Behind the corral of Guerilla Melody, at the tip end of Golden Bar, Main Street, a small spring bubbled to life amid rocks. It was the custom of Guerilla Melody to slip out to this spring for a long cool drink of fresh water each night before going to bed.
On the night of the first of April, Guerilla, having spent a short but profitable poker evening with several friends in a saloon, reached the spring at eleven o'clock.
"I thought you were never coming," announced a peevish voice from the black shadow of a large rock. "I've been waiting here since nine o'clock."
"You talk much louder, Bill," said Guerilla calmly, "and you'll wait here a while longer—say about twenty years longer or fifteen, if the judge feels good-natured. Man alive, ain't you gotanysense?"
"I was lonesome," Billy excused himself. "I've got to talk to somebody. And anyway, a feller hardly ever gets more'n ten years for a hold-up where nobody's killed."
"But where somebody is killed the penalty is worth considerin'," pointed out Guerilla Melody. "And Tip O'Gorman was found yesterday morning lying on the floor of his front room dead as Julius Cæsar, with your quirt beside him, and your snakeskin hatband inside the door."
"Tip killed! Tip!"
"Yes, Tip, and on account of the quirt and the hatband there's a warrant issued for you for the murder, and two posses are out looking for you."
"I saw them," said Billy placidly. "I thought it was on account of the stage hold-up. And they think I downed Tip?"
"Half the town's sure you did, and half is sure you didn't, and the other half is straddlin' the fence."
"That makes three halves," Billy said dryly. "Golden Bar must have considerably increased in population since I left."
"You know what I mean," snapped Guerilla, irritated at what he chose to consider callous flippancy on the part of his friend. "And Tip ain't the only one cashed. Rafe Tuckleton passed out last night."
"How?"
"Throat cut, head cut, and three knife cuts through his heart. Hazel Walton is in jail charged with the job."
Billy Wingo stiffened where he sat. Hazel Walton in jail! For an instant he couldn't realize it. His fingers closed on Guerilla's forearm.
Guerilla jerked away the arm. "You don't need to cut my arm in two," he remonstrated, tenderly fingering the member in question. "I didn't have nothing to do with it. Lord A'mighty, Bill, I'll bet you squeezed a muscle out of place."
"My mistake," apologized Billy. "I forgot myself for a minute."
"Then I don't want to be around when you remember yourself. I——"
"What evidence is there against Hazel?" Billy cut in sharply.
"In the first place there's the knife that killed Rafe," said Guerilla, seating himself beside his friend in the shadow of the rock. "Butcher knife with T.W. on the handle that Hazel admitted was hers when they showed it to her. But she said Dan Slike had taken the knife—stuck it in his boot when he left. Then there was Rafe's own gun which Hazel had lying on her kitchen table, showing he'd been there. She admitted that too, but said he'd attacked her, and she'd managed to get hold of his gun after the clock fell on him, and drive him out."
"Rafe attacked her, huh? And she drove him out?" Billy leaned back against the rock in order to steady his shaking body. When he spoke, he found some difficulty in keeping his voice down. "He attacked her and she drove him out! Then what in hell is she arrested for—defending herself?"
"Now, listen, Bill, you know me. I believe anything that girl says, no matter what. But there are some other people harder to convince. The district attorney, and he's got a good many others stringing their chips with his, says how this story of Rafe's attacking her ain't true. That Rafe wouldn't hurt her on a bet, because he liked her too much. And to back that up, here's Rafe's foreman, Jonesy, steps up and swears Rafe told him he was going to see Hazel last night and ask her to marry him. Hazel says Rafe was drunk when he came to see her, and Jonesy says he wasn't. So there's that."
"Weren't there any tracks round Rafe's body to show——"
"You know yourself there was a li'l freeze last night and the ground stiffened up some, and I guess the district attorney and the three others who found Rafe were so flustered they walked all over the ground round Rafe and wiped out every sign there was."
"Who was with the district attorney?"
Guerilla told him and resumed the thread of his discourse. "When the district attorney and the other witnesses examined the Walton premises, they found plenty of evidence that there'd been a fight, and they found a lot of supplies gone, cartridges, grub and such, Hazel had bought in town the morning before."
"Is that all?" asked Billy when Guerilla paused.
"Lemme get my breath," Guerilla begged indignantly. "The whole business is so tangled and mixed up it's hard to tell it straight. No, it ain't all. The district attorney says those supplies were bought for you and they were taken by you. Hazel's ridin' horse, the one used to be her uncle's, that's gone too—with you."
"If Rale thinks I was at Hazel's, it's reasonable to assume I might have had a hand in killin' Rafe my own self. That goes double for Dan Slike, seeing he had the knife last."
"It's reasonable all right enough, but then you and Dan Slike ain't noways available, and Hazel is right handy. Rale admits you might have done it, and he keeps yawpin' the evidence is strong against Hazel, and he would be false to his oath of office if he didn't put her in jail."
"False to his oath of office! Rale!"
"Yeah, ain't it a joke?" contemptuously.
"But how did Slike get hold of the butcher knife, that's what I want to know? He didn't have it on him when I arrested him last January."
"That's the damndest part of the whole deal, Bill. Hazel says Dan Slike came to her place before Rafe did, and it was him took the supplies and her horse and her hat and that very same butcher knife which gave Rafe his come-uppance. Slike beat her almost senseless too, she said."
Billy Wingo looked up at the stars. His lips moved. But no sound issued. After a moment he said, in an oddly dead tone of voice, "How did Slike escape?"
"Far as anybody can tell, he made him a key somehow and unlocked the jail door and walked out. Anyway, Riley Tyler found the door open yesterday afternoon and Dan's cell empty. And the district attorney lost a horse and saddle."
"The district attorney, huh?"
"The district attorney."
"It was to some people's interests to have Dan Slike escape," Billy said musingly.
"You bet it was, and I'm gamblin' somebody let him out all right, but—well, I dunno. Anyway, Rale, he led the posse that trailed Slike, him and Felix Craft. Nobody could have been more energetic than those two."
"If they were so energetic and there was any kind of a trail, which there should have been, because it was a warm afternoon, it's queer they didn't run up on Slike at Hazel's."
"That's the funny part of it. The trail led in the opposite direction toward Jacksboro. The posse followed it clear to the West Fork of the Wagonjack, where they lost it on the rocky ground on the other side."
"Slike might have doubled back."
Guerilla Melody shook his head. "Not without gettin' caught—if he rode to the West Fork first. Besides, Hazel says he came to her house a li'l after sunset, and he escaped, near as we can figure out, between three and four. So you see he'd never have had time to make it to Walton's from the West Fork by sunset."
"Did Hazel say how long he stayed?"
"About an hour."
"An hour! Then Slike knew he wasn't being followed. He never went to the West Fork a-tall."
Guerilla nodded a grave head. "I never was sure he did, especially after Shotgun Shillman told me when he got back that the tracks they followed to the West Fork looked a damsight older than they had a right to, always supposin' they were made that afternoon. Oh, you can't blame Shotgun, Bill, or Riley either. The district attorney was in charge of the posse, and him and Felix and the rest of his friends said it was the wind a-blowing so hard made the tracks look old. And there was a tearin' breeze, worse luck."
"Do you know somethin', Guerilla? It wouldn't surprise me a whole lot to find out the district attorney his own self made that trail to the Wagonjack."
"It would surprise me if youfound it out. You ain't catchin' him so easy. Not that feller."
"Leave it to me. And he provided Slike with the horse too. You'll see."
"I'm sure hoping I do. I'd like nothing better than to see Art Rale stretching the kinks out of a new rope."
"Stranger things have happened. I guess I'd better go see the district attorney."
Guerilla Melody chuckled as one does at a pleasantry.
"I mean it," pronounced Billy. "He needs a li'l straight talk, and he's going to get it prompt and soon. Luckily he likes fresh air."
"Fresh air?" puzzled Guerilla.
"Leaves his window partly open at night," explained Billy. "Which being so, I'll be out of luck if I can't creep in and give him the surprise of his life."
"He may not have gone to sleep yet. I'll find out."
Before Billy could stay him, Guerilla was gone. Fifteen minutes later he returned.
"He's abed, snoring like a circular saw working on a knotty log," Guerilla informed him. "But there's a light in the kitchen."
"That means his housekeeper's up—probably settin' bread for to-morrow. Ain't she quite a friend of yours, Guerilla?"
The darkness veiled Guerilla's blush. "I see her now and then."
"Then go see her now," urged Billy. "It's kind of late for an evening call, but you can tell her some kind of a lie. If she likes you, she'll believe it. You go see her and keep her in the kitchen for the next thirty minutes. Then meet me here."
The district attorney, lying on the broad of his back in bed, suddenly snored his way into a nightmare. He dreamed that he was in the woods, that he had lain down upon an inviting bank and that a ninety-foot pine had fallen upon his chest, to the prejudice of his breathing. He squirmed and wriggled but the tree was immovable. It was slowly crushing the walls of his chest. The district attorney gasped—awoke, and discovered to his horror that his bad dream was partly true. There was something roosting on his chest. If not a tree, it was at least confoundedly heavy. Furthermore, adding as it were to the interest of the occasion, a something chilly and hard was rooting into the angle of his chin and neck.
The something on his chest spoke in a carefully restrained whisper. "Keep very quiet."
The district attorney would have shivered had he been able to move that much. He knew that voice. It belonged to Billy Wingo.
"You shouldn't have left your window open," pointed out Billy. "Your insane love for fresh air will be the death of you yet."
The district attorney did nothing but gasp faintly.
"Would it be more comfortable if I sat on your stomach instead?" asked the oppressor prodding the other man in the throat with his gun muzzle.
"I—I—cuc-can't breathe!" the district attorney choked out.
"Just a minute," said Billy, feeling beneath the pillows, but finding no weapon, he slid from the district attorney's chest to the side of the bed. "You didn't expect to see me so soon, did you, Arthur?"
"No," was the truthful reply, "I didn't."
"I was counting on that. I hear you arrested Miss Walton."
"I—er—I had to," explained the district attorney, beginning to feel that, in the matter of Miss Walton, he had perhaps been a trifle hasty.
"Fool mistake. You didn't have any evidence against her a-tall."
"But—" began the district attorney.
Billy cut him short. "No evidence a-tall. Not a smidgin. No. You were too previous, Arthur, with your duty and your oath of office. Damn your duty, damn your oath of office. I've got a sneaking idea, old settler, that you are cluttering up the face of the earth. Be reasonable now, don't you think so yourself?"
But this was more than the district attorney was willing to admit. "I'll tell you what I think," he grunted. "I think if Hazel Walton didn't kill Rafe Tuckleton then you did."
"AboutMissWalton there ain't any ifs, nary an if. She didn't do it. There is a reasonable doubt that I did, several reasonable doubts, in fact. Anyway, Arthur, try keeping your suspicions to yourself to oblige me, will you? Lord knows one murder and a stage hold-up are enough crimes to be charged with at one time."
"You thought you were very clever," sneered the district attorney, "getting that girl to pack your supplies out from town for you. Didn't have nerve enough to do it yourself. Had to hide behind a woman's skirts and get her in trouble, didn't you?"
"You mean about the horse and cartridges and grub that Slike took from Walton's?"
"I mean about the horse and cartridges and grub that you took from Walton's. Slike had nothing to do with that. Slike didn't go to Walton's. He went north to the West Fork, where we lost his trail."
"You're sure of this?"
"Sure? Of course I'm sure. Didn't I trail him to the river myself. Didn't— Say, where'd you get your information?"
"A li'l bird told me. But he asked me not to mention his name. Sorry."
The district stared helplessly into the shadowy features of the man at his bedside. The moonlight shone in at the open window through which Billy had entered. The rays touched a corner of the bed, turning the bedpost to shiny ebony and the counterpane to dull silver. The district attorney could hear the murmur of his housekeeper's voice in the kitchen. Some man then, was in the kitchen with her. Lord! if he dared yell for help!
As though sensing what was passing in the mind of the district attorney, Billy jabbed the gunsight up under the man's chin. "Don't gamble with me, Arthur. Think how your friends would miss you."
But Arthur had already decided against doing any gambling. "What do you want?" he whispered.
"I've been hoping you'd ask me that. It gives me an opening and shows you're willing to be reasonable. Yeah. Arthur, I want you to set Miss Walton free."
"You go to hell," was the sharp return.
"You don't understand," said Billy, in his lightsome whisper. "You're thinking because I'm talking to you so bright and merry that I don't mean what I say. Listen—" the whisper lost its airness and became a ruthless, snarling growl—"listen to me. Because of what you've done to her, it's all I can do to keep from strangling the breath out of you here and now. If I talked to you the way I feel like talking to you, I'd lose my temper and you'd lose your life. I'm trying to hang on to both—for now. Don't make it any harder for me than you have to." He paused. "About Miss Walton," he continued in his former tone. "I'll give you your choice. Let her go, and I won't down you by Sunday night."
"Huh?"
"Sunday night. If she isn't out of jail and the warrant against her withdrawn by noon to-morrow, I give you my word that I'll down you on or before midnight Sunday. And I have a habit of keeping my promises."
The district attorney knew this to be true. But he was a wriggler by nature. "I—" he began.
"You can do it," interrupted Billy. "You have the power."
"I can't," denied the wretched man in the bed, now more than ever aware that he had made a mistake in arresting Hazel, yet not at all clear in his mind how to set matters right without being ridiculed into political extinction. Yet if he didn't set matters right, he would lose his life. Metaphorically speaking, he eased himself down between the horns of the dilemma and considered. "I can't," he repeated after a moment of silence. "I can't let her go after arresting her. Judge Donelson wouldn't understand it. The Governor would remove me from office."
"You're a liar. Judge Donelson would understand it all right if you explained it carefully. So would the Governor. They are human beings, even if you aren't."
"Well," bumbled the district attorney, "maybe Icouldmanage it. But look here, what's the use of me letting her go? You couldn't run away with her.You'dbe caught, sure as fate, and then where would you be?"
"I don't intend to run away with her or without her. Only a fool runs away. A man of sense stays comfortably in the background waiting for the cat to jump."
"You ran away," pointed out the district attorney.
"Not at all. I'm staying comfortably in the background, waiting for the cat to jump."
"But—" The district attorney stopped abruptly at the word.
Billy Wingo smiled. The district attorney saw his white teeth gleam in the darkness. "But you can't understand if I stayed in the vicinity why I haven't been caught," he completed the sentence for the other man. "I realize your posses have been very active."
"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler are in league with you! They led the posses astray on purpose. I'll get their hides for this!"
Billy quieted the district attorney with a gesture that drove the man's head almost through the pillow.
"There goes your snap judgment again," complained Billy. "Shotgun and Riley are doing their duty. They've done their damndest to catch me. You hurt my feelings when you hint that I may be tampering with them. You don't really think I have, do you, Arthur? Both Shotgun and Riley are straight as strings, aren't they, Arthur?"
The gun muzzle pressed ever so gently upon Arthur's Adam's apple. "They are," he apologized. "Both of 'em."
"And you'll free the girl to-night?"
"To-night? Why not to-morrow?"
"To-night. I don't like her having to sleep in that calaboose. You let her out and tell Shotgun Shillman to take her to Sam Prescott's right away—right away, to-night, y'understand?"
"All right," capitulated the district attorney. "I'll do it if I lose my job. But you needn't go swarmin' off with any idea that you'll cheat the gallows. You'll swing, my bold boy, for that O'Gorman murder. There's nothing you can do to me that will fix up that business for you—not if you were to kill me here and now. Judge Donelson wouldn't allow me to withdraw that warrant, even I wanted to. The evidence is too strong."
"So you really think I downed Tip?" Billy asked curiously.
"I know it."
"And held up the stage? Unofficially, Arthur, are you holding that against me, too?"
"You held up the stage. Jerry Fern saw your horse. So did all the passengers. Your clothes were identified, too. Jerry told the passengers to pay particular attention to your clothes and the brass guard on your gun and be able to describe 'em later. They did, and everbody in town recognized 'em. Oh, we've got you."
"So clever of you—and cleverer of Jerry Fern. He told the passengers to remember what I wore, did he?"
"Naturally," said the district attorney hastily. "It was the obvious thing to do."
Billy nodded. "Of course it was. Bright man, Jerry. Tell you, Arthur, suppose I bring back Dan Slike, would that help me in—my trouble?"
"How do you mean?"
"You want Dan Slike caught, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Liar," Billy said to himself. Aloud he remarked. "You've come around, I see. You really believe now that Dan Slike killed Tom Walton and Judge Driver?"
"Certainly, he killed them," avowed the district attorney. "And when he's caught we'll hang him."
"That's the proper spirit, Arthur. I have a theory that, since it seems certain that Dan Slike didn't go to Walton's after he escaped, he went north to the Medicine Mountains."
"Why?"
"You followed his trail north to where the West Fork swings due west and there you lost it, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, it's certain Slike didn't follow the Fork down. That would bring him to the country east of here, and Tom Read County is no place for a murderer. Now, what he did was ride the rocky ground along the Fork till it swung north again, when he'd either swing north with it straight for the Medicine Mountains, or else ride a li'l west of north and hit the Medicines away to the westward of Jacksboro. And in the Medicines you might as well look for a needle in a bale of hay. He'll lie low there for a spell, probably during spring and summer. You may depend on it, that's what he's done."
"I believe you're right," agreed the district attorney, striving to inject a note of excitement in his whisper. "I'll have a posse riding that way to-morrow."
"Not a posse. Too many men in a posse. He'd be able to keep out of their way, Slike's no ordinary murderer, Rale. Remember that. He's a killer from Killersville, and he probable knows more about keeping out of sight than a grizzly bear. But one man would have a chance to get him. He wouldn't be expecting one man, do you see?"
"I don't see what you're driving at."
"I mean I'll make a bargain with you, Rale. I'll trade you Slike for myself. You will prosecute these cases against me, if I'm caught. It lies with you whether I get a chance for my alley or not."
"How?"
"You could fail to take advantage of points as they come up. You could. You're clever enough, Gawd knows. Now, in the O'Gorman deal I'd plead not guilty. I killed Tip in self-defense, see? Well, you could let me prove I did mighty easy. Same with the hold-up. I'll get me a clever lawyer who'd take advantage of some flaw in the indictment. You would draw up that indictment. I don't believe we could risk flaws in both indictments, could we?"
The district attorney could hardly believe his wicked ears. It simply was not possible that Bill Wingo could be such a simpleton as to believe that. "Flaws in both indictments would be a li'l too raw," said the district attorney, almost suffocating in the effort to dissemble his glee.
"Yes, well, all right. In the O'Gorman murder trial, you'll let me prove my case, and in the other you'll stick in a flaw. The Tuckleton case you can't do a thing with. There's not enough evidence, so you'll have to let it drop. What do you think of the proposition, Dan Slike for Bill Wingo? You can make a record with Dan Slike too. He hasn't a friend in the county. Another thing. That last bribe of yours I mentioned a while ago. I'll throw in what I know about that for good measure with Slike."
"But why stand your trial at all?" fenced the district attorney. "Why not try to escape?"
"You forget that not ten minutes ago you told me I couldn't possibly escape. You were wrong, naturally. But I don't want to escape. If I did, I'd have these things hanging over me the rest of my life. No matter where I went, I'd always be looking for a warrant waiting for me at every bend in the trail. No, the only sensible way out is to get this thing over with and settled as soon as possible. I don't want to leave Crocker County. I like it here."
"Oh," murmured the district attorney, believing that he knew the reason why Billy Wingo did not care to leave the county. It was a good and sufficient reason, and he expected to release it from jail that very night.
"But you'd have to get supplies from time to time," he said leadingly. "Your description is in every town by now."
"I'll only go to Jacksboro when I have to buy anything," explained Billy, "and as it happens, I never was there but once and that was five years ago. If I let my beard and hair grow, who'd know me? It would take somebody from Golden Bar to recognize my voice, and I'll take care to keep out of the way of anybody from Golden Bar. Oh, it'll be safe enough. I'll make my camp somewhere on Coldstream Creek and work all through the Medicines from there. I'll get Dan and bring him back. How about it now—willing to make it easy for me at the trial?"
The district attorney could hardly control his voice. At last the devil had delivered his enemy into his hands. Now he could pay him back for kicking him out into the snow. You bet he could. "I'll do as you suggest," he said, "and drop the Tuckleton case in so far as you and Miss Walton are concerned, and I'll let you win on the other two counts—provided you bring back Dan Slike."
"Fair enough. In the meantime I want a free hand. You'll have to call off the posses that are out after me. You can do that without exciting suspicion. Look how long they've been out."
"I'll manage it," declared the district attorney. "You think the Coldstream is a good place to camp?"
"Sure it is. I've been there before."
"Don't risk going to any other town than Jacksboro."
"I won't," said Billy. "Be sure of that. Well, I guess I'd better be draggin' it. You'll be wanting to let Miss Walton out. By the way, don't forget that I'm not leaving the neighborhood till I hear that Miss Walton is safe at Prescott's and the warrant against her withdrawn. Just bear that in mind, Arthur."
"I will," Arthur said warmly. "Shall I suggest to Miss Walton that a letter would be sure to reach you at Jacksboro—under an assumed name, of course?"
"It would be hardly worth while," replied Billy. "Unless I catch Dan Slike sooner, I don't expect to be in Jacksboro under a month. Yeah, a month, anyway."
"A month, huh? Here's wishing you luck."
Billy failed to observe the brazenly outstretched hand. "Thanks," he drawled. "So long."
But in spite of the agreement it was noticeable that he kept the district attorney covered till his bootsoles touched the ground beneath the window.
"Are you crazy?" demanded Guerilla Melody when he had heard all, or thought he had, rather. "You don't actually sure-enough trust him, do you?"
"Certainly not," Billy replied calmly, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Certainly I don't trust him. That's why I told him what I did."
Guerilla Melody screwed a forefinger into the side of his head. "Wheels, wheels, wheels, hear 'em buzz."
"You don't understand, Guerilla. You're all right lots of ways, and I'm your friend, and don't let anybody tell you different, but you haven't any brains, not a brain."
"Now, look here," began indignant Guerilla, "if you——"
"Shut up and listen," Billy cut him short. "I ain't going to the Medicine Mountains a-tall."
"Whereareyou going?"
"South—after Dan Slike. Don't you see, this fool district attorney won't think of skirmishing after mesouthof Golden Bar. But I'll bet he'll have posses combin' the Medicines within seven days. And if I haven't read him wrong, he'll have a warrant for the Tuckleton murder issued for me, too."
Guerilla nodded a grave head. "With Miss Walton out of it, he'll have to cinch it on to somebody else. But I don't see yet how finding Dan Slike, always supposin' you do find him, is going to help you any. You'll still have to stand your own trial. And you ain't thinkin' that Arthur Rale——"
"Oh, angels ever bright and fair! The man doesn't see it yet! I intend to bring in the murderer of Tip O'Gorman and the man who held up the stage, too, while I'm at it. In words of one syllablethatis my plan."
The expression on the face of Guerilla Melody was one of awe diluted with doubt. "All by your lonesome?"
"Why not?"
"Maybe I'd better go with you?" offered Guerilla.
"No," said Bill decidedly, "I'd rather you were here in Golden Bar. Then you can tell me the news now and then. Outside of you and Shotgun and Riley, there ain't a soul in town I can trust, and for official reasons I can't go near the deputies. So I guess you're elected, Guerilla."
"Aw right," said his friend. "You're the doctor. Have another drink?"
"Not to-night. Look at the time. Here we've been gassin' a solid hour. I didn't have any business coming into your house anyway. Never can tell who might walk in on us."
"You better wait till I find out from Riley if Rale kept his word about Hazel Walton."
"I won't have to wait here for that. When you come back from talking to Riley, if everything is O.K. and Hazel has started with Shotgun for Prescott's, you set a lamp on your kitchen table and open and close your kitchen door four times. If Rale hasn't moved, open your kitchen door and stand in the door-way for half a minute. I'll be watchin' from the ridge— Huh? Sure, I've got field glasses. Borrowed a pair from Sam Prescott same time I borrowed a horse. So long, Guerilla!"
Guerilla Melody blocked off the light of the lamp with his hat while Billy opened the door and vanished into outer darkness.
Twenty minutes later, Billy, sitting his horse on the crest of the aforementioned ridge, saw a rectangle of light at the tip end of town, show and go out four distinct times. He clucked to his horse and moved quartering down the slope in the direction of the Hillsville trail. His goal was Prescott's, his intention to obtain from Hazel a detailed account of what had happened at the ranch the night of the Tuckleton murder.
The time was an evening in the first week in May; the place was the Arkansas Saloon in Willow Bend, Redstone County, the man was Billy Wingo, wearing a sevenweeks' beard and an air of preoccupation. He was draped against the bar, making rings on the bar top with the wet bottom of his whisky glass.
The weather was unseasonably warm, and the big double-burner reflector lamps in the saloon raised the bar-room temperature at least fifteen degrees. Billy felt the salty moisture running down into his eyes. He pushed back his hat and with a fillip of his fingers slatted off the perspiration.
He did not see a man at the other end of the bar look up at his sudden movement. Nor, when he departed after his second glass, did he know that the other man was following until he had passed out into the street. Then, with that sixth sense men who carry their lives in their holsters so frequently develop, he knew it. Hence, quite naturally, instead of going directly to the hotel hitching-rail where his horse was tied, he sauntered with apparent aimlessness round the corner of the saloon, along the blank side wall and round the next corner.
In the darkness behind this corner, gun in hand, he waited. The other man slid round the corner in his wake and ran plump into the muzzle of the Wingo six-shooter.
"Were you looking for me?" Bill asked in a low tone.
The man, having shown that he was no shorthorn by promptly throwing up his hands, laughed low. "I was looking for you," he said, still chuckling, "but not the way you mean."
"Your voice sounds familiar," said the sceptical Billy. "Suppose you step over here into the light from this window. Keep your hands up."
"Glad to—both ways," agreed the man, obeying instantly. "Satisfied now?"
"You can put 'em down," said Billy sliding his gun back into the holster as soon as the light fell on the man's face. "I thought you went up to Jacksboro to visit your uncle."
"I did," said John Dawson. "But I thought I'd drift back for the Cross T round-up. On my way south I stopped at Golden Bar."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I was looking for a gent name of Tuckleton. I saw where he was buried."
"I guess you heard something while you were there, huh?"
"I heard something in Jacksboro, too. That's why I followed you. Let's go where we can talk private."
On a log, in the darkness, behind the dance hall, they sat down to talk "private."
"What did you hear in Jacksboro?" Billy asked.
"I heard a posse talk—six men. I met 'em over on Coldstream Creek three-four times."
Billy uttered a light laugh. "I figured it would be that way."
"They seemed to think you'd oughta been camping on Coldstream."
"What kind of a warrant did they have?"
"All kinds. Two murders and a stage hold up."
"Was one of 'em on account of Tuckleton?"
"Yep. I didn't know whether to hold it against you or not."
"You needn't. It wasn't me."
Dawson grinned his appreciation. "I'm glad. If you had it would have always been between us. I had figured on playing even-Steven with Tuckleton myself."
"I'm looking for the man who killed him. If I don't find him I needn't go back to Golden Bar."
"I heard you'd been suspended from office," said Dawson bluntly.
"I hadn't heard it yet, but I expected it. Anybody else appointed?"
"Shotgun Shillman, pro tem."
"I almost wish it was somebody else," he said whimsically. "Shotgun is a friend of mine, and energetic as a bear with a bee tree. He'll maybe dump me before I do what I want."
"If he's a friend of yours——" hinted Dawson.
"He'd arrest his own brother, if there was a warrant issued against him. He's that kind."
"A conscience is a heavy load to pack," said the cynical Dawson. "Me, I believe the end justifies the means. It don't matter much what trail you follow, so you get there. Can I help you any?"
"How?"
"I dunno—any old way. You did me one good turn, and I'm not forgetting it. Anything I got you can have any time anywhere."
"Now, that's right clever of you," said Billy, somewhat embarrassed at the other's gratitude. "But I don't guess you can help me any."
"Try me," urged Dawson.
"The man who killed Tuckleton is a man named Dan Slike, who broke out of jail just before he was going to be tried for another murder. The only way you can help me is by telling me where he is, and I expect you can't do that."
"Not right off the reel," admitted Dawson. "Ain't you picked up any trail of this sport?"
"I've cut his trail five different places, Bow Bells, Gunsight, Dragoon, Shadyside, and the Rafter L. I figured he'd come here after leavin' the Rafter L—it's only thirty miles. But I guess he didn't. Leastwise nobody seems to have noticed anybody of his description."
"You haven't described him to me yet," pointed out Dawson.
Billy began. "—and maybe a black beard by now," he concluded.
"Bow Bells, Gunsight, Dragoon, Shadyside and the Rafter L," repeated Dawson, rasping a hand across his stubbly chin.
"South, y'understand, till he reached Shadyside, and then he headed northeast to the Rafter L. What I'd like to know is what made him change direction thataway?"
"He ain't in any hurry to leave the territory, that's a cinch."
"Not after he left Shadyside, anyway."
"Something happened there to head him."
"Sure. But whatever it was it wasn't visible to the naked eye. Rafter L, the same way. He stopped there for dinner and rode away without spending the night."
"He may have gone to Marquis."
Billy nodded. "He may. But Marquis is more north than east. That's why I came here first. Anyway, to-morrow morning I'm riding to Marquis, and if he ain't there I'll sift through the country between Marquis and Dorothy. There are several ranches in between those two towns."
"I'll go with you," announced Dawson.
Billy surveyed his neighbor in surprise. "You. What for?"
"For him—exercise—any old thing you like, that is, if it ain't a private party."
"You can sit in if you want to," said Billy slowly, more glad to accept an ally than he cared to admit. "But you've got a job."
"The job can wait. Round up's over, so it won't hurt the ranch to lose my valuable services for a spell. To-morrow we go to Marquis, huh?"
By mid-afternoon the following day Billy Wingo was riding into Marquis from one direction and Dawson was riding in from another. As apparent strangers they believed they could do better work. Before six o'clock Billy had judiciously canvassed every saloon in the place and had learned absolutely nothing. Either Slike had not entered Marquis, or else he was wearing a disguise. In the twilight, in the brush beyond the far-flung skirmishline of empty tin cans and bottles that surrounds every cow-country town, he met his friend Dawson. The latter had worked the stores and the dance hall, but he had nothing to report. The following day Billy journeyed by the one road to Dorothy, while Dawson traveled by a more circuitous route that would take him past two ranch houses where there might be information to be picked up. Billy Wingo, without pushing his horse, reached Dorothy too late for the regular dinner at the hotel. Adjoining the Carnation Saloon was a two-by-four restaurant. He entered the place, sat down at the oilcloth-covered table and gave his order to the good-looking young woman who was evidently cook, hasher and washer combined.
In one corner of the restaurant an eight-year-old girl was squatting on the floor and bathing two wooden dollies in a tin wash-basin. A small dog waggled in from the street, sniffed respectfully at Billy's boots, then hunted along a crack in the floor with his nose till he came within reach of the eight-year-old, who promptly seized him by his short tail and dragged him, ki-yiing his protests, to her bosom.
"You need a bath," said the eight-year-old. "I'll wash you."
Gripping her victim firmly by one ear and his tail she plumped him splash into the washbasin. To the dog's eternal credit he made no attempt to bite her, but he wriggled and squirmed and threw his body about, and ever he lamented loudly.
The good-looking young woman poked her head in from the kitchen. "Winnie, you leave Towler be. You know he doesn't like to be teased. Why don't you go on giving Emmaline and Sally Jane their baths. There! Now, see what's happened—basin upset and water all over the floor. That's the third time to-day I've had to mop up after you."
Little Winnie was a damsel of parts. "I'm sorry, auntie. I'll mop up. Towler, you git."
Towler got. Winnie began to sop up the water with a floor rag which she wrung out in the washbasin.
"I'll finish giving you your bath, Sally Jane, soon as I get fresh water. Emmaline is nice and clean, but you're a dirty, dirty girl, Sally Jane."
Sally Jane! There it was again. Merely a coincidence, of course, but it was odd to run across this combination of proper names. Billy began to take more than a passing interest in the eight-year-old.
The little girl resumed her animated monologue. "I tell you what, Sally Jane, if you don't keep yourself cleaner, I'm gonna go back to calling you Maria again."
Then it was that the hunch came to Billy Wingo.
"Winnie," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and wearing his most engaging smile, "Winnie, that Sally Jane dolly is sure one fine-looking lady."
Winnie regarded him with an indulgent eye. "She's my favorite, Sally Jane is."
"Sally Jane is a pretty name too."
"I like it."
"You haven't always called her Sally Jane, have you?"
"Not always. I used to call her Mariar. My auntie says Mariar sounds like a cat talking, but I liked it till I heard Sally Jane, then I liked Sally Jane best."
"And when did you hear the name Sally Jane?"
"Long, long ago."
"Oh!" Disappointment on the part of Billy Wingo. Farewell, hunch. Nevertheless he essayed a forlorn hope. "How long?"
"Most a week."
Most a week! Billy had forgotten that child-time runs faster than grown-up time. The hunch pricked up its little ears and began to return. "Where did you hear that name?"
"Man in the Carnation. He was drunk, and he went round talking to God in the saloon. I heard him through the window. Lots of men do that. My Auntie says they'll frizzle when they die."
"They ought to," pronounced the righteously indignant Bill. "Did this man say anything, about Sally Jane?"
"Lots."
"In the saloon?"
"At the woodpile out back. I was making a li'l doll-house behind it, and he came and lay down beside the woodpile to sleep it off."
Oh, the wisdom of the frontier child.
"Weren't you afraid?" probed Billy.
"Nah. Why, you needn't ever be afraid of a drunk man. They can't hurt you if you keep out of their way. I've seen lots of drunk men, I have, in my time."
Billy was somewhat overwhelmed. "That's fine," he said lamely. "Did you run away when the drunk man came out to the woodpile to sleep it off?"
"Nah. Ain't I said I ain't scared of drunks? I didn't run away. I stayed right there on the other side of the woodpile listening to the drunk man."
"I thought you said he went to sleep."
"He talked in his sleep," patiently explained the amazing Winnie.
"What did he say?"
"Lots."
"Did he say anything about Sally Jane?"
"He said he loved her."
"Anything else?"
"He said he was gonna marry Sally Jane, by Gawd, and nobody else was gonna do it but him."
"Did he talk about any men?"
"He talked about Bill."
"Bill who?"
"Bill Wingo."
"Now, we're gettin' there. Did he say anything particular about Bill Wingo?"
"He said he was gonna shoot him."
"What for?"
"For being sheriff, or something. I don't remember that exactly."
"You've remembered enough. What kind of a looking man was this drunk?"
"Oh, he was an old, old man."
"Old, huh? How old?"
"Oh, about your age."
Billy began to feel like Methuselah. "What did he look like in the face?"
The winsome Winnie looked at him critically. "Something like you in the face. Sort of scrubby-looking and dirty—except maybe his whiskers wasn't so long as yours."
"What color were the whiskers?"
"Oh, black."
"Was his hair black?"
"Yop, his hair was black."
"Was he a li'l, short, runty feller?"
"Nope, he was a big, tall feller, skinny sort of."
"Did you hear his name?"
"His friend called him Damn-your-soul sometimes and Jack sometimes."
So Jack Murray had gathered unto himself a friend. This was interesting, especially as Jack was apparently still cherishing plans for revenge. If Jack and the anonymous friend were in the vicinity of Dorothy, it behooved a man in Billy's position to look to himself.
Billy had no illusions about Jack Murray. The man was perfectly capable of making another try at him from ambush. He did not believe that Jack would "snitch." Such procedure would indubitably attract too much public attention to Jack. He couldn't afford that. Not with three thousand dollars on his head.
"Is the drunk with the black hair and whiskers around town?" he asked.
"They ate dinner here yesterday."
"They—oh, he and his friend?"
"Yep, him and his friend."
Billy got up and went to the door of the kitchen. "Excuse me, ma'am, do you remember a tall, black-haired feller and a friend with him who ate in here yesterday noon?"
Oh, yes, the good-looking girl remembered perfectly both men. Billy thought that it would be as well to have a description of the friend. Would she describe him. She would and did. The description was that of Slike, Slike with a short beard. The man's eyes, she said, seemed to bore right through her. They gave her the creeps.
Billy believed he had heard enough for the time being.
After dinner Billy went up and down Main Street, scraping acquaintance with storekeepers, saloon keepers, the hotel proprietor and the town marshall. By five o'clock he had established the fact that two ranches of the neighborhood, the TU and the Horseshoe were at loggerheads, and that the Horseshoe was hiring gunfighters; that the black-haired man called Jack and his friend, whose name no one knew, had been engaged in conversation with the Horseshoe foreman; that the following day they had told a bartender that they had offers of good jobs at one hundred a month apiece; and that finally, a wolfer had met them on the range riding in the direction of the Horseshoe ranch.
That night Billy and Dawson disappeared from Dorothy.