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.
"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.