"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."
"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 coöperate 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, andvice 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.