"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, theyknowit 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 twogoodcows."
"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 wasyourfault. 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 Icouldspare 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.
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.Wethree 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 andthirsty! 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 onlyperhaps, 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. "Theycould, 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. Supposehe'sseen, 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—Ithoughtthere 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."