clucked to his horse and moved
quartering down the slope in the direction of the Hillsville trail.
His goal was Prescott's, his intention to obtain from Hazel a detailed
account of what had happened at the ranch the night of the Tuckleton
murder.




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE HUNCH

The time was an evening in the first week in May; the place was the
Arkansas Saloon in Willow Bend, Redstone County, the man was Billy
Wingo, wearing a sevenweeks' beard and an air of preoccupation.  He was
draped against the bar, making rings on the bar top with the wet bottom
of his whisky glass.

The weather was unseasonably warm, and the big double-burner reflector
lamps in the saloon raised the bar-room temperature at least fifteen
degrees.  Billy felt the salty moisture running down into his eyes.  He
pushed back his hat and with a fillip of his fingers slatted off the
perspiration.

He did not see a man at the other end of the bar look up at his sudden
movement.  Nor, when he departed after his second glass, did he know
that the other man was following until he had passed out into the
street.  Then, with that sixth sense men who carry their lives in their
holsters so frequently develop, he knew it.  Hence, quite naturally,
instead of going directly to the hotel hitching-rail where his horse
was tied, he sauntered with apparent aimlessness round the corner of
the saloon, along the blank side wall and round the next corner.

In the darkness behind this corner, gun in hand, he waited.  The other
man slid round the corner in his wake and ran plump into the muzzle of
the Wingo six-shooter.

"Were you looking for me?" Bill asked in a low tone.

The man, having shown that he was no shorthorn by promptly throwing up
his hands, laughed low.  "I was looking for you," he said, still
chuckling, "but not the way you mean."

"Your voice sounds familiar," said the sceptical Billy.  "Suppose you
step over here into the light from this window.  Keep your hands up."

"Glad to--both ways," agreed the man, obeying instantly.  "Satisfied
now?"

"You can put 'em down," said Billy sliding his gun back into the
holster as soon as the light fell on the man's face.  "I thought you
went up to Jacksboro to visit your uncle."

"I did," said John Dawson.  "But I thought I'd drift back for the Cross
T round-up.  On my way south I stopped at Golden Bar."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.  I was looking for a gent name of Tuckleton.  I saw where he was
buried."

"I guess you heard something while you were there, huh?"

"I heard something in Jacksboro, too.  That's why I followed you.
Let's go where we can talk private."

On a log, in the darkness, behind the dance hall, they sat down to talk
"private."

"What did you hear in Jacksboro?" Billy asked.

"I heard a posse talk--six men.  I met 'em over on Coldstream Creek
three-four times."

Billy uttered a light laugh.  "I figured it would be that way."

"They seemed to think you'd oughta been camping on Coldstream."

"What kind of a warrant did they have?"

"All kinds.  Two murders and a stage hold up."

"Was one of 'em on account of Tuckleton?"

"Yep.  I didn't know whether to hold it against you or not."

"You needn't.  It wasn't me."

Dawson grinned his appreciation.  "I'm glad.  If you had it would have
always been between us.  I had figured on playing even-Steven with
Tuckleton myself."

"I'm looking for the man who killed him.  If I don't find him I needn't
go back to Golden Bar."

"I heard you'd been suspended from office," said Dawson bluntly.

"I hadn't heard it yet, but I expected it.  Anybody else appointed?"

"Shotgun Shillman, pro tem."

"I almost wish it was somebody else," he said whimsically.  "Shotgun is
a friend of mine, and energetic as a bear with a bee tree.  He'll maybe
dump me before I do what I want."

"If he's a friend of yours----" hinted Dawson.

"He'd arrest his own brother, if there was a warrant issued against
him.  He's that kind."

"A conscience is a heavy load to pack," said the cynical Dawson.  "Me,
I believe the end justifies the means.  It don't matter much what trail
you follow, so you get there.  Can I help you any?"

"How?"

"I dunno--any old way.  You did me one good turn, and I'm not
forgetting it.  Anything I got you can have any time anywhere."

"Now, that's right clever of you," said Billy, somewhat embarrassed at
the other's gratitude.  "But I don't guess you can help me any."

"Try me," urged Dawson.

"The man who killed Tuckleton is a man named Dan Slike, who broke out
of jail just before he was going to be tried for another murder.  The
only way you can help me is by telling me where he is, and I expect you
can't do that."

"Not right off the reel," admitted Dawson.  "Ain't you picked up any
trail of this sport?"

"I've cut his trail five different places, Bow Bells, Gunsight,
Dragoon, Shadyside, and the Rafter L.  I figured he'd come here after
leavin' the Rafter L--it's only thirty miles.  But I guess he didn't.
Leastwise nobody seems to have noticed anybody of his description."

"You haven't described him to me yet," pointed out Dawson.

Billy began.  "--and maybe a black beard by now," he concluded.

"Bow Bells, Gunsight, Dragoon, Shadyside and the Rafter L," repeated
Dawson, rasping a hand across his stubbly chin.

"South, y'understand, till he reached Shadyside, and then he headed
northeast to the Rafter L.  What I'd like to know is what made him
change direction thataway?"

"He ain't in any hurry to leave the territory, that's a cinch."

"Not after he left Shadyside, anyway."

"Something happened there to head him."

"Sure.  But whatever it was it wasn't visible to the naked eye.  Rafter
L, the same way.  He stopped there for dinner and rode away without
spending the night."

"He may have gone to Marquis."

Billy nodded.  "He may.  But Marquis is more north than east.  That's
why I came here first.  Anyway, to-morrow morning I'm riding to
Marquis, and if he ain't there I'll sift through the country between
Marquis and Dorothy.  There are several ranches in between those two
towns."

"I'll go with you," announced Dawson.

Billy surveyed his neighbor in surprise.  "You.  What for?"

"For him--exercise--any old thing you like, that is, if it ain't a
private party."

"You can sit in if you want to," said Billy slowly, more glad to accept
an ally than he cared to admit.  "But you've got a job."

"The job can wait.  Round up's over, so it won't hurt the ranch to lose
my valuable services for a spell.  To-morrow we go to Marquis, huh?"

By mid-afternoon the following day Billy Wingo was riding into Marquis
from one direction and Dawson was riding in from another.  As apparent
strangers they believed they could do better work.  Before six o'clock
Billy had judiciously canvassed every saloon in the place and had
learned absolutely nothing.  Either Slike had not entered Marquis, or
else he was wearing a disguise.  In the twilight, in the brush beyond
the far-flung skirmishline of empty tin cans and bottles that surrounds
every cow-country town, he met his friend Dawson.  The latter had
worked the stores and the dance hall, but he had nothing to report.
The following day Billy journeyed by the one road to Dorothy, while
Dawson traveled by a more circuitous route that would take him past two
ranch houses where there might be information to be picked up.  Billy
Wingo, without pushing his horse, reached Dorothy too late for the
regular dinner at the hotel.  Adjoining the Carnation Saloon was a
two-by-four restaurant.  He entered the place, sat down at the
oilcloth-covered table and gave his order to the good-looking young
woman who was evidently cook, hasher and washer combined.

In one corner of the restaurant an eight-year-old girl was squatting on
the floor and bathing two wooden dollies in a tin wash-basin.  A small
dog waggled in from the street, sniffed respectfully at Billy's boots,
then hunted along a crack in the floor with his nose till he came
within reach of the eight-year-old, who promptly seized him by his
short tail and dragged him, ki-yiing his protests, to her bosom.

"You need a bath," said the eight-year-old.  "I'll wash you."

Gripping her victim firmly by one ear and his tail she plumped him
splash into the washbasin.  To the dog's eternal credit he made no
attempt to bite her, but he wriggled and squirmed and threw his body
about, and ever he lamented loudly.

The good-looking young woman poked her head in from the kitchen.
"Winnie, you leave Towler be.  You know he doesn't like to be teased.
Why don't you go on giving Emmaline and Sally Jane their baths.  There!
Now, see what's happened--basin upset and water all over the floor.
That's the third time to-day I've had to mop up after you."

Little Winnie was a damsel of parts.  "I'm sorry, auntie.  I'll mop up.
Towler, you git."

Towler got.  Winnie began to sop up the water with a floor rag which
she wrung out in the washbasin.

"I'll finish giving you your bath, Sally Jane, soon as I get fresh
water.  Emmaline is nice and clean, but you're a dirty, dirty girl,
Sally Jane."

Sally Jane!  There it was again.  Merely a coincidence, of course, but
it was odd to run across this combination of proper names.  Billy began
to take more than a passing interest in the eight-year-old.

The little girl resumed her animated monologue.  "I tell you what,
Sally Jane, if you don't keep yourself cleaner, I'm gonna go back to
calling you Maria again."

Then it was that the hunch came to Billy Wingo.

"Winnie," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and
wearing his most engaging smile, "Winnie, that Sally Jane dolly is sure
one fine-looking lady."

Winnie regarded him with an indulgent eye.  "She's my favorite, Sally
Jane is."

"Sally Jane is a pretty name too."

"I like it."

"You haven't always called her Sally Jane, have you?"

"Not always.  I used to call her Mariar.  My auntie says Mariar sounds
like a cat talking, but I liked it till I heard Sally Jane, then I
liked Sally Jane best."

"And when did you hear the name Sally Jane?"

"Long, long ago."

"Oh!"  Disappointment on the part of Billy Wingo.  Farewell, hunch.
Nevertheless he essayed a forlorn hope.  "How long?"

"Most a week."

Most a week!  Billy had forgotten that child-time runs faster than
grown-up time.  The hunch pricked up its little ears and began to
return.  "Where did you hear that name?"

"Man in the Carnation.  He was drunk, and he went round talking to God
in the saloon.  I heard him through the window.  Lots of men do that.
My Auntie says they'll frizzle when they die."

"They ought to," pronounced the righteously indignant Bill.  "Did this
man say anything, about Sally Jane?"

"Lots."

"In the saloon?"

"At the woodpile out back.  I was making a li'l doll-house behind it,
and he came and lay down beside the woodpile to sleep it off."

Oh, the wisdom of the frontier child.

"Weren't you afraid?" probed Billy.

"Nah.  Why, you needn't ever be afraid of a drunk man.  They can't hurt
you if you keep out of their way.  I've seen lots of drunk men, I have,
in my time."

Billy was somewhat overwhelmed.  "That's fine," he said lamely.  "Did
you run away when the drunk man came out to the woodpile to sleep it
off?"

"Nah.  Ain't I said I ain't scared of drunks?  I didn't run away.  I
stayed right there on the other side of the woodpile listening to the
drunk man."

"I thought you said he went to sleep."

"He talked in his sleep," patiently explained the amazing Winnie.

"What did he say?"

"Lots."

"Did he say anything about Sally Jane?"

"He said he loved her."

"Anything else?"

"He said he was gonna marry Sally Jane, by Gawd, and nobody else was
gonna do it but him."

"Did he talk about any men?"

"He talked about Bill."

"Bill who?"

"Bill Wingo."

"Now, we're gettin' there.  Did he say anything particular about Bill
Wingo?"

"He said he was gonna shoot him."

"What for?"

"For being sheriff, or something.  I don't remember that exactly."

"You've remembered enough.  What kind of a looking man was this drunk?"

"Oh, he was an old, old man."

"Old, huh?  How old?"

"Oh, about your age."

Billy began to feel like Methuselah.  "What did he look like in the
face?"

The winsome Winnie looked at him critically.  "Something like you in
the face.  Sort of scrubby-looking and dirty--except maybe his whiskers
wasn't so long as yours."

"What color were the whiskers?"

"Oh, black."

"Was his hair black?"

"Yop, his hair was black."

"Was he a li'l, short, runty feller?"

"Nope, he was a big, tall feller, skinny sort of."

"Did you hear his name?"

"His friend called him Damn-your-soul sometimes and Jack sometimes."

So Jack Murray had gathered unto himself a friend.  This was
interesting, especially as Jack was apparently still cherishing plans
for revenge.  If Jack and the anonymous friend were in the vicinity of
Dorothy, it behooved a man in Billy's position to look to himself.

Billy had no illusions about Jack Murray.  The man was perfectly
capable of making another try at him from ambush.  He did not believe
that Jack would "snitch."  Such procedure would indubitably attract too
much public attention to Jack.  He couldn't afford that.  Not with
three thousand dollars on his head.

"Is the drunk with the black hair and whiskers around town?" he asked.

"They ate dinner here yesterday."

"They--oh, he and his friend?"

"Yep, him and his friend."

Billy got up and went to the door of the kitchen.  "Excuse me, ma'am,
do you remember a tall, black-haired feller and a friend with him who
ate in here yesterday noon?"

Oh, yes, the good-looking girl remembered perfectly both men.  Billy
thought that it would be as well to have a description of the friend.
Would she describe him.  She would and did.  The description was that
of Slike, Slike with a short beard.  The man's eyes, she said, seemed
to bore right through her.  They gave her the creeps.

Billy believed he had heard enough for the time being.

After dinner Billy went up and down Main Street, scraping acquaintance
with storekeepers, saloon keepers, the hotel proprietor and the town
marshall.  By five o'clock he had established the fact that two ranches
of the neighborhood, the TU and the Horseshoe were at loggerheads, and
that the Horseshoe was hiring gunfighters; that the black-haired man
called Jack and his friend, whose name no one knew, had been engaged in
conversation with the Horseshoe foreman; that the following day they
had told a bartender that they had offers of good jobs at one hundred a
month apiece; and that finally, a wolfer had met them on the range
riding in the direction of the Horseshoe ranch.

That night Billy and Dawson disappeared from Dorothy.




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE GUNFIGHTERS

Crack!  Crack!  Crack! the voices of the Winchesters drifted faintly
down wind to the ears of Billy and Dawson.  Billy, fearful that some
one else had seen their quarry first, swore frankly.

"Cheer up," said Dawson.  "It may be just the chance we're lookin' for.
They've stopped shootin'."

Billy remained pessimistic.  He had been disappointed so often.  But it
was the chance they were looking for, after all.

Five minutes later from the edge of a flat-topped hill, they were
looking down upon a scene that has had many counterparts in the history
of the West.

Below the flat-topped hill a wide stretch of rolling ground reached
away to a semi-circle of low hills.  A quarter-mile out from the base
of the hills a tiny fire smoked fitfully.  Beyond the fire lay a
hog-tied calf.  Beyond the calf, a man sprawled behind the body of a
pony.  He was aiming a rifle at another man ensconced below a cutbank
bordering a small creek that meandered with many windings across the
rolling country.  This second man was not blatantly visible.  Even with
the glasses it was difficult to make him out.  For cottonwoods grew
above the cutbank and the man lay in deep shadow.

Between this man and the man behind the pony were three hundred yards
of ground as flat as a floor.  Billy swept the background of the
cutbank man with his glasses.  "There are two horses tied behind a
windfall alongside those rocks.  Where's the other man?"

"There's the other man," said Dawson, pointing toward a gap in the
cottonwoods alongside the creek fifty yards down stream from the
cutbank.  "What's he doing--drinking?"

Billy turned his glasses on the spot indicated.  "He ain't drinking,"
he said soberly.  "His head's under water."

"I'm sure hoping he ain't Dan Slike," Dawson said matter-of-factly.

"Me too.  What----"

For the man behind the cutbank was climbing up among the
cottonwoods--climbing up and walking out into plain sight of the man
behind the pony.  Not only that, but, the rifle across the crook of his
elbow, nursing the butt with his right hand, he began to walk directly
toward him.  Still the man behind the pony did not fire.

"He's cashed all right," Billy remarked suddenly.  "He looked so
natural he fooled me for a minute.  Let's go down across the creek.
We're in luck to-day."

They ran down the reverse slope of the flat-topped hill, cut across the
creek and approached the horses tied behind the windfall.

"I'm afraid we'll just naturally have to kill Dan, after all," grieved
Billy.  "He won't ever surrender.  I----"

"Tell you," said Dawson, "loosen the cinches; then no matter which
horse he tops he'll jerk himself down.  Then maybe while he's all
tangled up with himself and the saddle----"

"Catchem-alivoes ourselves," said Billy, with a hard grin, and tossed
up the near fender of one of the saddles.

When both saddles had been carefully doctored, Billy and his friend
retired modestly behind some red willows.

Soon they heard a scramble and a splash in the creek.  Dan Slike was
coming back.  Through the screen of leaves they watched him coming
toward them.  They heard his voice.  He was swearing a great string of
oaths.  Billy crouched a trifle lower.  His six-shooter was out, but
not cocked.  Dawson had followed his example.

Slike jammed his Winchester into one of the empty scabbards and untied
the bridle reins of the horses.  Holding the reins in one hand, he
gripped a saddle horn and simultaneously stuck toe in stirrup.  Ensued
then a mighty creak of saddle leather, a snort, a plunge, and Slike
found himself on his back on the ground with one foot higher than his
head.  A gun barrel appeared from nowhere and smote him smartly over
the ear.  Oh, ye sun, moon and stars!  Total darkness.

Billy sprang to the heads of the capering horses.  "Take his hat off,
Johnny!" he cried.  "See what you find under the sweatband!"

When Slike emerged into the full possession of his senses, he was the
most disgusted man in the territory.

"You gave us quite a run," Billy observed smilelessly.

Slike damned everybody.  "You needn't have tied my hands too," he added.

"We can't afford to take chances.  Do you feel like admitting that the
district attorney helped you break jail?"

Slike glared defiantly.  "Nothin' to say," declared Dan Slike, the
unrepentant.

"That's your privilege.  Suppose now we heave him up on his horse and
go see what happened."

They freed his feet, mounted him on the horse that was not packing the
rifle and proceeded.  Behind the gap in the cottonwoods, fifty yards
below the spot under the cutbank where Slike had lain, they found the
body of the man with his face in the water.  Billy dragged out the body
and turned it on its back.

"What you cussin' for?" inquired Dawson.

"This feller ain't Jack Murray," cried the perplexed Mr. Wingo.  "It's
Skinny Shindle."

"Looks like we must have missed a bet somewhere," said Dawson.
"Plugged him plumb center, didn't he?" he added, alluding to the
red-and-blue bullet hole squarely between the staring eyes.

"I got the other sport," snarled Slike.

"Where's Jack Murray?" demanded Billy.

"What difference does that make?" flung back Dan Slike.

It was evident that Slike was not in a confiding mood.

Nobody said anything further.  They left Skinny Shindle lying beside
the little creek and went on to where the other dead man lay beside the
embers of the branding fire.

"That's a TU horse," said Dawson, glancing at the brand on the pony's
hip.

Billy turned the dead man face upward.  He whistled.  "Here's an odd
number, Johnny.  This feller is Simon Reelfoot's foreman.  You've heard
me speak of that low-lived persimmon, Simon Reelfoot.  This boy is
named Conley.  Been with Reelfoot for years.  I'd sure like to know why
he's riding for the T.U."

Came then a puncher riding on his occasions.  At sight of the three men
and the calf and the fire, he spurred toward them.  A hundred yards
away he suddenly pulled up and slipped to the far side of his horse.

"I know him," said Dawson.  "Used to ride for Tasker once.  C'mon,
Tommy, what you scared of?  It's me, Johnny Dawson."

Tommy at once remounted and rode in to them.  "'Lo, Johnny," he said,
with a straight mouth.  "Did that man with his arms tied kill Daley?"

"Is that his name?" asked Billy, flicking his thumb toward the dead man.

"Jim Daley," said Tommy.  "Did he?"

"Sure, I killed him," Slike truculently answered the question.  "What
about it?"

At that instant Billy demonstrated that the hand is sometimes quicker
than the eye.

"He'll die anyway," he said mildly.  "You better let us do it."

"I pass," surrendered Tommy, removing his hand from the butt of his
six-shooter.

"Daley got one before he went," said Billy, returning his six-shooter
whence it came.  "He's back there on the bank of the creek if you want
to look."

"This is sure hard on Daley," observed Tommy, dismounting to turn loose
the calf.  "He told me he came north for his health."

"North?"

"Yeah, couldn't stand the climate in Arizona, he said," amplified
Tommy, loosening the knot.  "Git up, feller, pull your freight.  Life's
sure funny.  I'll bet that calf's the first Daley ran our iron on.  He
only joined the outfit last week.  Let's go see if I know the other
feller."

Since the place where the dead man lay was on their back trail, they
went with Tommy, the TU boy.

"Sure, I know him," declared Tommy, after one look at the dead face.
"He's named Brindley--been with the Horseshoe since February."

Which simple statement explained the presence of Skinny Shindle, but
left Jack Murray completely to the imagination.  After all, decided
Billy, Jack Murray did not matter, and promptly forgot him.  Had he
known how important a place the slippery Mr. Murray actually held in
the scheme of things, he, Billy Wingo, would not have been so casual.

"We gotta make a heap of trail," said Dawson to Billy, when Tommy had
departed in suspicious haste.  "That damn Tommy is going to the ranch
for the rest of his bunch.  First thing we know we'll lose our
prisoner."

"Don't hurry on my account," said the sardonic Slike.  "If I gotta be
hung, lemme be hung and no fuss about it.  I don't want to ride all the
way north again."

"We need you, Dan," said Billy briefly.  "No hanging goes yet a while."

Forthwith they began to "make a heap of trail."  It may as well be said
at once that they saw no further signs of Tommy or any other of the TU
boys.

Toward dawn next day the horses showed signs of tiring.  "Mine won't
last another five miles," said Johnny Dawson.

"This is as good a place as any," said Billy briefly.  "We'll stop
here."

They dismounted Slike and stripped and hobbled the horses.  Slike had
not enjoyed the long night ride.  He was disposed to be peevish.  "I
want a smoke," he demanded.

Billy ceased pounding coffee and fixed him with a hard eye.  "You won't
get it," he said shortly.

"Helluva way to treat a prisoner," snarled Slike.  "You done better by
me when I was in jail."

"Lots of things have happened since.  But don't you fret.  I'll give
you what you deserve in about five minutes.  I missed out on it
yesterday, but I'll try to see you don't lose anything by the delay."

"Huh?" puzzled Slike.

"You remember going to Miss Walton's ranch," elaborated Billy in a
cold, monotonous tone.  "You beat her."

"Hell, nothin' to that.  I only pulled her hair a few times and slammed
her once or twice."

"You kicked her, too."

"Not hard, though.  Besides, I had to.  She was stubborn.  My Gawd, you
wouldn't begin to believe how stubborn that girl was!"

Billy laid aside the rock with which he had been pounding coffee.  "I
guess the coffee can wait better than I can."

He stood up limberly and unbuckled his cartridge belt and dropped it
beside Johnny Dawson, who was slicing bacon.  Then he crossed to Slike
and untied the knots of the rope that bound him.  Slike stretched his
arms and legs but made no offer to rise.  Billy nudged him in the ribs
with the toe of his boot.

"What's that for?" roared Slike, scrambling to his feet.

"I'm going to give you the best licking you ever got.  You've had it
coming a long time, and now you're going to get it."

"Is that so?" sneered Slike.  "Is that so?  You expecting to do all
this without help?"

Fists doubled, Billy started for Slike.  The latter side-stepped and
feinted Billy into a position between himself and Dawson.  Slike
crouched.  His right hand flashed downward.  The fingers fumbled at his
bootleg.  Billy ran in, expecting to beat Slike flat.

"Look out!" cried Dawson, as Slike's hand shot up and out, accompanied
by the vicious twinkle of steel.

But Billy, coming in with the speed of a springing wildcat, slipped a
bootsole on a rock and fell.  Slike's thrust sped past his head so
close that Slike's knuckles brushed his ear.

Billy got one foot under himself and threw up an arm in time to catch
on the turn the wrist of Slike's knife hand.  Slike promptly changed
hands.  But Billy caught the other wrist, not, however, before the
knife had narrowly missed slicing the flesh on his floating ribs.
Slike's head dipped forward and he sank his teeth in Billy's shoulder.
Billy drove a knee into Slike's stomach and Slike unclamped his teeth
with a gasp.  Over he went.  Billy stayed with him.

Dawson, who had dropped bacon and frying-pan at the first blow, saw his
opportunity and lunged down to wrench away Slike's knife.  Which was
not at all to Billy's mind.

"Let it alone!" gasped the warrior.  "He ain't giving me a bit o'
trouble."

The reluctant Dawson obeyed.

Slike, his body writhing like that of a scotched snake, could not budge
his pinned-down knife hand.  Inch by inch Billy dragged his own body
forward and upward until he was resting on his knees with Slike between
his legs.

"Leggo that knife!" he directed.

Slike's reaction was humanly natural.  At least, there were no hobbles
on his tongue.

"Well, all right, if you say so," Billy told him, and rejoiced to
perceive the top of a small rock not six inches from Slike's knife hand.

He forced the knife hand inward toward the rock.  Then he proceeded,
with all his might, to batter the back of Slike's hand against the
pointed top of the rock.  Slike's face changed at the first blow; at
the second he involuntarily groaned; at the third his fingers unclosed.
The knife tinkled on the rock.

Billy pounced on the knife, threw it yards away and scrambled to his
feet.  "Get up, Slike!  Stand on your feet!  Come and get it!"

Whatever other thing Slike was, he was certainly no coward.  Instead he
was a glutton for punishment.  He jerked himself to his feet and ran
headlong into a straight-arm blow that made his nose bleed and his neck
ache.  As has been said, Slike had no science.  Neither had Billy.  In
which respect the fight was equal.  But Slike was only fighting for
himself.  Billy was fighting not only for himself but to revenge
Slike's treatment of the girl he loved.

When he flattened Slike's nose, pleasure ensued--for Billy.  It was joy
to his heart when the next blow landed on Slike's right eye and laid
him all along the grass.  Three times Billy knocked Slike down, and
three times the killer hopped to his feet and came back for more.  But
after the third knockdown it was noticeable that Slike was appreciably
slower and considerably more cautious.  His face was a sight.  One eye
was completely closed.  His nose was broken, his lips cut and two teeth
were missing.

Slike came to a halt in front of Billy, blew a bubble of blood from his
lips and wiped his good eye with the back of his hand.  He swayed on
his legs.  But this display of weakness was more apparent than genuine.
Billy, watching Slike's one good eye, was not misled thereby.  There
was no hint of weakness in Slike's eye.  Indeed, there was strength and
hatred a-plenty.

Accordingly, when Slike suddenly lowered his head and dodged in under
Billy's guard with the evident intention of starting another "snatch
and wrastle," Billy was ready, very ready.  His uplifted knee met Slike
full in the face.  Slike straightened instantly, and Billy hooked his
right to the point of the chin.  Slike didn't need that last blow.  The
knee blow had already given him a clean knockout.

He took the ground limply and lay motionless.  Billy stood and looked
at him and blew upon his skinned knuckles and suddenly realized that it
was a good old world, after all.  There might be some mean citizens
scattered here and there.  But they always got their come-uppances in
the end.

Dawson joined him.  "Sure looked like a mule had kicked in his
dashboard.  I dunno when I ever saw a more complete job.  That face
don't look genuine a-tall."

"I'm sure ashamed of myself," muttered Billy.

"Whyfor?  You did just right.  I'd have done the same in your place.
You got no call to be ashamed."

"Not for licking him.  That was all right.  But I searched him and let
him hide out a butcher knife on me in his bootleg--_in his bootleg_."

"That handle was down inside the leather.  You couldn't see it.  I
didn't."

"I should have found it alla same," fretted Billy.  "There's no excuse
for such carelessness--none."

He went across to where he had thrown the knife and picked it up.  He
caught his breath.  On the handle of the butcher knife the letters TW
were cut deep into the wood.

When, for the second time that day, Slike recovered consciousness,
Billy showed him the butcher knife.

"How many butcher knives did you take from Walton's?" he demanded.

"One," replied Slike.

"And is this the one?"

"Sure it is.  Why not?"

"Why, hells bells!" exclaimed Billy, "then you didn't kill Rafe
Tuckleton."

"First I knew he was dead," Slike said thoughtfully.  "As a rule, I
don't kill my customers," he added, with a grin rendered more horrible
by his battered and bloody features.  "I can't afford to.  Maybe you
killed him yourself.  How about it?  Aw, right!  Go to hell then!  And
I want to say right here you tied my arms and legs too tight!  There
ain't no feelin' in any of 'em!"

Billy paid Slike no further attention.  His brain seemed to find it
difficult to function.  "She said he only took one knife," he told
himself stupidly and sat down to think it over.

He had caught Slike.  But he was no nearer the solution of the
Tuckleton murder than he was in the beginning.  His theory that Slike
had killed Tuckleton was smashed to smithereens by the discovery of the
Walton butcher knife in Slike's bootleg.  Unless Slike had taken two
knives.  But Slike had not taken two knives.  According to Hazel's
testimony, he had taken only one.

It was then that Billy suddenly realized that he should have known
better in the first place than to connect Slike with the murder of
Tuckleton.  Dan Slike was too experienced a longhorn to leave
incriminating evidence behind him if he could help it.  And if he had
killed Tuckleton, he would at least have taken away the handle of the
knife.  But the handle had been left beside the body for any one to
pick up.  Manifestly, then, it had been left there with the design to
throw suspicion upon a person other than the murderer,--for instance, a
person intimately connected with the Walton ranch.

Obviously the Tuckleton murder and the O'Gorman murder were parallel
cases.  In both, clues had been left to manufacture circumstantial
evidence against the wrong person.  While it did not necessarily follow
that the same brain and hands had planned and carried out both murders,
yet the point was worth considering.  For it was absolutely necessary
to lay at least Tuckleton's murderer by the heels.  There were no two
ways about that.  Because if he were not caught, it would only be a
matter of time before Rale, by reason of his peculiar temperament,
would recover from his fright, decide to risk the wrath to come, and
once more turn the cold light of suspicion upon Hazel Walton.  And that
would entail her arrest sooner or later.  Indeed, to Billy Wingo the
future bore the appearance of a mighty boggy ford.

Mechanically he began to play mumbletypeg with the butcher knife--palm
of hand, back of hand, right fist, left fist, and had progressed as far
as his left pinky in the movement known as off fingers of each hand
when he sat back and stared at the knife quivering in the turf.  He
thought he saw a gleam of light.  The very fact of the two knives, each
a match of the other, was as obvious a contrariety as any that ever
delighted the soul of Mr. William Noy.  Attaching to the demise of Rafe
Tuckleton was another contrariety, several others in fact.  Billy
checked off the various contrarieties on his fingers.  The gleam of
light became a ray, the ray broadened to the bright light of complete
understanding.

He hugged his knees and smiled the pleasant self-satisfied smile of the
proverbial cat that has just received the canary into its midst.  "I
got him!  I got him where the hair is short.  It's one complete cinch."

Early one morning several days later the sheriff _pro tem._ of Crocker
County was roused by rappings on the office door.  Being an experienced
man, Shotgun Shillman did not open the front door.  He went round the
back way with his gun in his hand.  But his caution was needless.  For,
on circling the house, he found no one at the front door but Dan
Slike--a hatless Dan Slike flat on his back in the dust, tied hand and
foot, and with a gag in his mouth.  Looped around Dan's ankles was one
end of a lariat.  At the other end of the lariat stood Hazel Walton's
riding horse.

Later in the day Guerilla Melody called on Nate Samson, asked the
storekeeper several apparently aimless questions and leafed through the
cutlery pages of Nate's hardware catalogue.  Still later in the day
Johnny Dawson rode out of Golden Bar.  Only two people besides himself
knew that he was bound for the railroad and a telegraph line.




CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CONTRARIETIES

"There's a lot of this stuff I don't understand," said Guerilla Melody
the day after Dawson's return from the railroad.  "Why did Conley go
south?  Reelfoot and he were almighty friendly.  Got drunk together and
everything.  And Conley ain't committed any crime round here that I
know of."

"I'm betting he did, alla same," said Billy.  "Or else why was he so
particular to tell those TU boys he was from Arizona?  Folks don't hide
where they come from without a reason.  We know there have been two
murders committed here by unknown murderers.  It never occurred to me
till you said Conley hadn't committed any crime that you know of that
maybe--"  He left the sentence unfinished.

Guerilla looked bewildered.  "What did Conley have against Tip?"

"I don't know," said Billy.  "But I intend to find out."

"That's the trick," chipped in Dawson.  "In cases like this it pays to
dig into the innards of everything you don't understand.  You're almost
sure to find out somethin'."

"Maybe friend Simon can tell us somethin'," Billy said.  "Let's go.
It'll be sunrise in two hours."

Simon Reelfoot, riding the range that day, met a horseman who said he
was strayman for the Wagonwheel outfit north of the West Fork.  Did
Simon know where Park Valley was?  Simon knew, and gave the strayman
minute directions.

"Shucks," said the strayman, "I can't carry all that in my head.
Here's a envelope and a pencil.  Make a li'l map like, will you?"

Simon was not an adept with the pencil.  To use either it or a pen
required the most perfect concentration and his tongue in his cheek.
Wondering greatly at the strayman's claimed inability to remember a few
simple landmarks, Simon took the pencil and envelope and bent over his
saddle horn.

"Here," he said, after three minutes' work, holding out the envelope,
"This ought to fix you up."

To this horror, the well-known voice of Billy Wingo at his back
concurred readily.  "It ought to," said Billy Wingo.  "We're obliged to
you, Simon.  Kindly clasp your hands over your hat."

The envelope and pencil fell to the ground as Simon obeyed.  The
strayman dismounted and picked them up.

"You oughtn't to have given him that envelope," Billy admonished the
strayman.  "It has the confession in it.  You got to be more careful."

"I will," said the strayman humbly, and tucked the envelope into his
pocket.

Simon stirred uneasily on his saddle.  Confession!  Whose confession?
He recalled that there had been several folded sheets of paper in the
envelope.  Of course, Simon could not know that these sheets were
white,--innocent of either handwriting or printing.  But Simon's
conscience was a helpful little thing.  And Simon's mind was prone to
jump at conclusions.

"I'll just take your gun, Simon," murmured Billy.  "I don't think you'd
do anything reckless, but you might.  Slide off easy.  That's it.  You
look kind of bewildered, Simon.  Don't know how I got here, do you?
Easy, like eatin' pie.  While you were hard at work with your pencil,
Guerilla and I were tippytoeing out of that stand of timber behind us a
ways.  You shouldn't be so trusting of strangers, feller.  _Keep your
paws up_!  Just because I've felt you all over and haven't found an
extra gun or knife doesn't signify you can do as you please.  You stand
right still and steady.  Johnny, let's have that envelope.  My friend
will watch you, Simon, while I glance over this."

Billy took the envelope, fingered out the sheets of paper and unfolded
them.  His lip moved as he solemnly looked them over.  It was apparent
to Reelfoot that he was refreshing his memory.

"Simon," Billy said, glancing up suddenly, "why did Conley go South?"

Simon's leathery face assumed a richly jaundiced hue.  "I--I dunno!"

"Yes, you do," Billy insisted, striking the sheets of paper with his
fist.  "We found Conley.  He was working for the TU when he died."

Simon's face went even yellower.  "I told him not to go," muttered
Simon Reelfoot.

"Conley talked before he died," said Billy.  "He told me some
interesting things about himself--and you.  We've got you dead to
rights, Simon."  Here Billy stuffed the sheets of paper into his
trousers pocket and gripped Simon by the throat.  "You damned murderer,
what did you kill him for?"

At the fierce clutch of Billy's fingers, Simon's shaking legs refused
to uphold him longer.  He fell on his knees.  "I--I didn't kill him!"
he spluttered.  "He was dead when----"

"You lie!  You killed him!  Conley said so!  You tried to throw the
blame on me by leaving behind--"  Billy's voice trailed off into
silence.

"That was Conley's idea!" screamed the panicky Reelfoot.  "He got the
hatband and quirt one day when nobody was in the office.  I didn't have
anything to do with it!  Conley shot him, too!"

"Conley shot him too, huh?  Then you shot Tip your own self?"

"He was gonna squeal!  He was gonna get me mixed into that Walton
murder!  They told me he was!  He--he pulled first, I tell you!  It was
an even break!  I was drunk!  I didn't know what I was doing!  Oh, my
Gawd!"

Billy flung the groveling Simon from him.  "This ought to be enough for
you."

Guerilla wagged an admiring head as he set about securing the arms of
the wretched Reelfoot.  "Gotta give you credit, Bill.  I never thought
it would work."

"I did," said the strayman, Johnny Dawson.  "I've seen it done before.
Most folks are sheep when it comes to a bluff."

"Don't tie him too tight, Guerilla.  Might as well ask him some more
questions."

That evening there was another prisoner in the Golden Bar calaboose.
"If they keep on coming in like this," said Shotgun Shillman to Riley
Tyler, "we'll have to build an addition to the jail."

"The more the merrier," grinned Riley Tyler.  "Listen to that
skunkified Reelfoot!  You'd think he was having the horrors, the way
he's carrying on."

"Did you hear what he said about leaving a lantern outside the cell all
night, account of Tip haunting him in the dark?"

Riley nodded.  "I heard.  His nerve has gone completely bust."

"It's funny how he keeps insisting that Bill Wingo was with Guerilla
and that Dawson man when they captured him.  Why, everybody knows Bill
Wingo is far, far away."  Thus Shotgun Shillman, his tongue in his
cheek.

"Damfunny," Riley assented with a wink.  "Especially when Guerilla and
Dawson said they hadn't seen a sign of Bill, not a sign.  You might
almost think Simon Reelfoot was mistaken."

"You might," chuckled Shotgun Shillman.  "I wonder, speaking as man to
man, and not as sheriff _pro tem._ to his deputy, where Bill is anyway."

"Probably in town this minute.  It would be just like him."

"Guessin' thataway is bad business," Shotgun reproved Riley.  "Besides,
you're mistaken.  If we thought Billy was in town, it would be our duty
to hop out and arrest him, wouldn't it?  You bet it would.  So we don't
think he's in town.  That is certain sure.  You wanna mix a li'l common
sense with your job, Riley.  You're too half-baked by a jugful.  You
keep on expressin' opinions so free and easy, and first thing you know
folks will think we ain't so anxious to arrest Bill."

"Some of 'em think so now," said the unimpressed Riley.

"Ain't that the public all over!" exclaimed the justly indignant
Shotgun.  "Tell you, an honest officer of the law is never appreciated,
never.  Is that bottle empty, Riley?"

In the meantime Billy Wingo was calmly eating his supper in the house
of Guerilla Melody.  On Guerilla's bed Dawson was snoring the sleep of
exhaustion.

"What next?" asked Guerilla Melody, when Billy was lighting his
after-supper cigarette.  "With Tip's murder settled and knowin' who
killed Tuckleton----"

"Certainly doesn't help us any with the stage holdup," cut in Billy.
"Before we spring the joke in the Tuckleton deal, I've got to do a li'l
more work on the hold-up.  Dumping Rafe's murderer won't do me a heap
of good while I'm breaking rock for twenty years at Hillsville.  Don't
look so glum, Guerilla.  There's a trail out.  There always is."

At the tail of the woods a convivial voice in the street broke into
boisterous song.  "Who's that?" asked Billy.

"It's Jerry Fern," said Guerilla indifferently.  "He's drunk again."

"Ain't it kind of new for him?  He never used to drink much."

"Oh, he can't stand prosperity."

"Prosperity?"

"Yep.  Aunt died, left him some money.  He ain't drove for nearly a
month."

"The lucky devil.  Big legacy?"

"I dunno how much.  Fair size, I guess.  Must have been for Crafty to
lend him money to play with."

"What?"

"Don't get so excited," cautioned Guerilla, with a nervous glance over
his shoulder.  "You've no idea how your voice carries.  Even if you
don't mind being dumped, I do.  And I don't care three whoops about
spending two or three years in jail for giving aid and comfort to----"

"Shut up, for Gawd's sake!" begged Billy.  "Do you know Crafty's been
lending money to Jerry?"

"Didn't I see him with my own eyes more than once?  But----"

"Say, don't you see anything else yet?"

"I see you, but that ain't sayin' much."

"Guerilla, if you weren't so serious you'd be funny.  But don't get
down-hearted.  I'm as foolish as you are, every bit.  Why, when they
had me corraled in Sam Larder's house, and Crafty blatted right out
loud that he didn't know Jerry Fern was driving that trip and Tip and
Sam said later that they knew Jerry was, I had the answer to the puzzle
if I had the sense to follow it up.  Especially when it turned out
later that Jerry, who always gives a bandit a battle, didn't even try
to lock horns with Crafty.  But I never caught the connection till you
said Crafty was lending money to Jerry.  Lending him money!  Do you
think you can get Jerry Fern in here and make him drunk?"

"When?" asked Guerilla, beginning to get a glimmering.

"To-night.  Now.  I want to get Jerry so full he'll talk.  Tell us all
he knows, see?"

"I'll make him drunk," Guerilla said earnestly.  "And I'll make him
talk, or there ain't a drop of virtue in Old Crow."

Guerilla flipped on his hat and departed.

Half an hour later Guerilla returned, bringing his sheaves with him.
And, oh, the sheaves were merry and, oh, the sheaves were drunk.
Guerilla himself was giving an admirable imitation of a roistering
blade.

"Meet my friend, Mister Johnny Dawson," said Guerilla, waving an
expansive hand toward the erstwhile strayman.

"Huh, h'are you, Misher Juh-johnny Duh-duh-daw-son," said Jerry Fern,
solemnly shoving out a wavering paw and missing the mark by eighteen
inches.  "Washer name of other tut-tut-twin?"

For a bad moment Dawson feared that Billy Wingo had been foolish enough
to come in from the other room.  Then he understood.  "His name's
Eliphalet," he made reply, solemnly turning to the empty air on his
right.

Jerry Fern again pumphandled the empty air.  "Pup-pup-pleased meetcha,"
he stuttered.  "Cuc-cuc-cuc-can't pup-pronounce name, but thash all
ri'.  All li'l friends tut-together.  Wheresh bottle?  You gug-got
bub-bub-bottle, Guh-guh-gil-Guerilla?"

"Sit down," urged Guerilla, steering Jerry to anchor.  "Here's your
bottle."

Jerry Fern clasped the bottle to his bosom and sang a lusty stave.

  "Rye whisky, rye whisky,
  Rye whisky, I cry.
  If I don't get rye whisky
  I surely will die."


Like the boy in the story, Jerry could sing without stuttering.  But
when he began again to talk, his enunciation was worse than ever.
"Buh-buh-buh-whistle for the crossing--but I ain't gug-gug-gargle gonna
die.  Nun-nun-not me.  I gug-got rye whuh-whisky."

He put the bottle to his lips and went through all the motions of
taking a hearty pull.  "Fuf-funny," he said, holding the bottle at
arm's length.  "Wuh-wuh whisky lul-lul-lost all its taste."

"Take the cork out," suggested Guerilla.

"Cuc-cuc-cork?" smiled Jerry Fern.  "I'll tut-take cuc-cork out."

So saying he smashed the bottle neck against the edge of the table,
broke it short off, and drank without ceasing till the bottle was
empty.  He held the bottle against the light.  He pressed it to his
ear.  He shook it.  Then he tossed it nonchalantly over his shoulder,
laid his cheek on the table and began to snore.

This would never do.  Guerilla and Dawson shook him awake.

"Mush been shleep," mumbled Jerry, knuckling his eyes.  "Gimme anuzzer
dud-drink."

"Not yet," said Guerilla firmly.  "Is Felix Craft a good friend of
yours, Jerry?"

"Helluva good fuf-fuf-friend," was the instant reply.

"He doesn't pay you enough," prompted the carefully drilled Dawson.

"Thash whu-what I tut-told him!" cried Jerry Fern, pounding the table
with a vehement fist.  "I ought tut-tut-to have num-more."

"He's treatin' you mean," said Guerilla.  "He ain't goin' to give you
any more money."

"Yesh he wuh-will," insisted Jerry.

"He told me different."  Thus Dawson.

"Yesh he wuh-will.  Huh-he'll have to gimme all money I want.  Pup-put
him in juh-juh-jail if he don't."

Guerilla and Dawson looked toward the doorway giving into the other
room.  Then they began to laugh immoderately.  "That's a good one,"
cried Guerilla, wiping his eyes.  "You can't put Felix Craft in jail.
He hasn't done anything wrong."

"Oh, ain't he?" flared Jerry Fern with all the drunkard's irritation at
being disbelieved. "I know more abub-bub-bout Fuf-felix Cuc-craft than
you thuh-think.  I cuc-can muh-make Fuf-felix Cuc-craft lul-lie
dud-down and rur-roll over."

"Yes, you can."  With derision.

"Yeah, I cuc-can!"

"What makes you think so?"

"I know all rur-right," vaguely.

This was maddening.  Billy, in the other room, yearned to take Jerry
Fern by the scruff of his drunken neck and squeeze the truth out of him.

"You don't know a thing about Felix Craft," persisted Guerilla.  "Not a
thing."

"Damn shame he don't pay you enough," chipped in Dawson.

"Maybe if I went to him I could get more money for you," suggested
Guerilla.  He waited a moment for the meaning of this to sink in before
adding, "What will I tell him."

"Tut-tell him I'll tell if he dud-don't pup-pay."

This sounded promising.  "Tell what?"

"Tut-tell whuh-who held up the sush-sush-stage."

"Oh, that's nothing," said Guerilla.  "Felix told me all about that.
He said you didn't help him out a-tall."

Jerry Fern was instantly up in arms.  "I dud-did so," he chattered.
"He knows bub-better.  Did-didn't he plan it all out wuh-with mum-me
nun-nun-not to cuc-cuc-cut down on him, and didn't I tut-tell the
pup-passengers to muh-make sure of Bub-bill's clothes and the bub-brass
gug-gug-guard of his six-shu-shooter?  Did-didn't I?  Did-didn't I?
Yeah, and his huh-horse and all too?  Dud-didn't I do all them
thuh-things acc-acc-accordin' to cuc-contract?  Did-didn't I?
Cuc-course I did.  And if Fuf-felix do-don't pay up, I'll pup-put him
in jail."

"That's right," Guerilla soothed him.  "Do anything you want with him."
He went to the door of the other room and whispered, "Has he said
enough, Bill?"

"About," answered Billy, pushing his chair back and standing up.

"But maybe he won't repeat it under oath when he's sober," worried
Guerilla.

"We won't wait that long.  We'll sic him on Felix right now.  You go
find out where Felix is, will you, Guerilla, and--  Here, wait a shake!
Better have Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler in on this.  Huh?  Course
not!  Don't tell 'em I'm here.  Tell 'em----"




CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

JONESY'S ULTIMATUM

"You can't tell me that infernal Bill Wingo ain't at the bottom of all
this business!" snarled Felix Craft.  "Guerilla Melody and that Dawson
friend of his didn't get Slike by themselves any more than I did.  I
tell you flat, Bill Wingo was the boss of that job.  He was the brains,
and you can't tell me different."

"And there was a time when we thought Bill didn't have any brains," Sam
Larder grieved bitterly.

"I didn't," avowed the district attorney.  "I always knew----"

"Oh, you!" interrupted Felix with a sneer.  "You know it all, you do.
You know so much, maybe you'll explain why Reelfoot says you told him
Tip O'Gorman was gonna tangle him up in the Walton murder and that the
easiest way was for him to down Tip."

"He says Rafe Tuckleton told him that," corrected the district attorney.

"He says you did too," accused Sam Larder.  "What did you tell him a
thing like that for?"

"Reelfoot's a liar," declared the district attorney.  "I never told him
anything of the kind.  Why should I?"

"I don't know.  I'd like to find out."  The fat man's stare was bright
with suspicion.

The district attorney bristled.  "Good Lord, man, I was always friendly
with Tip."

"You were friendlier with Rafe Tuckleton," pointed out Felix, "and we
all know Tip didn't have any use for Rafe after that Walton deal, and
Rafe knew it."

"It's just possible," put in Sam Larder, "that Rafe put Reelfoot up to
downing Tip."

"In which case," supplemented Felix, "you bein' so friendly with Rafe,
it would be natural for you to help him."

"Next thing you'll be saying I killed Tip."  Thus the district attorney
with sarcasm.

"No, because that wouldn't be true.  I know you didn't kill him.  But
I'm not sure you aren't an accessory before and after the fact."

The district attorney went pale.  But he made no attempt to go after
his gun.  Not against Felix Craft.  Not now at any rate.  "I'll settle
this with you later," he began.  "I----"

"You'll never settle anything with anybody," Felix flung the insult
with contempt.

"We'll gain nothing by fighting among ourselves," went on the district
attorney evenly.  "If we don't stick together, we'll hang together, and
you can gamble on that.  If Slike talks----"

"He'll implicate you and Tuckleton," Larder chipped in swiftly.  "We're
out of _that_ proposition."

"But we all aided him to escape from jail, so we are all guilty of
felony.  If Slike should choose to blat about it--"  The district
attorney left the remainder of the sentence to his comrades'
imagination.

"He's right," said Sam Larder suddenly.  "We've got to stick together."

"All right," Felix Craft said grudgingly, "I'll wait until we're out of
this muss before I ask you any more questions about egging Reelfoot to
down Tip O'Gorman, Rale.  Afterward I'll get the truth out of you if I
have to choke you to death first.  Oh, you needn't show your teeth at
me, feller.  You won't bite."

The district attorney swallowed hard.  "You'll find your suspicion is
baseless, Felix, baseless and unjust.  I had absolutely nothing to do
with the murder of Tip O'Gorman.  Whoever told you----"

"Nobody told me anything.  I----"

"Let it go for now," broke in Sam Larder.  "We've got to think of our
skins.  And if we don't catch Bill Wingo, they'll be gone skins."

"You bet they will," said the district attorney.  "That man at large is
a menace.  He'd bushwhack any or all of us three without a moment's
hesitation.  He's--he's capable of anything."

"I know he's capable of anything," Sam Larder said with deep feeling,
thinking of Billy's escape from the Larder ranch house.  "And I'd give
a good deal to know he was two feet underground.  But Gawd knows we
can't do more than we have done to catch him.  Felix and me have ridden
ourselves bowlegged combin' the Medicines for him."

"You bet we have," agreed Felix.  "There ain't a square foot of those
mountains we don't know intimate.  Speaking personal, I've ridden--"
He paused and looked across at Sam Larder.  "That bet was I'd ride more
than six hundred miles in sixty days.  Remember, Sam?  And the sixty
days ain't up yet, and I've ridden more than six hundred already."

"What bet's that?" asked the district attorney chattily, anxious to
reestablish friendly relations.  "Who you bettin' with?"

"Nobody you're interested in," parried Felix Craft, it having been
thought better to keep the district attorney in the dark regarding the
happenings at the Larder ranch house on the day of the stage hold-up.

"I'll go the limit we've covered a thousand miles," groaned Sam.  "I've
lost thirty pounds myself.  I don't believe Bill ever went near the
Medicines."

"Oh, he went there, all right," said the district attorney.  "Take my
word----"

A pounding on the office door cut the sentence in half.

"You are certainly jumpy this evening, Rale," Felix Craft said dryly.
"Open the door.  Maybe it's our friend Bill."

The district attorney obeyed with caution.  Not that he expected Billy.
But then, he did not quite know what to expect.  That it would be
something to trouble him he was positive.  He was not disappointed.  It
was a trio of the Tuckleton outfit, to wit, the foreman, Jonesy, and
two punchers, Ben Shanklin and Tim Mullin.  All three were in the worst
of tempers.

"Look here, Rale," Jonesy began without preliminary, "you've fooled
with us long enough, and we're sick of it."

"We want action," rapped out Ben Shanklin.

"You can't come any of this high and mighty stuff over me," said the
district attorney, with an eye that flickered in spite of himself.  "I
don't know what you're talking about, but if you want anything, you'll
have to ask for it in the right way, and maybe you'll get it and maybe
you won't."

"Is that so?" fleered Jonesy.  "We'll see about that.  What have you
done in Rafe's case?"

"We hope to land the murderer very soon.  We have several clues.
We----"

Jonesy banged his fist down on the table with a force that made the
windows dance.  "Shut up!  You and your 'we's!'  Rafe's murderer is
that damn niece of Walton's, and you know it.  You had her in the jug
and you turned her loose.  The evidence was insufficient to hold her
on, you said.  You said at that time you had evidence against Bill
Wingo and expected to catch him soon.  You haven't caught him, and we
want to know what the evidence against him is.  What is it?  C'mon!
Spit it out!"

"Now look here," temporized the district attorney, "I can't tell
you----"

"You bet you can't," interrupted the angry Shanklin.  "'Cause why?'
Cause you haven't any evidence against him!  The only evidence you've
got is against Hazel Walton, and you've got enough of that to put her
over the jumps."

"Lemme do the talkin', Ben," directed Jonesy.  "Look here, Rale, either
you tell us what evidence you got against Bill Wingo, or you issue a
warrant for Hazel Walton's arrest.  One or the other.  Take your
choice."

"Say, are you friends of Bill Wingo?" demanded the district attorney.

"You know better than that," snapped back Jonesy.  "It's just that
we're gonna know what's what."

"But what good will it do to rearrest Hazel Walton?"

"Then you haven't any evidence against Bill Wingo?" persisted Jonesy.

"I didn't say that.  I----"

"If you can't tell us what the evidence is, we'll take it you haven't
any.  I knew there was some trick in it when you turned Hazel loose.
You and your evidence against Bill Wingo!  You lousy liar, you gotta
get up early in the morning to pile us!  You listen to me!  You issue a
warrant for that girl's arrest immediate!"

"I can't," denied the district attorney.  "I haven't the power to issue
warrants.  No justice of the peace has yet been appointed to fill
Driver's place, and the nearest judge is Donelson at Hillsville."

"Under the law," horned in Felix Craft, suddenly choosing his side,
"when a felony has been committed, and there is reasonable cause for
believing that the person to be arrested has committed it, that person
may be arrested without a warrant."

"I thought you didn't want anything to happen to Hazel Walton," fleered
the district attorney.

"I don't want her hurt, that's all.  I haven't any objection to her
being tried for the murder of Tuckleton.  But I ain't going to have you
haze her around.  Understand?"

"There y'are," said Jonesy.  "You don't need a warrant for the girl.
All you have to do is to give your orders to Shotgun and Riley.
They'll do the rest."

"But after turning her loose thisaway--" began the thoroughly
frightened district attorney.

"You can rearrest her and have her tried on that butcher-knife
evidence," insisted the stubborn Jonesy.  "Just going by what she says
herself, there's enough to fix her clock twice over.  You dump her,
Rale, and dump her quick."

"Or we'll fix your clock," inserted Tim Mullin.

The hapless district attorney cast his distressed gaze this way and
that.  But every eye that met his either was unfriendly or wrathfully
hostile.  Certainly there was no help for him in that room.  The
district attorney shuddered.  He knew Jonesy and the rest of the
Tuckleton outfit; knew, too, if he did not do as these men of violence
demanded, that they would make him hard to find.  On the other hand, if
he obeyed them, Bill Wingo would as surely kill him.  The district
attorney shuddered again.

"What you shivering about?" demanded the sarcastic Tim Mullin.

The district attorney squared his afflicted shoulders and did the
obvious,--chose the more remote of the two evils.  "I'll send Shotgun
and Tyler to Prescott's to-morrow," he said, rose to his feet and,--the
door flew open, and, Jerry Fern, wild-eyed with liquor, stumbled into
the room.  The stage driver rolled straight to Felix Craft and pawed
him.  "Fuf-felix," he babbled, "I wan' shush-shome mon-money."

The furious Felix shook him off.  But Jerry Fern was nothing if not
persistent.  He returned with bellowings.

The grinning faces of Guerilla Melody, Johnny Dawson, Shotgun and Riley
looked in through the open doorway.

"Come along, Jerry," called Guerilla.  "We been hunting you all over."

Jerry Fern was not in the least interested in coming along.  He had
another and very definite end in view.  "Fuf-felix, gug-gimme shome
mum-money!"

Felix bit off a curse.  "Look here, Jerry," he said soothingly, patting
the hysterical drunkard on the back, "you go home and sleep it off.
You don't want to go whoppin' round this way at your age."

The district attorney, Jonesy and his two punchers stared.  This was
another Felix.  The Felix they knew would have knocked the sot down.

"I wuh-wuh-wan' shush-shome mum-money," gargled Jerry, even as Billy's
four friends pushed in through the open doorway.

"You come along with me," urged Felix, gently propelling Jerry toward
the street.

Jerry braced his feet mulewise.  "I wuh-won't!  I wuh-won't!  I
wuh-wan' mum-money you promised me."

"I didn't promise you a nickel," said Felix, wrestling with his
emotions.  "But come along, and I'll give you some money if you're hard
up."

"Huh-how much?"

"Plenty.  I'll give you what you deserve."  There was cream and butter
in the gambler's voice, but there was grisly menace in his restless
eyes.

"Gug-guve mum-me more than you gug-gave bub-before?"

"Yes, yes.  C'mon!"

"Wuh-want mum-money now!" yelped the contumacious Jerry, "or I'll
pup-put you in jail!"

At which Felix lost his patience and his head and gave Jerry the bum's
rush through the doorway.  Jerry skidded across the sidewalk and slid a
yard on his nose.  This annoyed him considerably.  He sat up,
supporting himself on a wavering elbow and squalled, "Yuh-you
nun-needn't thuh-think I'm gug-gonna lul-lie for you nun-no longer!  If
you dud-don't gug-gimme plenty mum-money, I'm gug-gonna tell folks how
yuh-you huh-held up the sush-stage yourself all dressed up in Bill
Wingo's clothes sho you cuc-could throw the bub-blame on him!"

Most certainly then the gambler would have put a bullet through Jerry
Fern had not Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler been too quick for him.

"Now, now, Felix, calm down," suggested Shotgun.

"He's a liar!" foamed Felix, struggling to jerk his gun arm free.  "I
never held up the stage!  Bill Wingo did it himself!  Ask Sam Larder!"

"Was Sam there, too?" said Riley, with fresh interest.  "Here, Sam,
wait a minute.  What's your hurry?"

"Got to see a man," mumbled Sam.  "Be right back."

"Stay a while," invited Riley Tyler.

Sam Larder regarded the muzzle of Riley's gun.  "All right," said Sam
Larder.

"Felix," said Shotgun Shillman, "I don't _want_ to plug you."

Felix Craft took the hint.

Johnny Dawson went out into the street and returned with Jerry Fern,
who had forgotten his grievance against Felix Craft and wished only to
sleep.

Shotgun Shillman looked at the district attorney.  "Rale, this sort of
puts a crimp in the notion that Bill Wingo held up the stage."

"It looks like it," admitted the district attorney, fumbling the papers
on his desk.  "Of course, we'll have to do some more investigating
first."

"Before any investigating is done, we want Hazel Walton arrested,"
tucked in the malevolent Jonesy.

"All right!  All right!" snarled the badgered Rale.  "I'll have her
arrested first thing in the morning."




CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE FOOL-KILLER

The district attorney, having looked carefully to the fastenings of his
windows, tucked a six shooter under his pillow and began to unlace his
shoes.  Came a rapping at his chamber door and the voice of his
housekeeper.

"Say, Art, here's another of your infernal friends at the kitchen door.
Says his name's Johnson."

The district attorney, jumping at a conclusion, immediately reached for
his six-shooter.  "I don't know any Johnsons.  Not around here, anyway.
What's he look like?"

"Middlin' tall, scrubby lot of black whiskers, talks sort of thick
like."

"Pebbles under his tongue, most likely.  Tell him to come into the
kitchen, so I can get a look without him knowing."

"He won't come in.  Says he wants you to come to the door your own
self.  Says it's important."

At which the district attorney was more than ever certain that the
midnight visitor was Billy Wingo.  "You go tell him that he'll have to
come into the kitchen before I'll talk to him.  Close the kitchen door
most to.  I can look at him through the crack."

The housekeeper departed, and the district attorney slipped off his
shoes and tip-toed into the hall.  The housekeeper, hair in curl papers
and wearing a wrapper, met him before he reached the kitchen door.

"He says he won't come in," she told him, "and told me to tell you he
wanted to see about a note for five thousand dollars he has in his
pocket."

"Now I know who it is," said the district attorney.  "You go to bed.
I'll let him in."

After the district attorney heard the slam and following click of his
housekeeper's door, he went into the kitchen, turned down the flame of
the lamp and opened the kitchen door.

"That you, Rale?" inquired a muffled voice.

"Yes!  Come in!  Come in!"

The man in outer darkness spat out two pebbles.  "Is that damn woman
there?" he asked in the natural tone of voice of Jack Murray.

"No!  Come _in_!  I want to shut the door."

Jack Murray entered quickly.

"What in hell are you doing here?" demanded the district attorney, when
he and the other were behind the closed door of the office.  "Don't you
know----"

"I wanted to see you," Jack Murray said, seating himself in the nearest
chair.  "Ain't you glad to see me?"

"Not very," the district attorney said frankly.  "If you get caught----"

"I ain't gonna get caught.  The man ain't born yet to catch me.  I
suppose you got the money for that note."

"No, I haven't."

"Why haven't you?"

"I couldn't raise it."

"What's the matter with you?  Ain't you got any credit left?"

"Folks won't lend money unless they get security, and I haven't any
security that hasn't already been put up."

"_He_ didn't ask for security," thus Jack Murray with an indescribable
leer.

"That--was--different."

"I guess it was.  Yeah.  I always had an idea you were a rich man."

"A lot of people thought so," the district attorney said bitterly.  "As
a matter of fact, I've been hard pressed for money all my life.  I've
always had a hand in too many deals."

"You were able to chip in on that reward for me without any trouble."

"I knew I'd never have to pay it.  Some day, when all my different
enterprises pan out, I'll have money, but now I haven't got any."

"How about that bribe in the Jacksboro range case last fall?  Why, they
must have paid you all of three or four thousand dollars."

The district attorney shook his head.  "No, only twenty-five hundred,
and two thousand of that went for some insurance I had to pay in
January."

"Two thousand dollars for insurance!"

"That's what I said."

"You're lying.  Whoever heard of two thousand dollars for insurance?"

"Oh, I wasn't the only one.  Rafe had to pay the same.  And Tip a
thousand.  Oh, never mind trying to understand it.  It's too long a
story now."

"I guess it is.  I ain't carin' much about listening to any such
stories, anyway.  I didn't ride alla way north from Dorothy just for
that.  I want the money for that note."

"I haven't it, and you could have gotten that information by writing
for it.  You didn't have to take the trip.  You----"

"The money ain't all I come for.  I want to settle my li'l account with
Bill Wingo."

"I thought that li'l account was closed," said the district attorney,
with the shadow of a sneer that Murray did not catch.

"It won't be closed till Bill Wingo is pushin' up the grass," averred
Jack Murray.  "This territory ain't big enough for the two of us."

"If you had any sense it would be."

"Meanin'?"

"Meaning that Bill Wingo is a pretty cold proposition for you to
handle."

"I'm better than he ever thought of being, and don't you let anybody
tell you different.  I'll get that ---- ---- if I have to follow him to
hell!  Damn his soul!  If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be where I am
now!  If it wasn't for him, I'd be sheriff of this county!  If it
wasn't for him--  Oh, I got a-plenty reasons for putting that Wingo
where he belongs."

"Sally Jane, huh?" the district attorney supplied with malice.

"I didn't say anything about Sally Jane."

"I know you didn't.  But I got eyes, man.  I'll bet you like her still."

"Don't you lose any sleep over who I like."

"I ain't.  I only thought you might be interested in knowin' that she
and Bill are thick again, like they used to be.  Thicker, you might
say."

Jack Murray's thin lips became thinner.  "Skinny Shindle told me
somethin' about him switching to Hazel Walton."

"Don't you believe it," blattered the district attorney, continuing to
rapidly pump the bellows on the fire of Jack Murray's hatred.  "Hazel
Walton was only a passing fancy.  Sally Jane is the girl for him, you
can gamble on it.  Tough luck, Jack.  I'll bet you'd have stood better
than a fighting chance with her if she hadn't listened to his lies."

"He'll never have her!" snarled Jack Murray, wagging a vicious head.
"By Gawd, he won't!"

"I guess she thinks he will--when this muss is cleared up," said the
district attorney, with admirably simulated carelessness.  "Hazel--I
mean Sally Jane----"

"Yeah, Hazel!  I'd say Hazel, I would.  I should think her name _would_
stick in your craw!"

"Well, never mind about that.  I fixed it once to turn her loose, but
here this Jonesy comes squallin' for her scalp to-night, and I had to
promise to have her arrested to-morrow.  What else could I do?"

"Just as if you wanted it any other way!  Why, I'll bet you even fixed
it with Jonesy to raise a roar so that you'd get this second chance at
her.  What did that li'l girl ever do to you?  Not that I give a
damn--just between friends."

"She cost me some money, if you want to know," snarled the district
attorney, who saw red every time he thought of the two thousand dollars
he had been taxed by Billy Wingo for Hazel's benefit.  "And anybody
that costs me money will pay for what they get.  Look here," he added
with an abrupt change of subject, "how did you find out Bill was still
in this county?"

Jack Murray gripped the district attorney's wrist.  "Do you know where
he is?"

Rale shook off the restraining hand.  "I don't know exactly where he
is," he said coldly, "but I'm reasonably sure he's round here
somewhere.  Good Gawd, man, don't you suppose if I knew where he was,
I'd have him dumped so quick his hair would curl?"

Jack Murray nodded.  "He's round here all right, unless he's gone north
beyond the West Fork.  I cut his trail at Dorothy."

"Was he there?"

"Considerable.  Yeah, him and another feller were there.  Between 'em
they caught Slike."

"Were you with Slike?"

"Not at the time he was caught, I wasn't.  But a while before that I
met him in Shadyside and I told him what Skinny Shindle wrote about the
Horseshoe outfit needin' gunfighters.  Slike, he didn't want to leave
the country yet, anyway, and we decided to throw in with the Horseshoe
a spell."

"But how did Bill----"

"Trailed us, I suppose.  First thing I knew, here we found Skinny dead
as Julius Caesar alongside Fenley's Creek, and Slike he'd disappeared
complete.  There'd been a brush, and Shindle and a TU puncher had
cashed."

"And where were you during the--brush?"

"I was on the other side of the range with a couple of the Horseshoe
bunch payin' a visit to a nester.  If I'd been with Slike and Skinny,
the deal would have turned out different, and you can stick a pin in
that."

"Yes, you'd have been downed or dumped too."

"Meanin' you wished I had been."

"I didn't say so," the district attorney hastened to assure him.

"You don't always have to say so," said Jack Murray, with heavy
suspicion.  "I'm reading you like a page of big print, you lizard!"

The district attorney forced a laugh.  "You're too clever for me, Jack.
Look here, what makes you think it was Bill Wingo caught Slike?"

"Because no posses from here went south so far, and because if anybody
else but Bill had caught him, he'd either have been killed outright or
brought into Dorothy or Marquis, and there'd have been a big time.
Instead of that, there wasn't a peep.  So it must have been Bill, see?"

"I see.  And you're going to get this Bill?"

"You've got the idea,"

"And you trailed him here?"

"I didn't have to.  I knew he'd bring Slike to Golden Bar, so I came
along the shortest way.  It'll be quite a joke on you, this Slike
business.  Will he snitch, do you think?"

"He'd better not."

"You frown at him thataway, and you'll scare him to death, Art.  He's
one timid fawn, that Slike person."

"He'll be----"

"Never mind what he'll be, Art.  That's his business, and yours.  I
didn't come here to help Slike.  I came here to get Bill and help yours
truly.  I want some money."

"I told you I haven't any."

"But you can get it."

"I told you folks want security."

"That will do to tell somebody else besides me.  I've got my growth and
cut most all my teeth a long time since.  You'll have to raise some
money--say about fifteen hundred."

"You might as well make it fifteen thousand."

"Maybe I will.  Thousand sounds kind of good.  Say about three of 'em.
Three thousand dollars, Art, and I'll let you alone a while."

"But I tell you----"

"And I tell you that if you don't, that same identical note with a
written account of what I know goes to Judge Donelson."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Think I wouldn't?  You don't know me, feller.  When it comes to money,
I'm the most daring cuss you ever saw.  That's me, Jack Murray.  Three
thousand dollars, Artie, or you'll wish you'd never been born."

"I can't raise it," the district attorney insisted despairingly.

"I kind of thought you'd stick to that poverty squeal," smiled Jack
Murray, fishing a folded paper from a shirt pocket.  "So I took care
before I came here to write down what I know about this li'l deal.  I
thought you might like to see how interestin' it all looks on paper.
Hang your eyes over it, feller.  Never mind snatchin' at it!  I'll hold
it for you to read.  See, there's my name signed to it all complete.
How do you like it, huh?  Gives you a thrill, don't it?  I'll bet it
will give Judge Donelson two thrills.  And as an evidence of good
faith, to show you I still got it safe, here's your note for that five
thousand.  It will go with the letter to the judge--unless you listen
to reason and raise the three thousand--  What's that?"

"That" was a rapping on the kitchen door.

"Go in the bedroom," whispered the district attorney with a very pale
face.  "You can slide out one of the windows, if I have to let him in."

"I'll go in the bedroom," Jack Murray whispered back, with a chilling
smile, "but I ain't sliding out of any windows--not until you and I
have come to an agreement about that money.  I'll stick right there in
the bedroom, Mister Man, right there where I can keep an eye on you.
Now go see what's wanted."

"You don't think I've stacked the cards on you, do you?" grunted the
district attorney.

"I don't," replied Jack Murray.  "Not while I've got that note and the
Donelson letter in my pocket, you bet I don't.  I ain't worryin' a
mite, not me.  Run along now, there's a good boy.  Papa will be right
in the next room."

Thus adjured, the district attorney ran along.  Yet not without
heart-thumping misgivings.  For his was a fearful soul that night.  A
great deal had happened to upset him.

On his demand that the late caller declare himself, a voice whispered,
"It's me, Guerilla Melody.  Let me in quick."

"What do you want to see me about?"

"I got a bargain to make with you--a bargain about Bill Wingo."

"Did Bill Wingo send you?"

"You can take it that he did."

After all, why not?  What danger was there in listening to the details
of Guerilla's bargain?  Perhaps he would learn something.  Quite so.
The district attorney unlocked the kitchen door and opened it.

A tall man pushed in at once.  The tall man had a sardonic gleam in his
gray eyes, a ragged brown beard, and a derringer.  The twin-barreled
firearm was pointing directly at the stomach of the district attorney.
The district attorney's gun arm hung up and down.  The tall,
brown-bearded man shot out a quick left hand and deftly twitched away
the district attorney's weapon.

"You won't need that," he remarked in a hoarse whisper, tucking the
six-shooter into his waistband.  "Have you any other weapon on your
person?  Hold still while I look.  No, I guess you haven't.  We will
now go into your office, Arthur.  I have a li'l something for your
private ear.  I guess I'll lock the kitchen door, so we won't run any
risk of being disturbed."

So saying he reached behind him, slammed the door shut, shook it, and
turned the key in the lock.  The key he dropped into a trouser's pocket.

"What are you waiting for?" he demanded, still in that hoarse whisper.

The district attorney found his tongue--and stood his ground.  "Where's
Guerilla?"

"I don't know.  He left when you decided to let him in.  You see, I
thought you'd be more likely to open up if it was some one you knew, so
I got Guerilla to do the honors.  Just a li'l trick, Arthur, just a
li'l trick.  You're such a shy bird.  No hard feelings, I hope.  No?
Yes?  Well?"

"Whonell are you?"

"Me?  Oh, I'm the Fool-Killer.  Let us walk into your office says the
fly to the spider, you being the spider, of course.  And if the fly has
to say it again, the spider will have something to think about besides
the pitfalls of this wicked world.  Thank you.  I thought you would.
And bear in mind that any wild snatches toward table drawers and so
forth will be treated as hostile acts."

The district attorney continued to lead the way into the office.  He
started to sit down in his accustomed chair behind the table.

"Not there--there," said the brown-bearded man, indicating a chair on
the other side of the table.  "I'd rather sit on the drawer side
myself.  Not that I expect you to gamble with me, Arthur.  But in my
business we can't afford to take chances.  Are you ready.  Gentlemen,
be seated."

He uttered the last three words in his natural voice.  The district
attorney failed to suppress a bleak smile.

"There's my old Arthur," approved Billy Wingo.  "I knew he'd be glad to
see me, give him time."

"Yes, indeed," declared the district attorney in a loud voice.  "I'm
always glad to see Bill Wingo.  Bill Wingo, you bet."

Billy Wingo's gray eyes narrowed.  "Not quite so loud," he reproved the
district attorney.  "No need to disturb the neighbors."

"Why, no, of course not."  The grimy soul of the district attorney
capered with joy.  What luck!  Here was his enemy, and there was his
enemy's enemy in the very next room.  It would make a cat laugh.  It
would indeed.

"Arthur," said Billy, "I've been hearing bad reports of you.  I
understand you've decided to have Miss Walton arrested.  Is that
correct?"

"Correct, sure.  Sorry, but the law's the law, you know."

"You remember what I said I'd do to you."

The district attorney dismissed this with a simple wave of the hand.
"Oh, that.  A mere bluff."

"It may not be quite as mere as you seem to think.  Let me argue with
you, Arthur.  Suppose I can prove that Dan Slike was at Miss Walton's
the night Rafe Tuckleton was murdered.  Would that help any?"

"You can't prove it."

"Oh, yes, I can.  When he was there, he stole her hat, besides some
other stuff, and inside the sweatband of the hat he stuffed the folded
upper half of the front page of the Omaha _Bee_.  The other half of the
newspaper was found at the Walton ranch house by Shotgun Shillman.  He
has it now, and when Slike was caught, he was wearing Miss Walton's
hat, and inside the sweatband was this particular folded upper
half-page I'm telling you about.  This evidence is in the possession of
Guerilla Melody right now.  When this comes out at the trial, why
wouldn't that show that Slike was in the vicinity when Tuckleton was
killed?  And being in the vicinity, why----"

"Impossible!" snapped the district attorney.  "I don't see how it could
be hung on him."

"Won't you even have his presence there investigated?"  Why, Bill was
actually pleading.  The district attorney swelled his chest like a
turkey cock.  He would show Bill that he couldn't be bluffed.  Not he.

"No, I won't have his presence at the Walton ranch investigated.  In
the first place----"

"In the first place," said Billy, "I know he didn't kill Tuckleton."

"Then why are you trying to prove he did?"

"Just to see what you'd say.  Just to see how dead set against
investigating Slike you are.  Just to double-cinch the proof against
the real criminal.  You know that Dan Slike didn't kill Tuckleton, but
that isn't why you don't dare read his trail too much.  One reason is
that if you do, he'll be sure to blat right out how you and Felix and
Sam Larder helped him to escape from the calaboose.  Don't blush,
Arthur.  I know how modest you are.  So we'll take it I'm right."

"Oh, you're welcome to what you think," said the district attorney.
"But just for the sake of argument, how do you know that Slike didn't
kill Tuckleton?"

"Because the initialed butcher knife Slike took with him from Miss
Walton's was still on him when he was caught."

"There must have been two knives!"

"There were two knives, but only one belonged to Miss Walton.  Rale,
when you and Felix and Larder caught Red Herring in the draw a few
minutes before you found the dead body of Tuckleton, why didn't you ask
more questions about Red being there so handy?"

"Because Red couldn't have had anything to do with it."

"I know he couldn't, but you weren't supposed to know he couldn't.  You
were supposed to ask questions about any suspicious circumstances, and
did you?  Not a question did you ask in town as to Red's movements that
evening.  You simply took his word for it, which wasn't natural--except
under a certain condition.  A certain condition, you understand, and it
never occurred to me until I found that second knife.  It would have
saved a lot of trouble if I had thought of it sooner.  Rale, you didn't
ask any questions either about Red being in the draw or Slike being at
the Walton ranch house, and you gave out that Miss Walton herself had
killed Tuckleton because you had planned ahead that she was the one you
were going to hang the murder on.  And why did you have it planned
ahead?  And how did you know it all so certain sure?  How, damn you,
how?  Because you killed Tuckleton yourself!"

The district attorney sat perfectly still.  His eyes stole toward the
bedroom door.  What on earth was the matter with Jack Murray?  Why
didn't he shoot?

"I don't know why you killed him," went on the inexorable voice, "but
you did.  I've found out that early last spring you went to Nate Samson
and borrowed his hardware catalogue, Nate being the only storekeeper
here handling hardware.  Yes, Nate.  I knew you must have gone to Nate,
because you weren't out of town all winter, that's how.  Nate said that
you were the only customer to borrow the catalogue.  He said too that
you told him when you returned it that you hadn't found what you
wanted.  I sent a telegram to the supply house getting out this
catalogue, and their answer stated that you had ordered from them back
in February, a butcher knife, paying for it in stamps.  They gave the
catalogue number of this butcher knife, and the catalogue number is the
same number as that of the butcher knife with which Tuckleton was
killed.  You cut TW on the handle of this knife, rusted it a little and
ground it some, and then you--well, after you did for Rafe there in the
draw near her house, you rode back to Golden Bar, gassed a while with
Felix and Sam, and then you were in such a sweat to get the thing
settled you couldn't even wait till next day.  You had to ride out to
question Miss Walton that same night.  Another unnecessary
circumstance.  Rale, you rat, I've got you right where you can't even
wriggle."

Billy leaned across the table to emphasize what he was saying, heard a
slight sound in the bedroom and promptly blew out the lamp.  With a
heave of one arm he slammed the table over on the district attorney.
The latter, taking the table to his bosom, went over backward, together
with the chair he sat in, and wallowed on the floor.

Bang! a six-shooter crashed in the bedroom.  A streak of yellow flame
cut the darkness.  A bullet snicked into the floor a yard from where
Billy crouched.  He emptied his derringer at the flash and changed
position hurriedly.  As he pulled his six-shooter, there was another
shot from the bedroom, a shot that wrung an apprehensive yelp from the
district attorney.

"Don't shoot so far to the right!  Y'almost hit me!  He's over to the
left more.  About where the red chair stands."


This would never do.  Never.  First thing Billy knew, he would be shot.
He stretched forth a hand, and breathed an inward curse.  There was
certainly a chair not a foot from his face.  Taking care not to make a
sound he lifted the chair by one leg and lobbed it through the air in
the general direction of the district attorney.  The results were
immediate.  The chair arrived, the district attorney squawked, and the
man in the bedroom fired again, not according to the orders of the
district attorney, but toward the spot where the chair had fallen.
Billy pulled trigger at the flash of the other's gun.  Then he began to
crawl toward the bedroom door.  He was a thorough believer in the
doctrine of "getting in where it's warm."  He succeeded beyond his
expectations.  The occupant of the bedroom, who had removed his boots,
tiptoed around the door jamb and stepped on Billy's hand.

Both guns exploded simultaneously.  What happened next has never been
clear in Billy's mind.  He only knows that his head rang like a struck
bell at the shot, and burning powder grains stung his ear and neck.  He
fired blind.  A voice above his head cried aloud on the name of God, a
hot and sweaty body collapsed upon him, and he dragged himself out from
under precisely in time to glimpse the district attorney who, having
torn open the door into the hall, was silhouetted for an instant
against the dim radiance emanating from the kitchen.

Billy hunched his right shoulder, took a snapshot, and drove an
accurate bullet through the right leg of the district attorney.


"He's comin' around," said Shotgun Shillman.  "You shot too high, Bill.
Y'ought to held lower, and you'd drilled his heart or anyway, a lung.
Now he'll be a invalid nuisance for a while, like Rale."

"If I'd known you'd be so upset about it, I'd obliged you, Shotgun,"
returned Billy sarcastically.  "As a matter of fact, I wanted both of
'em alive.  You can't try dead men.

"That's so," assented Shotgun.  "But what a waste of time, when--  Oh,
all right, all right, Bill.  Have it your own way.  You're the dog with
the brass collar, even if you do have to sleep in the jail till the
warrants against you are annulled."

"What's Jack trying to do?" Riley Tyler asked.  "Here, take that out of
your mouth!"

It was Billy who reached Jack Murray first.  He snatched the wadded
ball of paper from Jack before he could close his teeth over it.  Jack
groaned.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," apologized Billy.  "But I had to grab your
jaw.  You were so quick."

"You didn't hurt me," snarled Jack Murray.  "It was somethin' else."

"What is the thing?" queried Guerilla Melody.

Billy smoothed out the crumpled wad.  It appeared to be a letter and a
promissory note.

"I forbid you to read that!" cried the district attorney, attempting to
drag himself across the floor toward Billy.  "That letter is personal
and my private property!"

"You lie quiet," directed Riley Tyler.  "If you go busting those
bandages open, I'll bust you.  Lie back, lie down, and take it easy.
There's nothing for you to get excited over.  Everything's all right.
Yeah.  That's the boy.  Do as Uncle says."

"What's the writing, Bill?" inquired Shotgun.  "Read her off."

Billy read:


JUDGE HIRAM DONELSON,
  Hillsville.

DEAR SIR:--The man who killed Rafe Tuckleton is the county prosecutor
Arthur Rale.  Rale owed Tuckleton five thousand dollars on a note and
couldn't pay it.  Rafe wanted his money.  Early in the evening on the
day he was killed, Tuckleton came to Rale's house where I was at the
time, and demanded payment.  He brought the note with him.  Rale
refused and they quarreled.  Tuckleton had been drinking.  Before
Tuckleton left, he said he was going to the Walton ranch.  After he
left, Rale told me he had planned some time ago to kill Tuckleton and
get the note back at the first opportunity.  This looked like a good
opportunity.  Rale showed me a butcher knife.  He said it was just like
one at the Walton ranch.  He had cut Tom Walton's initials on the
handle so it would be like it.  Rale said he had tried to get the
original knife, but had not been able to.  This one he had fixed up had
to do.  He said when his knife was found on Rafe's body, everybody
would think Hazel Walton had killed him, and nobody would believe her
if she said the knife wasn't hers.  He had it in for Hazel anyway, he
said, and by rubbing out Rafe and laying the blame on her, he'd win two
bets at one throw.  Suppose they found the regular Walton knife, I
said.  Rale said it wouldn't make any difference.  Anybody might know
she could easy have two knives.  Well, he offered me two hundred
dollars cash to kill Rafe with this knife.  I wouldn't do it, so he had
a couple of drinks and said he'd kill Rafe himself.  He asked me to go
with him.  I went, and we hung around Walton's till Tuckleton came out,
and then we followed him, and Rale stopped him down the draw and said,
I've got the money for you, Rafe.  And Tuckleton got off his horse and
then Rale stepped up close to him and let him have it.  He stuck the
knife in him a couple of times after Tuckleton was down and wriggling
round.  When Tuckleton was dead, Rale took the note out of Tuckleton's
pocketbook, and I held Rale up and took the note away from him.  I
thought maybe I might want to show him up some day, or sell it to him
or something, when he got hold of some money.  I was going to make him
pay for it, one way or another.

Here is the note he took off Tuckleton.

The district attorney will tell you who I am if I don't, so I haven't
any objections to signing my name.  I'll be in Old Mexico by the time
you read this, anyway.  So long, and give Rale what he deserves.

Yours truly,
  (Signed) JACK MURRAY.


Billy handed the letter and the Rale note to Shotgun Shillman, who
folded both carefully and slipped them into an inner pocket of his
vest.  "And did you hear Rale say these were his private property?"

Shotgun Shillman nodded happily.  "Even without 'em, there is enough
evidence to hang him.  But there's nothing like swinging a wide loop if
you want to rope two at a clatter."

Billy's eyes followed Shotgun's side glance at Jack Murray.  "You
needn't look at me thataway," snarled Jack.  "I'm no snitch!  I only
wrote that letter to throw a scare into Rale.  I'd never have sent it
to the judge a-tall!"

"Maybe you're no snitch," Billy flung back, with deep disfavor, "even
if it does look like it, but you were skunk enough to let an innocent
girl be blamed for murder."

"That was different.  She hadn't ought to horned in on what was none of
her business.  If she hadn't--  Oh, hell, what's the use?  Gimme a
chew, somebody."




CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE LONG DAY CLOSES

"Well," observed Sam Prescott, "folks will be sending Bill to Congress
next.  Directly or indirectly, he sure has put a crimp in county
politics."

"Yes," assented his daughter, "now that the grand jury have indicted
Craft, Larder, Murray and Rale, there isn't anything left of the
Crocker County ring but the hole."

"Maybe now Hazel will make it up with him."

"Maybe."  With some indifference.

"Shucks, and he used to like you, Sally Jane."

"But I never liked him--enough."  This with more indifference.

"More fool you.  Bill's going to get there, and you can stick a pin in
that."

She bounced up from her chair and ruffled her father's grizzled hair.
"I'd rather stick a pin in you, Samuel.  Where did Hazel go?"

"Room, I guess.  I don't know what's got into the child.  She didn't
eat enough breakfast for a fly."

"She has been acting pretty meaching the last few days.  I'll go see
what's the matter."

Sally Jane found Hazel folding up her clothes as fast as she could
fold.  The bureau drawers were empty.  Everything was on the bed.

"What on earth--" began Sally Jane.

"I'm going home," said Hazel, keeping her face turned away.

The direct Sally Jane cupped a hand under Hazel's chin.  "Let me see
something.  I _thought_ so.  What's the matter?"

"Nothing," declared Hazel, beginning to sniff a little.

"Then why don't you tell him so?"

"_Him_?  Him?"

"Yes, him.  Bill.  Mr. William H. Wingo.  The sheriff of Crocker
County.  That's what _I'd_ do if _I_ loved him."

"I don't love him," snapped Hazel, the shine in her black eyes giving
the lie to her words.

"You blessed child," said Sally Jane, and threw her arms around Hazel
and drew her to her breast.  "You blessed child.  I don't know what
ever came between you and Bill, but something did, and if you've got an
atom of sense in your head, you'll move heaven and earth to make it up
with him."

"He doesn't love me any more," declared Hazel, her emotion getting the
better of her.

"Do you love him?" probed the older girls.

A pronounced sniffle.

"Do you?"

"I always have," came the dragging confession.

"Then, for heaven's sake, tell him so!  I'll bet he loves you fast
enough!  Land alive, if you've got Love in your grasp, don't turn it
down!  Love is the greatest thing in the world, and if you throw it
away, you'll never have any luck the rest of your life.  And you won't
deserve any either."

Hazel drew out a damp ball of a handkerchief and blew her nose
vigorously.  "It's no use," she told her friend with a catch in her
voice.  "I couldn't tell him.  I just couldn't."

Sally Jane flung up her hands.  "You're a coward, that's what you are.
A moral coward.  If I loved a man, which I don't, I'd tell him so, that
is, providing he didn't tell me first," she added thoughtfully.

Hazel stooped to pick up a fallen chemise.  "You're--you're different,
Sally Jane.  Besides, he doesn't love me any more.  So it wouldn't do
any good."

"Oh, no, of course not," Sally Jane waxed sarcastic.  "And they say all
mules are quadrupeds!  Look here, Hazel, if it hadn't been for him,
you'd be in a fine fix right now.  Why, that Rale man--  Oh, you make
me so mad I could shake you!  I've told you more'n once how much you
owe Bill.  Look how he fought for you.  Look--  Oh, Lord!  Haven't you
got any gratitude at all?"

"Plenty," Hazel replied over her shoulder.  "But my gratitude can't
make him love me."

Sally Jane put her hand on her friend's shoulders and turned her
around.  "I tell you, you're making a mistake.  I tell you he does love
you.  You remember that last winter he came here several times, and he
certainly didn't come to see me or Dad.  And you weren't overly
cordial, you know, Hazel.  You didn't fall on his neck exactly."

"I'm not going to throw myself at any man's head!"

"Oh, don't be so high-strung!  You're too proud for any human use!  And
Bill's just like you, the stiff-necked lollop!"

"He is not!" Hazel cried, with a decided flash of temper.  "He's not
stiff-necked!  He's not a lollop!  Oh, Sally dear, don't spoil
everything," she begged.  "You've been so good to me."

Sally Jane immediately changed her tune.  "But why leave here?  Why go
home?"

"Because I've imposed on you long enough.  I'll be safe there--now."

Sally Jane looked long into the eyes of Hazel Walton.  "All right," she
said shortly.  "I'll drive you over myself."


Billy Wingo stretched out his long legs and absent-mindedly hacked the
edge of his desk with a pocket knife.  "I told her she'd have to come
to me and put her arms around my neck and tell me I was right and she
was wrong, and now I've got to stick to it, damitall!  Bill, you idiot,
you always did let your tongue run away with you.  Always.  And now she
won't make it up.  Three days now, since I got my job back, and not a
word.  Not a word.  Well, one thing is certain sure, I ain't going to
run after her.  I ain't, not by a jugful."

"His lips are moving, but he ain't sayin' anything," announced Riley
Tyler in a loud, cheerful tone.  "Do you think he's going crazy,
Shotgun, or is it only the beginnings of droolin' old age?"

"I dunno," said Shotgun.  "Better watch him.  If he begins to gibber
and pull out his hair, he's looney and we'll have to tie him down, I
expect.  Is your rope strong, Riley?"

"You fellers," Billy remarked with dignity, "make me more tired than a
week's work."

So saying, he arose and went to the corner where his saddle and bridle
lay.  Three minutes later he rode out of Golden Bar.

"He's taken the Hillsville trail," said Riley Tyler, his nose flattened
against the window pane.  "Where do you suppose he's going?"

"Going to spend some of the reward money, I expect.  Joke on you,
Riley, having to dig up a thousand plunks you haven't got."

"I'd rather owe it to him than cheat him out of it," grinned Riley, who
had long since spent the money obtained from Jack Murray.  "Alla same,
I'll pay him when I get it.  You lend me a hundred, Shotgun."

"Go 'way from me!" snarled Shotgun, flapping both hands at him.  "If
you're looking for easy money, sit into a game of draw, or rob a bank
or somethin'.  You won't get a single wheel from me.  Nawsir!"

Billy, riding the Hillsville road, came at last to the mouth of the
draw that led to Walton's.  He stopped his horse and looked along the
draw.  Then he looked along the road.

"Of course, I was going to Hillsville," he lied rapidly to himself,
"but I don't suppose it would hurt to sort of ride past her house.
Seems to me I heard somethin' about her leaving Prescott's.  It may not
be true, and then again--  Let's go, feller."

Feller headed obediently into the draw.

Hazel Walton, sewing in the front room, saw a rider coming up the draw.
"That looks like Bill's horse," she muttered.  "And Bill's hat.  It--it
is Bill."

Her heart began to pound.  Her throat constricted.  There was something
the matter with her knees.  She dropped the sewing in her lap and
clasped her hands together.  She breathed in little gasps.

Billy Wingo came on.  He came quite close--within twenty yards and
stopped his horse and rested his hands on the saddle horn, and looked
at the house.  Just looked.

Although she knew he could not see her through the scrim curtains, she
drew her chair a little away and to one side.

He pushed back his hat with the old familiar gesture.  His face was
expressionless.  There were hollows under his eyes.  He looked thin.
Poor boy.  He had had an awfully hard time.  And he had fought for her.
He had risked his life for her.  Certainly she owed him a good
deal,--everything, in fact.  And here she couldn't even find sufficient
courage to thank him.  As though thanks, empty thanks, could possibly
be adequate.  Sally Jane was right.  She was a coward.  And proud.
Especially proud.  She shivered.

Suddenly Billy pulled his hat forward and picked up his reins.  She saw
his heel move.  The horse began to turn.  It was then that something
snapped in Hazel's breast.  Strength came to her shaking knees.  She
sprang to her feet, ran to the door, flung it open and dashed out.
Billy's startled horse shied away.  Billy dragged him back with a jerk.

Six feet from the horse Hazel stopped and stood very straight, her arms
stiff at her sides.  Her knees began to shake again.  She knew that her
voice would tremble.  It did.  "Bill, I--I've changed my mind.  I was
wrong.  I--you--you did the right thing to see it through.  If--if you
hadn't, I don't know what would have become of me."

Then, of a sudden, he was off his horse, his arms were around her, and
she knew that all her troubles were over.




THE END




Other Books by William Patterson White


THE OWNER OF THE LAZY "D"

Frontispiece.  12mo.  324 pages.

"The most stirring Wild West story that has been published for many a
year."--_The Philadelphia Ledger_.

"William Patterson White ... knows how to make an interesting
tale."--_The Oakland Tribune_.

"All kinds of excitement are assured."--_The Cincinnati Times-Star_.

"A most thrilling story."--_The San Francisco Chronicle_.


LYNCH LAWYERS

Frontispiece.  12mo.  378 pages.

"As in his previous novel, 'The Owner of the Lazy D,' Mr. White shows
himself to be a master in the field of the Western adventure
story."--_The New York Tribune_.

"A new and thrilling story of Western life."--_The Rochester Herald_.

"The author knows his people and his localities, and his conception
rings true to life."--_The Pittsburgh Sun_.

"Mr. White shows himself a master of the art of dialogue in the Western
vernacular."--_The Boston Transcript_.


LITTLE, BROWN & CO., PUBLISHERS

34 BEACON STREET BOSTON











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