Crack! Crack! Crack! the voices of the Winchesters drifted faintly down wind to the ears of Billy and Dawson. Billy, fearful that some one else had seen their quarry first, swore frankly.
"Cheer up," said Dawson. "It may be just the chance we're lookin' for. They've stopped shootin'."
Billy remained pessimistic. He had been disappointed so often. But it was the chance they were looking for, after all.
Five minutes later from the edge of a flat-topped hill, they were looking down upon a scene that has had many counterparts in the history of the West.
Below the flat-topped hill a wide stretch of rolling ground reached away to a semi-circle of low hills. A quarter-mile out from the base of the hills a tiny fire smoked fitfully. Beyond the fire lay a hog-tied calf. Beyond the calf, a man sprawled behind the body of a pony. He was aiming a rifle at another man ensconced below a cutbank bordering a small creek that meandered with many windings across the rolling country. This second man was not blatantly visible. Even with the glasses it was difficult to make him out. For cottonwoods grew above the cutbank and the man lay in deep shadow.
Between this man and the man behind the pony were three hundred yards of ground as flat as a floor. Billy swept the background of the cutbank man with his glasses. "There are two horses tied behind a windfall alongside those rocks. Where's the other man?"
"There's the other man," said Dawson, pointing toward a gap in the cottonwoods alongside the creek fifty yards down stream from the cutbank. "What's he doing—drinking?"
Billy turned his glasses on the spot indicated. "He ain't drinking," he said soberly. "His head's under water."
"I'm sure hoping he ain't Dan Slike," Dawson said matter-of-factly.
"Me too. What——"
For the man behind the cutbank was climbing up among the cottonwoods—climbing up and walking out into plain sight of the man behind the pony. Not only that, but, the rifle across the crook of his elbow, nursing the butt with his right hand, he began to walk directly toward him. Still the man behind the pony did not fire.
"He's cashed all right," Billy remarked suddenly. "He looked so natural he fooled me for a minute. Let's go down across the creek. We're in luck to-day."
They ran down the reverse slope of the flat-topped hill, cut across the creek and approached the horses tied behind the windfall.
"I'm afraid we'll just naturally have to kill Dan, after all," grieved Billy. "He won't ever surrender. I——"
"Tell you," said Dawson, "loosen the cinches; then no matter which horse he tops he'll jerk himself down. Then maybe while he's all tangled up with himself and the saddle——"
"Catchem-alivoes ourselves," said Billy, with a hard grin, and tossed up the near fender of one of the saddles.
When both saddles had been carefully doctored, Billy and his friend retired modestly behind some red willows.
Soon they heard a scramble and a splash in the creek. Dan Slike was coming back. Through the screen of leaves they watched him coming toward them. They heard his voice. He was swearing a great string of oaths. Billy crouched a trifle lower. His six-shooter was out, but not cocked. Dawson had followed his example.
Slike jammed his Winchester into one of the empty scabbards and untied the bridle reins of the horses. Holding the reins in one hand, he gripped a saddle horn and simultaneously stuck toe in stirrup. Ensued then a mighty creak of saddle leather, a snort, a plunge, and Slike found himself on his back on the ground with one foot higher than his head. A gun barrel appeared from nowhere and smote him smartly over the ear. Oh, ye sun, moon and stars! Total darkness.
Billy sprang to the heads of the capering horses. "Take his hat off, Johnny!" he cried. "See what you find under the sweatband!"
When Slike emerged into the full possession of his senses, he was the most disgusted man in the territory.
"You gave us quite a run," Billy observed smilelessly.
Slike damned everybody. "You needn't have tied my hands too," he added.
"We can't afford to take chances. Do you feel like admitting that the district attorney helped you break jail?"
Slike glared defiantly. "Nothin' to say," declared Dan Slike, the unrepentant.
"That's your privilege. Suppose now we heave him up on his horse and go see what happened."
They freed his feet, mounted him on the horse that was not packing the rifle and proceeded. Behind the gap in the cottonwoods, fifty yards below the spot under the cutbank where Slike had lain, they found the body of the man with his face in the water. Billy dragged out the body and turned it on its back.
"What you cussin' for?" inquired Dawson.
"This feller ain't Jack Murray," cried the perplexed Mr. Wingo. "It's Skinny Shindle."
"Looks like we must have missed a bet somewhere," said Dawson. "Plugged him plumb center, didn't he?" he added, alluding to the red-and-blue bullet hole squarely between the staring eyes.
"I got the other sport," snarled Slike.
"Where's Jack Murray?" demanded Billy.
"What difference does that make?" flung back Dan Slike.
It was evident that Slike was not in a confiding mood.
Nobody said anything further. They left Skinny Shindle lying beside the little creek and went on to where the other dead man lay beside the embers of the branding fire.
"That's a TU horse," said Dawson, glancing at the brand on the pony's hip.
Billy turned the dead man face upward. He whistled. "Here's an odd number, Johnny. This feller is Simon Reelfoot's foreman. You've heard me speak of that low-lived persimmon, Simon Reelfoot. This boy is named Conley. Been with Reelfoot for years. I'd sure like to know why he's riding for the T.U."
Came then a puncher riding on his occasions. At sight of the three men and the calf and the fire, he spurred toward them. A hundred yards away he suddenly pulled up and slipped to the far side of his horse.
"I know him," said Dawson. "Used to ride for Tasker once. C'mon, Tommy, what you scared of? It's me, Johnny Dawson."
Tommy at once remounted and rode in to them. "'Lo, Johnny," he said, with a straight mouth. "Did that man with his arms tied kill Daley?"
"Is that his name?" asked Billy, flicking his thumb toward the dead man.
"Jim Daley," said Tommy. "Did he?"
"Sure, I killed him," Slike truculently answered the question. "What about it?"
At that instant Billy demonstrated that the hand is sometimes quicker than the eye.
"He'll die anyway," he said mildly. "You better let us do it."
"I pass," surrendered Tommy, removing his hand from the butt of his six-shooter.
"Daley got one before he went," said Billy, returning his six-shooter whence it came. "He's back there on the bank of the creek if you want to look."
"This is sure hard on Daley," observed Tommy, dismounting to turn loose the calf. "He told me he came north for his health."
"North?"
"Yeah, couldn't stand the climate in Arizona, he said," amplified Tommy, loosening the knot. "Git up, feller, pull your freight. Life's sure funny. I'll bet that calf's the first Daley ran our iron on. He only joined the outfit last week. Let's go see if I know the other feller."
Since the place where the dead man lay was on their back trail, they went with Tommy, the TU boy.
"Sure, I know him," declared Tommy, after one look at the dead face. "He's named Brindley—been with the Horseshoe since February."
Which simple statement explained the presence of Skinny Shindle, but left Jack Murray completely to the imagination. After all, decided Billy, Jack Murray did not matter, and promptly forgot him. Had he known how important a place the slippery Mr. Murray actually held in the scheme of things, he, Billy Wingo, would not have been so casual.
"We gotta make a heap of trail," said Dawson to Billy, when Tommy had departed in suspicious haste. "That damn Tommy is going to the ranch for the rest of his bunch. First thing we know we'll lose our prisoner."
"Don't hurry on my account," said the sardonic Slike. "If I gotta be hung, lemme be hung and no fuss about it. I don't want to ride all the way north again."
"We need you, Dan," said Billy briefly. "No hanging goes yet a while."
Forthwith they began to "make a heap of trail." It may as well be said at once that they saw no further signs of Tommy or any other of the TU boys.
Toward dawn next day the horses showed signs of tiring. "Mine won't last another five miles," said Johnny Dawson.
"This is as good a place as any," said Billy briefly. "We'll stop here."
They dismounted Slike and stripped and hobbled the horses. Slike had not enjoyed the long night ride. He was disposed to be peevish. "I want a smoke," he demanded.
Billy ceased pounding coffee and fixed him with a hard eye. "You won't get it," he said shortly.
"Helluva way to treat a prisoner," snarled Slike. "You done better by me when I was in jail."
"Lots of things have happened since. But don't you fret. I'll give you what you deserve in about five minutes. I missed out on it yesterday, but I'll try to see you don't lose anything by the delay."
"Huh?" puzzled Slike.
"You remember going to Miss Walton's ranch," elaborated Billy in a cold, monotonous tone. "You beat her."
"Hell, nothin' to that. I only pulled her hair a few times and slammed her once or twice."
"You kicked her, too."
"Not hard, though. Besides, I had to. She was stubborn. My Gawd, you wouldn't begin to believe how stubborn that girl was!"
Billy laid aside the rock with which he had been pounding coffee. "I guess the coffee can wait better than I can."
He stood up limberly and unbuckled his cartridge belt and dropped it beside Johnny Dawson, who was slicing bacon. Then he crossed to Slike and untied the knots of the rope that bound him. Slike stretched his arms and legs but made no offer to rise. Billy nudged him in the ribs with the toe of his boot.
"What's that for?" roared Slike, scrambling to his feet.
"I'm going to give you the best licking you ever got. You've had it coming a long time, and now you're going to get it."
"Is that so?" sneered Slike. "Is that so? You expecting to do all this without help?"
Fists doubled, Billy started for Slike. The latter side-stepped and feinted Billy into a position between himself and Dawson. Slike crouched. His right hand flashed downward. The fingers fumbled at his bootleg. Billy ran in, expecting to beat Slike flat.
"Look out!" cried Dawson, as Slike's hand shot up and out, accompanied by the vicious twinkle of steel.
But Billy, coming in with the speed of a springing wildcat, slipped a bootsole on a rock and fell. Slike's thrust sped past his head so close that Slike's knuckles brushed his ear.
Billy got one foot under himself and threw up an arm in time to catch on the turn the wrist of Slike's knife hand. Slike promptly changed hands. But Billy caught the other wrist, not, however, before the knife had narrowly missed slicing the flesh on his floating ribs. Slike's head dipped forward and he sank his teeth in Billy's shoulder. Billy drove a knee into Slike's stomach and Slike unclamped his teeth with a gasp. Over he went. Billy stayed with him.
Dawson, who had dropped bacon and frying-pan at the first blow, saw his opportunity and lunged down to wrench away Slike's knife. Which was not at all to Billy's mind.
"Let it alone!" gasped the warrior. "He ain't giving me a bit o' trouble."
The reluctant Dawson obeyed.
Slike, his body writhing like that of a scotched snake, could not budge his pinned-down knife hand. Inch by inch Billy dragged his own body forward and upward until he was resting on his knees with Slike between his legs.
"Leggo that knife!" he directed.
Slike's reaction was humanly natural. At least, there were no hobbles on his tongue.
"Well, all right, if you say so," Billy told him, and rejoiced to perceive the top of a small rock not six inches from Slike's knife hand.
He forced the knife hand inward toward the rock. Then he proceeded, with all his might, to batter the back of Slike's hand against the pointed top of the rock. Slike's face changed at the first blow; at the second he involuntarily groaned; at the third his fingers unclosed. The knife tinkled on the rock.
Billy pounced on the knife, threw it yards away and scrambled to his feet. "Get up, Slike! Stand on your feet! Come and get it!"
Whatever other thing Slike was, he was certainly no coward. Instead he was a glutton for punishment. He jerked himself to his feet and ran headlong into a straight-arm blow that made his nose bleed and his neck ache. As has been said, Slike had no science. Neither had Billy. In which respect the fight was equal. But Slike was only fighting for himself. Billy was fighting not only for himself but to revenge Slike's treatment of the girl he loved.
When he flattened Slike's nose, pleasure ensued—for Billy. It was joy to his heart when the next blow landed on Slike's right eye and laid him all along the grass. Three times Billy knocked Slike down, and three times the killer hopped to his feet and came back for more. But after the third knockdown it was noticeable that Slike was appreciably slower and considerably more cautious. His face was a sight. One eye was completely closed. His nose was broken, his lips cut and two teeth were missing.
Slike came to a halt in front of Billy, blew a bubble of blood from his lips and wiped his good eye with the back of his hand. He swayed on his legs. But this display of weakness was more apparent than genuine. Billy, watching Slike's one good eye, was not misled thereby. There was no hint of weakness in Slike's eye. Indeed, there was strength and hatred a-plenty.
Accordingly, when Slike suddenly lowered his head and dodged in under Billy's guard with the evident intention of starting another "snatch and wrastle," Billy was ready, very ready. His uplifted knee met Slike full in the face. Slike straightened instantly, and Billy hooked his right to the point of the chin. Slike didn't need that last blow. The knee blow had already given him a clean knockout.
He took the ground limply and lay motionless. Billy stood and looked at him and blew upon his skinned knuckles and suddenly realized that it was a good old world, after all. There might be some mean citizens scattered here and there. But they always got their come-uppances in the end.
Dawson joined him. "Sure looked like a mule had kicked in his dashboard. I dunno when I ever saw a more complete job. That face don't look genuine a-tall."
"I'm sure ashamed of myself," muttered Billy.
"Whyfor? You did just right. I'd have done the same in your place. You got no call to be ashamed."
"Not for licking him. That was all right. But I searched him and let him hide out a butcher knife on me in his bootleg—in his bootleg."
"That handle was down inside the leather. You couldn't see it. I didn't."
"I should have found it alla same," fretted Billy. "There's no excuse for such carelessness—none."
He went across to where he had thrown the knife and picked it up. He caught his breath. On the handle of the butcher knife the letters TW were cut deep into the wood.
When, for the second time that day, Slike recovered consciousness, Billy showed him the butcher knife.
"How many butcher knives did you take from Walton's?" he demanded.
"One," replied Slike.
"And is this the one?"
"Sure it is. Why not?"
"Why, hells bells!" exclaimed Billy, "then you didn't kill Rafe Tuckleton."
"First I knew he was dead," Slike said thoughtfully. "As a rule, I don't kill my customers," he added, with a grin rendered more horrible by his battered and bloody features. "I can't afford to. Maybe you killed him yourself. How about it? Aw, right! Go to hell then! And I want to say right here you tied my arms and legs too tight! There ain't no feelin' in any of 'em!"
Billy paid Slike no further attention. His brain seemed to find it difficult to function. "She said he only took one knife," he told himself stupidly and sat down to think it over.
He had caught Slike. But he was no nearer the solution of the Tuckleton murder than he was in the beginning. His theory that Slike had killed Tuckleton was smashed to smithereens by the discovery of the Walton butcher knife in Slike's bootleg. Unless Slike had taken two knives. But Slike had not taken two knives. According to Hazel's testimony, he had taken only one.
It was then that Billy suddenly realized that he should have known better in the first place than to connect Slike with the murder of Tuckleton. Dan Slike was too experienced a longhorn to leave incriminating evidence behind him if he could help it. And if he had killed Tuckleton, he would at least have taken away the handle of the knife. But the handle had been left beside the body for any one to pick up. Manifestly, then, it had been left there with the design to throw suspicion upon a person other than the murderer,—for instance, a person intimately connected with the Walton ranch.
Obviously the Tuckleton murder and the O'Gorman murder were parallel cases. In both, clues had been left to manufacture circumstantial evidence against the wrong person. While it did not necessarily follow that the same brain and hands had planned and carried out both murders, yet the point was worth considering. For it was absolutely necessary to lay at least Tuckleton's murderer by the heels. There were no two ways about that. Because if he were not caught, it would only be a matter of time before Rale, by reason of his peculiar temperament, would recover from his fright, decide to risk the wrath to come, and once more turn the cold light of suspicion upon Hazel Walton. And that would entail her arrest sooner or later. Indeed, to Billy Wingo the future bore the appearance of a mighty boggy ford.
Mechanically he began to play mumbletypeg with the butcher knife—palm of hand, back of hand, right fist, left fist, and had progressed as far as his left pinky in the movement known as off fingers of each hand when he sat back and stared at the knife quivering in the turf. He thought he saw a gleam of light. The very fact of the two knives, each a match of the other, was as obvious a contrariety as any that ever delighted the soul of Mr. William Noy. Attaching to the demise of Rafe Tuckleton was another contrariety, several others in fact. Billy checked off the various contrarieties on his fingers. The gleam of light became a ray, the ray broadened to the bright light of complete understanding.
He hugged his knees and smiled the pleasant self-satisfied smile of the proverbial cat that has just received the canary into its midst. "I got him! I got him where the hair is short. It's one complete cinch."
Early one morning several days later the sheriffpro tem.of Crocker County was roused by rappings on the office door. Being an experienced man, Shotgun Shillman did not open the front door. He went round the back way with his gun in his hand. But his caution was needless. For, on circling the house, he found no one at the front door but Dan Slike—a hatless Dan Slike flat on his back in the dust, tied hand and foot, and with a gag in his mouth. Looped around Dan's ankles was one end of a lariat. At the other end of the lariat stood Hazel Walton's riding horse.
Later in the day Guerilla Melody called on Nate Samson, asked the storekeeper several apparently aimless questions and leafed through the cutlery pages of Nate's hardware catalogue. Still later in the day Johnny Dawson rode out of Golden Bar. Only two people besides himself knew that he was bound for the railroad and a telegraph line.
"There's a lot of this stuff I don't understand," said Guerilla Melody the day after Dawson's return from the railroad. "Why did Conley go south? Reelfoot and he were almighty friendly. Got drunk together and everything. And Conley ain't committed any crime round here that I know of."
"I'm betting he did, alla same," said Billy. "Or else why was he so particular to tell those TU boys he was from Arizona? Folks don't hide where they come from without a reason. We know there have been two murders committed here by unknown murderers. It never occurred to me till you said Conley hadn't committed any crime that you know of that maybe—" He left the sentence unfinished.
Guerilla looked bewildered. "What did Conley have against Tip?"
"I don't know," said Billy. "But I intend to find out."
"That's the trick," chipped in Dawson. "In cases like this it pays to dig into the innards of everything you don't understand. You're almost sure to find out somethin'."
"Maybe friend Simon can tell us somethin'," Billy said. "Let's go. It'll be sunrise in two hours."
Simon Reelfoot, riding the range that day, met a horseman who said he was strayman for the Wagonwheel outfit north of the West Fork. Did Simon know where Park Valley was? Simon knew, and gave the strayman minute directions.
"Shucks," said the strayman, "I can't carry all that in my head. Here's a envelope and a pencil. Make a li'l map like, will you?"
Simon was not an adept with the pencil. To use either it or a pen required the most perfect concentration and his tongue in his cheek. Wondering greatly at the strayman's claimed inability to remember a few simple landmarks, Simon took the pencil and envelope and bent over his saddle horn.
"Here," he said, after three minutes' work, holding out the envelope, "This ought to fix you up."
To this horror, the well-known voice of Billy Wingo at his back concurred readily. "It ought to," said Billy Wingo. "We're obliged to you, Simon. Kindly clasp your hands over your hat."
The envelope and pencil fell to the ground as Simon obeyed. The strayman dismounted and picked them up.
"You oughtn't to have given him that envelope," Billy admonished the strayman. "It has the confession in it. You got to be more careful."
"I will," said the strayman humbly, and tucked the envelope into his pocket.
Simon stirred uneasily on his saddle. Confession! Whose confession? He recalled that there had been several folded sheets of paper in the envelope. Of course, Simon could not know that these sheets were white,—innocent of either handwriting or printing. But Simon's conscience was a helpful little thing. And Simon's mind was prone to jump at conclusions.
"I'll just take your gun, Simon," murmured Billy. "I don't think you'd do anything reckless, but you might. Slide off easy. That's it. You look kind of bewildered, Simon. Don't know how I got here, do you? Easy, like eatin' pie. While you were hard at work with your pencil, Guerilla and I were tippytoeing out of that stand of timber behind us a ways. You shouldn't be so trusting of strangers, feller.Keep your paws up! Just because I've felt you all over and haven't found an extra gun or knife doesn't signify you can do as you please. You stand right still and steady. Johnny, let's have that envelope. My friend will watch you, Simon, while I glance over this."
Billy took the envelope, fingered out the sheets of paper and unfolded them. His lip moved as he solemnly looked them over. It was apparent to Reelfoot that he was refreshing his memory.
"Simon," Billy said, glancing up suddenly, "why did Conley go South?"
Simon's leathery face assumed a richly jaundiced hue. "I—I dunno!"
"Yes, you do," Billy insisted, striking the sheets of paper with his fist. "We found Conley. He was working for the TU when he died."
Simon's face went even yellower. "I told him not to go," muttered Simon Reelfoot.
"Conley talked before he died," said Billy. "He told me some interesting things about himself—and you. We've got you dead to rights, Simon." Here Billy stuffed the sheets of paper into his trousers pocket and gripped Simon by the throat. "You damned murderer, what did you kill him for?"
At the fierce clutch of Billy's fingers, Simon's shaking legs refused to uphold him longer. He fell on his knees. "I—I didn't kill him!" he spluttered. "He was dead when——"
"You lie! You killed him! Conley said so! You tried to throw the blame on me by leaving behind—" Billy's voice trailed off into silence.
"That was Conley's idea!" screamed the panicky Reelfoot. "He got the hatband and quirt one day when nobody was in the office. I didn't have anything to do with it! Conley shot him, too!"
"Conley shot him too, huh? Then you shot Tip your own self?"
"He was gonna squeal! He was gonna get me mixed into that Walton murder! They told me he was! He—he pulled first, I tell you! It was an even break! I was drunk! I didn't know what I was doing! Oh, my Gawd!"
Billy flung the groveling Simon from him. "This ought to be enough for you."
Guerilla wagged an admiring head as he set about securing the arms of the wretched Reelfoot. "Gotta give you credit, Bill. I never thought it would work."
"I did," said the strayman, Johnny Dawson. "I've seen it done before. Most folks are sheep when it comes to a bluff."
"Don't tie him too tight, Guerilla. Might as well ask him some more questions."
That evening there was another prisoner in the Golden Bar calaboose. "If they keep on coming in like this," said Shotgun Shillman to Riley Tyler, "we'll have to build an addition to the jail."
"The more the merrier," grinned Riley Tyler. "Listen to that skunkified Reelfoot! You'd think he was having the horrors, the way he's carrying on."
"Did you hear what he said about leaving a lantern outside the cell all night, account of Tip haunting him in the dark?"
Riley nodded. "I heard. His nerve has gone completely bust."
"It's funny how he keeps insisting that Bill Wingo was with Guerilla and that Dawson man when they captured him. Why, everybody knows Bill Wingo is far, far away." Thus Shotgun Shillman, his tongue in his cheek.
"Damfunny," Riley assented with a wink. "Especially when Guerilla and Dawson said they hadn't seen a sign of Bill, not a sign. You might almost think Simon Reelfoot was mistaken."
"You might," chuckled Shotgun Shillman. "I wonder, speaking as man to man, and not as sheriffpro tem.to his deputy, where Bill is anyway."
"Probably in town this minute. It would be just like him."
"Guessin' thataway is bad business," Shotgun reproved Riley. "Besides, you're mistaken. If we thought Billy was in town, it would be our duty to hop out and arrest him, wouldn't it? You bet it would. So we don't think he's in town. That is certain sure. You wanna mix a li'l common sense with your job, Riley. You're too half-baked by a jugful. You keep on expressin' opinions so free and easy, and first thing you know folks will think we ain't so anxious to arrest Bill."
"Some of 'em think so now," said the unimpressed Riley.
"Ain't that the public all over!" exclaimed the justly indignant Shotgun. "Tell you, an honest officer of the law is never appreciated, never. Is that bottle empty, Riley?"
In the meantime Billy Wingo was calmly eating his supper in the house of Guerilla Melody. On Guerilla's bed Dawson was snoring the sleep of exhaustion.
"What next?" asked Guerilla Melody, when Billy was lighting his after-supper cigarette. "With Tip's murder settled and knowin' who killed Tuckleton——"
"Certainly doesn't help us any with the stage holdup," cut in Billy. "Before we spring the joke in the Tuckleton deal, I've got to do a li'l more work on the hold-up. Dumping Rafe's murderer won't do me a heap of good while I'm breaking rock for twenty years at Hillsville. Don't look so glum, Guerilla. There's a trail out. There always is."
At the tail of the woods a convivial voice in the street broke into boisterous song. "Who's that?" asked Billy.
"It's Jerry Fern," said Guerilla indifferently. "He's drunk again."
"Ain't it kind of new for him? He never used to drink much."
"Oh, he can't stand prosperity."
"Prosperity?"
"Yep. Aunt died, left him some money. He ain't drove for nearly a month."
"The lucky devil. Big legacy?"
"I dunno how much. Fair size, I guess. Must have been for Crafty to lend him money to play with."
"What?"
"Don't get so excited," cautioned Guerilla, with a nervous glance over his shoulder. "You've no idea how your voice carries. Even if you don't mind being dumped, I do. And I don't care three whoops about spending two or three years in jail for giving aid and comfort to——"
"Shut up, for Gawd's sake!" begged Billy. "Do you know Crafty's been lending money to Jerry?"
"Didn't I see him with my own eyes more than once? But——"
"Say, don't you see anything else yet?"
"I see you, but that ain't sayin' much."
"Guerilla, if you weren't so serious you'd be funny. But don't get down-hearted. I'm as foolish as you are, every bit. Why, when they had me corraled in Sam Larder's house, and Crafty blatted right out loud that he didn't know Jerry Fern was driving that trip and Tip and Sam said later that they knew Jerry was, I had the answer to the puzzle if I had the sense to follow it up. Especially when it turned out later that Jerry, who always gives a bandit a battle, didn't even try to lock horns with Crafty. But I never caught the connection till you said Crafty was lending money to Jerry. Lending him money! Do you think you can get Jerry Fern in here and make him drunk?"
"When?" asked Guerilla, beginning to get a glimmering.
"To-night. Now. I want to get Jerry so full he'll talk. Tell us all he knows, see?"
"I'll make him drunk," Guerilla said earnestly. "And I'll make him talk, or there ain't a drop of virtue in Old Crow."
Guerilla flipped on his hat and departed.
Half an hour later Guerilla returned, bringing his sheaves with him. And, oh, the sheaves were merry and, oh, the sheaves were drunk. Guerilla himself was giving an admirable imitation of a roistering blade.
"Meet my friend, Mister Johnny Dawson," said Guerilla, waving an expansive hand toward the erstwhile strayman.
"Huh, h'are you, Misher Juh-johnny Duh-duh-daw-son," said Jerry Fern, solemnly shoving out a wavering paw and missing the mark by eighteen inches. "Washer name of other tut-tut-twin?"
For a bad moment Dawson feared that Billy Wingo had been foolish enough to come in from the other room. Then he understood. "His name's Eliphalet," he made reply, solemnly turning to the empty air on his right.
Jerry Fern again pumphandled the empty air. "Pup-pup-pleased meetcha," he stuttered. "Cuc-cuc-cuc-can't pup-pronounce name, but thash all ri'. All li'l friends tut-together. Wheresh bottle? You gug-got bub-bub-bottle, Guh-guh-gil-Guerilla?"
"Sit down," urged Guerilla, steering Jerry to anchor. "Here's your bottle."
Jerry Fern clasped the bottle to his bosom and sang a lusty stave.
"Rye whisky, rye whisky,Rye whisky, I cry.If I don't get rye whiskyI surely will die."
Like the boy in the story, Jerry could sing without stuttering. But when he began again to talk, his enunciation was worse than ever. "Buh-buh-buh-whistle for the crossing—but I ain't gug-gug-gargle gonna die. Nun-nun-not me. I gug-got rye whuh-whisky."
He put the bottle to his lips and went through all the motions of taking a hearty pull. "Fuf-funny," he said, holding the bottle at arm's length. "Wuh-wuh whisky lul-lul-lost all its taste."
"Take the cork out," suggested Guerilla.
"Cuc-cuc-cork?" smiled Jerry Fern. "I'll tut-take cuc-cork out."
So saying he smashed the bottle neck against the edge of the table, broke it short off, and drank without ceasing till the bottle was empty. He held the bottle against the light. He pressed it to his ear. He shook it. Then he tossed it nonchalantly over his shoulder, laid his cheek on the table and began to snore.
This would never do. Guerilla and Dawson shook him awake.
"Mush been shleep," mumbled Jerry, knuckling his eyes. "Gimme anuzzer dud-drink."
"Not yet," said Guerilla firmly. "Is Felix Craft a good friend of yours, Jerry?"
"Helluva good fuf-fuf-friend," was the instant reply.
"He doesn't pay you enough," prompted the carefully drilled Dawson.
"Thash whu-what I tut-told him!" cried Jerry Fern, pounding the table with a vehement fist. "I ought tut-tut-to have num-more."
"He's treatin' you mean," said Guerilla. "He ain't goin' to give you any more money."
"Yesh he wuh-will," insisted Jerry.
"He told me different." Thus Dawson.
"Yesh he wuh-will. Huh-he'll have to gimme all money I want. Pup-put him in juh-juh-jail if he don't."
Guerilla and Dawson looked toward the doorway giving into the other room. Then they began to laugh immoderately. "That's a good one," cried Guerilla, wiping his eyes. "You can't put Felix Craft in jail. He hasn't done anything wrong."
"Oh, ain't he?" flared Jerry Fern with all the drunkard's irritation at being disbelieved. "I know more abub-bub-bout Fuf-felix Cuc-craft than you thuh-think. I cuc-can muh-make Fuf-felix Cuc-craft lul-lie dud-down and rur-roll over."
"Yes, you can." With derision.
"Yeah, I cuc-can!"
"What makes you think so?"
"I know all rur-right," vaguely.
This was maddening. Billy, in the other room, yearned to take Jerry Fern by the scruff of his drunken neck and squeeze the truth out of him.
"You don't know a thing about Felix Craft," persisted Guerilla. "Not a thing."
"Damn shame he don't pay you enough," chipped in Dawson.
"Maybe if I went to him I could get more money for you," suggested Guerilla. He waited a moment for the meaning of this to sink in before adding, "What will I tell him."
"Tut-tell him I'll tell if he dud-don't pup-pay."
This sounded promising. "Tell what?"
"Tut-tell whuh-who held up the sush-sush-stage."
"Oh, that's nothing," said Guerilla. "Felix told me all about that. He said you didn't help him out a-tall."
Jerry Fern was instantly up in arms. "I dud-did so," he chattered. "He knows bub-better. Did-didn't he plan it all out wuh-with mum-me nun-nun-not to cuc-cuc-cut down on him, and didn't I tut-tell the pup-passengers to muh-make sure of Bub-bill's clothes and the bub-brass gug-gug-guard of his six-shu-shooter? Did-didn't I? Did-didn't I? Yeah, and his huh-horse and all too? Dud-didn't I do all them thuh-things acc-acc-accordin' to cuc-contract? Did-didn't I? Cuc-course I did. And if Fuf-felix do-don't pay up, I'll pup-put him in jail."
"That's right," Guerilla soothed him. "Do anything you want with him." He went to the door of the other room and whispered, "Has he said enough, Bill?"
"About," answered Billy, pushing his chair back and standing up.
"But maybe he won't repeat it under oath when he's sober," worried Guerilla.
"We won't wait that long. We'll sic him on Felix right now. You go find out where Felix is, will you, Guerilla, and— Here, wait a shake! Better have Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler in on this. Huh? Course not! Don't tell 'em I'm here. Tell 'em——"
"You can't tell me that infernal Bill Wingo ain't at the bottom of all this business!" snarled Felix Craft. "Guerilla Melody and that Dawson friend of his didn't get Slike by themselves any more than I did. I tell you flat, Bill Wingo was the boss of that job. He was the brains, and you can't tell me different."
"And there was a time when we thought Bill didn't have any brains," Sam Larder grieved bitterly.
"I didn't," avowed the district attorney. "I always knew——"
"Oh, you!" interrupted Felix with a sneer. "You know it all, you do. You know so much, maybe you'll explain why Reelfoot says you told him Tip O'Gorman was gonna tangle him up in the Walton murder and that the easiest way was for him to down Tip."
"He says Rafe Tuckleton told him that," corrected the district attorney.
"He says you did too," accused Sam Larder. "What did you tell him a thing like that for?"
"Reelfoot's a liar," declared the district attorney. "I never told him anything of the kind. Why should I?"
"I don't know. I'd like to find out." The fat man's stare was bright with suspicion.
The district attorney bristled. "Good Lord, man, I was always friendly with Tip."
"You were friendlier with Rafe Tuckleton," pointed out Felix, "and we all know Tip didn't have any use for Rafe after that Walton deal, and Rafe knew it."
"It's just possible," put in Sam Larder, "that Rafe put Reelfoot up to downing Tip."
"In which case," supplemented Felix, "you bein' so friendly with Rafe, it would be natural for you to help him."
"Next thing you'll be saying I killed Tip." Thus the district attorney with sarcasm.
"No, because that wouldn't be true. I know you didn't kill him. But I'm not sure you aren't an accessory before and after the fact."
The district attorney went pale. But he made no attempt to go after his gun. Not against Felix Craft. Not now at any rate. "I'll settle this with you later," he began. "I——"
"You'll never settle anything with anybody," Felix flung the insult with contempt.
"We'll gain nothing by fighting among ourselves," went on the district attorney evenly. "If we don't stick together, we'll hang together, and you can gamble on that. If Slike talks——"
"He'll implicate you and Tuckleton," Larder chipped in swiftly. "We're out ofthatproposition."
"But we all aided him to escape from jail, so we are all guilty of felony. If Slike should choose to blat about it—" The district attorney left the remainder of the sentence to his comrades' imagination.
"He's right," said Sam Larder suddenly. "We've got to stick together."
"All right," Felix Craft said grudgingly, "I'll wait until we're out of this muss before I ask you any more questions about egging Reelfoot to down Tip O'Gorman, Rale. Afterward I'll get the truth out of you if I have to choke you to death first. Oh, you needn't show your teeth at me, feller. You won't bite."
The district attorney swallowed hard. "You'll find your suspicion is baseless, Felix, baseless and unjust. I had absolutely nothing to do with the murder of Tip O'Gorman. Whoever told you——"
"Nobody told me anything. I——"
"Let it go for now," broke in Sam Larder. "We've got to think of our skins. And if we don't catch Bill Wingo, they'll be gone skins."
"You bet they will," said the district attorney. "That man at large is a menace. He'd bushwhack any or all of us three without a moment's hesitation. He's—he's capable of anything."
"I know he's capable of anything," Sam Larder said with deep feeling, thinking of Billy's escape from the Larder ranch house. "And I'd give a good deal to know he was two feet underground. But Gawd knows we can't do more than we have done to catch him. Felix and me have ridden ourselves bowlegged combin' the Medicines for him."
"You bet we have," agreed Felix. "There ain't a square foot of those mountains we don't know intimate. Speaking personal, I've ridden—" He paused and looked across at Sam Larder. "That bet was I'd ride more than six hundred miles in sixty days. Remember, Sam? And the sixty days ain't up yet, and I've ridden more than six hundred already."
"What bet's that?" asked the district attorney chattily, anxious to reëstablish friendly relations. "Who you bettin' with?"
"Nobody you're interested in," parried Felix Craft, it having been thought better to keep the district attorney in the dark regarding the happenings at the Larder ranch house on the day of the stage hold-up.
"I'll go the limit we've covered a thousand miles," groaned Sam. "I've lost thirty pounds myself. I don't believe Bill ever went near the Medicines."
"Oh, he went there, all right," said the district attorney. "Take my word——"
A pounding on the office door cut the sentence in half.
"You are certainly jumpy this evening, Rale," Felix Craft said dryly. "Open the door. Maybe it's our friend Bill."
The district attorney obeyed with caution. Not that he expected Billy. But then, he did not quite know what to expect. That it would be something to trouble him he was positive. He was not disappointed. It was a trio of the Tuckleton outfit, to wit, the foreman, Jonesy, and two punchers, Ben Shanklin and Tim Mullin. All three were in the worst of tempers.
"Look here, Rale," Jonesy began without preliminary, "you've fooled with us long enough, and we're sick of it."
"We want action," rapped out Ben Shanklin.
"You can't come any of this high and mighty stuff over me," said the district attorney, with an eye that flickered in spite of himself. "I don't know what you're talking about, but if you want anything, you'll have to ask for it in the right way, and maybe you'll get it and maybe you won't."
"Is that so?" fleered Jonesy. "We'll see about that. What have you done in Rafe's case?"
"We hope to land the murderer very soon. We have several clues. We——"
Jonesy banged his fist down on the table with a force that made the windows dance. "Shut up! You and your 'we's!' Rafe's murderer is that damn niece of Walton's, and you know it. You had her in the jug and you turned her loose. The evidence was insufficient to hold her on, you said. You said at that time you had evidence against Bill Wingo and expected to catch him soon. You haven't caught him, and we want to know what the evidence against him is. What is it? C'mon! Spit it out!"
"Now look here," temporized the district attorney, "I can't tell you——"
"You bet you can't," interrupted the angry Shanklin. "'Cause why?' Cause you haven't any evidence against him! The only evidence you've got is against Hazel Walton, and you've got enough of that to put her over the jumps."
"Lemme do the talkin', Ben," directed Jonesy. "Look here, Rale, either you tell us what evidence you got against Bill Wingo, or you issue a warrant for Hazel Walton's arrest. One or the other. Take your choice."
"Say, are you friends of Bill Wingo?" demanded the district attorney.
"You know better than that," snapped back Jonesy. "It's just that we're gonna know what's what."
"But what good will it do to rearrest Hazel Walton?"
"Then you haven't any evidence against Bill Wingo?" persisted Jonesy.
"I didn't say that. I——"
"If you can't tell us what the evidence is, we'll take it you haven't any. I knew there was some trick in it when you turned Hazel loose. You and your evidence against Bill Wingo! You lousy liar, you gotta get up early in the morning to pile us! You listen to me! You issue a warrant for that girl's arrest immediate!"
"I can't," denied the district attorney. "I haven't the power to issue warrants. No justice of the peace has yet been appointed to fill Driver's place, and the nearest judge is Donelson at Hillsville."
"Under the law," horned in Felix Craft, suddenly choosing his side, "when a felony has been committed, and there is reasonable cause for believing that the person to be arrested has committed it, that person may be arrested without a warrant."
"I thought you didn't want anything to happen to Hazel Walton," fleered the district attorney.
"I don't want her hurt, that's all. I haven't any objection to her being tried for the murder of Tuckleton. But I ain't going to have you haze her around. Understand?"
"There y'are," said Jonesy. "You don't need a warrant for the girl. All you have to do is to give your orders to Shotgun and Riley. They'll do the rest."
"But after turning her loose thisaway—" began the thoroughly frightened district attorney.
"You can rearrest her and have her tried on that butcher-knife evidence," insisted the stubborn Jonesy. "Just going by what she says herself, there's enough to fix her clock twice over. You dump her, Rale, and dump her quick."
"Or we'll fix your clock," inserted Tim Mullin.
The hapless district attorney cast his distressed gaze this way and that. But every eye that met his either was unfriendly or wrathfully hostile. Certainly there was no help for him in that room. The district attorney shuddered. He knew Jonesy and the rest of the Tuckleton outfit; knew, too, if he did not do as these men of violence demanded, that they would make him hard to find. On the other hand, if he obeyed them, Bill Wingo would as surely kill him. The district attorney shuddered again.
"What you shivering about?" demanded the sarcastic Tim Mullin.
The district attorney squared his afflicted shoulders and did the obvious,—chose the more remote of the two evils. "I'll send Shotgun and Tyler to Prescott's to-morrow," he said, rose to his feet and,—the door flew open, and, Jerry Fern, wild-eyed with liquor, stumbled into the room. The stage driver rolled straight to Felix Craft and pawed him. "Fuf-felix," he babbled, "I wan' shush-shome mon-money."
The furious Felix shook him off. But Jerry Fern was nothing if not persistent. He returned with bellowings.
The grinning faces of Guerilla Melody, Johnny Dawson, Shotgun and Riley looked in through the open doorway.
"Come along, Jerry," called Guerilla. "We been hunting you all over."
Jerry Fern was not in the least interested in coming along. He had another and very definite end in view. "Fuf-felix, gug-gimme shome mum-money!"
Felix bit off a curse. "Look here, Jerry," he said soothingly, patting the hysterical drunkard on the back, "you go home and sleep it off. You don't want to go whoppin' round this way at your age."
The district attorney, Jonesy and his two punchers stared. This was another Felix. The Felix they knew would have knocked the sot down.
"I wuh-wuh-wan' shush-shome mum-money," gargled Jerry, even as Billy's four friends pushed in through the open doorway.
"You come along with me," urged Felix, gently propelling Jerry toward the street.
Jerry braced his feet mulewise. "I wuh-won't! I wuh-won't! I wuh-wan' mum-money you promised me."
"I didn't promise you a nickel," said Felix, wrestling with his emotions. "But come along, and I'll give you some money if you're hard up."
"Huh-how much?"
"Plenty. I'll give you what you deserve." There was cream and butter in the gambler's voice, but there was grisly menace in his restless eyes.
"Gug-guve mum-me more than you gug-gave bub-before?"
"Yes, yes. C'mon!"
"Wuh-want mum-money now!" yelped the contumacious Jerry, "or I'll pup-put you in jail!"
At which Felix lost his patience and his head and gave Jerry the bum's rush through the doorway. Jerry skidded across the sidewalk and slid a yard on his nose. This annoyed him considerably. He sat up, supporting himself on a wavering elbow and squalled, "Yuh-you nun-needn't thuh-think I'm gug-gonna lul-lie for you nun-no longer! If you dud-don't gug-gimme plenty mum-money, I'm gug-gonna tell folks how yuh-you huh-held up the sush-stage yourself all dressed up in Bill Wingo's clothes sho you cuc-could throw the bub-blame on him!"
Most certainly then the gambler would have put a bullet through Jerry Fern had not Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler been too quick for him.
"Now, now, Felix, calm down," suggested Shotgun.
"He's a liar!" foamed Felix, struggling to jerk his gun arm free. "I never held up the stage! Bill Wingo did it himself! Ask Sam Larder!"
"Was Sam there, too?" said Riley, with fresh interest. "Here, Sam, wait a minute. What's your hurry?"
"Got to see a man," mumbled Sam. "Be right back."
"Stay a while," invited Riley Tyler.
Sam Larder regarded the muzzle of Riley's gun. "All right," said Sam Larder.
"Felix," said Shotgun Shillman, "I don'twantto plug you."
Felix Craft took the hint.
Johnny Dawson went out into the street and returned with Jerry Fern, who had forgotten his grievance against Felix Craft and wished only to sleep.
Shotgun Shillman looked at the district attorney. "Rale, this sort of puts a crimp in the notion that Bill Wingo held up the stage."
"It looks like it," admitted the district attorney, fumbling the papers on his desk. "Of course, we'll have to do some more investigating first."
"Before any investigating is done, we want Hazel Walton arrested," tucked in the malevolent Jonesy.
"All right! All right!" snarled the badgered Rale. "I'll have her arrested first thing in the morning."