Introductory material (continued 2)

For his hearers were laughing—laughing immoderately. They whooped, they pounded the table, they beat each other on the back till they sank exhausted into their chairs.

Jack demanded again to be told what they were laughing at.

"I'll leave it to anybody if this ain't the funniest thing ever happened in the territory," declared Sam Larder, when he could speak with coherence.

Felix Craft nodded. "Sure is. One on you all right, Jack."

"Aw, hell, you fellers can't make a monkey out of me."

"Bill Wingo seems to have done that pretty thoroughly," said Sam Larder with a fat man's giggle.

"I'm not through with him yet," snarled Jack Murray.

"Where's your sense of humor?" grinned Felix. "If you'll take my advice you'll walk round Bill Wingo like he was a swamp. Ain't you had enough?"

"I want my money back!" squalled the indignant Jack.

Sam Larder kissed the tips of his plump fingers. "The money's gone. Can't do anything about it now. Can we, Crafty?"

"Don't see how."

Jack sat up stiffly, his face red with rage. "You fellers mean to tell me you're gonna let me be robbed of sixteen hundred dollars?"

Felix Craft spread eloquent hands. "What can we do?"

"I thought you were friends of mine," disgustedly.

"We are," Sam hastened to assure him. "If we weren't we'd have called in the sheriff long ago."

"What's the sheriff got to do with it?"

"He's got a warrant for your arrest—for assault and battery, malicious mischief, and assault with intent to kill. Besides, the folks hereabout have got it in for you. I wouldn't be surprised if they hang you—give 'em half a chance."

"I know they would, damn 'em, but as long as they don't see me they can't lynch me, and they ain't likely to see me here in your house, Felix. But I don't like the idea of that warrant."

"I suppose not," said Felix. "A warrant follows you all over while a necktie party generally stays close to home. And no matter what the present sheriff does, I got an idea Bill won't forget that warrant any after he takes office— Yeah, I know, cuss him out by all means, but after all, what are you gonna do about it?"

"I didn't think he'd swear out a warrant," said Jack.

Felix tendered his mite. "There's a reward offered, too."

A warrant was bad enough, but a reward! Many people would be on the lookout to earn such easy money.

Jack Murray felt an odd and sinking sensation in the region of his stomach. "How much is it?"

"Only three thousand dollars."

"Only, huh. Only? Who's puttin' up the cash?"

"Riley Taylor put his name down for a thousand and Hazel's uncle, Tom Walton, added six hundred, and——"

"Why, that sixteen hundred is my own money!" interrupted Jack Murray.

"I expect so," continued Felix. "The other fourteen hundred was made up around the town."

"I suppose you'll tell me you fellers put it up yourselves," said the sarcastic Mr. Murray, who did not expect any such thing.

"Sure we did," said Felix. "We had to. Bill Wingo and Sam Prescott and Wildcat Simms brought the paper round, and we had to sign up. I'll be out a hundred if you're caught, Sam two hundred, Tip a hundred, Rafe the same, and that's the way it went. Even the district attorney chipped in his ante."

Jack Murray was too horrified to speak for a minute. While he wrestled with his thoughts Sam Larder spoke.

"You see, Jack," said he, "we had to sit in. If we hadn't, everybody would have said we sympathized with you, and we couldn't afford that—not with elections coming on. It would never do. Never. You see how it is, I guess."

"Yes, I see," said Jack bitterly. "I see all right. I see you've skun me between you. That damn reward will make me leave the territory for a while."

"Most sensible thing you could do," declared Sam Larder warmly. "We don't want to see you get into any trouble, Jack. You're young. Starting somewhere else won't be a hardship for you a-tall. We'll be sorry to lose you," he concluded thoughtfully.

"You ain't lost me yet," Jack snapped back. "I may pull out for awhile, but I'll be back. You bet I'll be back, and when I do come back I'll sure make Bill Wingo hard to find."

"Don't yell so loud," Sam cautioned him, "or you may have the opportunity sooner than you want it. You hadn't oughta come here, anyhow. You dunno whether you were seen or not."

"And you don't want to get a bad name, I expect," sneered Jack Murray.

"You expect right," Felix Craft said with candid bluntness.

"You see, we ain't been openly connected with any scandal yet," contributed Sam Larder, glancing at the clock, "and while it ain't daylight yet, still—" He paused meaningly.

"You want me to drag it, huh?" growled Jack.

"We-ell, maybe you'd better," admitted Sam.

"If fifty dollars would do you any good, here it is," said Felix, thrusting a hand into his trousers pocket.

Jack Murray spat on the floor. "T'ell with your money. I know who ain't my friends now, all right, and you can gamble I'm a-going right quick. See you later."

So saying, Jack Murray rose and left them. He was careful to close the door quietly. When he was gone, Sam grinned at Felix. The latter broke anew into laughter.

"His own money!" crowed Felix Craft. "His own money offered as a reward! If that ain't——"

But what it was, was drowned in the bellowing cackle of Sam Larder.

Billy Wingo removed his hat and stuck a brown head round the corner of the door jamb. "Hello, Hazel!"

"'Lo, Billy," said Hazel Walton, breaking another egg into the mixture of sugar and shortening in the yellow bowl. "Chase that sprucy chicken out, will you, there's a dear."

Billy did not misunderstand. He had discovered that Hazel called any friend "dear." It was her way of showing her liking, that was all. Nevertheless, the appellation never failed to give him a warm feeling that felt pleasant around his heart. He shooed out the marauding and molting Wyandotte and then sat down on the doorstep and regarded Hazel with approving eyes.

And Hazel Walton was undoubtedly good to look at as she stood there behind the kitchen table, stirring with a great spoon the contents of the yellow bowl. There were dimples in her pretty elbows that matched the one in her cheek. Billy could not see the ones in her elbows, but he knew they were there. Her eyes were downcast. He thought he had never seen such long lashes. The eyebrows were slim and perfect crescents. The round chin was made for the palm of a man's hand. But her hair,—that was what Billy admired most of all. It was so heavy and thick. There was a bit of a wave in it, too. And it always looked neat and tidy. There were never any "scolding locks" at the nape of her neck, as there were on other necks that had come under his eye. But he was not in love with her. Oh, no, not he. After his latest turn-down by Sally Jane, he had made a resolve not to fall in love again, ever. But there was no harm in going to see a girl. How could there be? Quite so.

"Your uncle home?" he asked after a cigarette had been constructed and lit.

"He'll be in for dinner," replied Hazel, with a swift flash of dark eyes. "And there I was hoping all along you had come to see me."

"I came to see you, too."

"Me too is worse, lots worse. Shows what an afterthought I am. Life's an awful thing for a girl."

"I'll bet it is. For you especially. This is the first time I ever came here that some one else wasn't here ahead of me. Usually a feller has to fight his way through a whole herd in order to say good evening to you."

Hazel put her head on one side and looked at him demurely. "They come to see Uncle Tom."

"Which is why they spend all their time talkin' to you."

Hazel smiled. "I feed 'em. I'm a good cook, if I do say it myself. Stay to dinner, William?"

"Not after that," he told her firmly. "I don't want another meal here long's I live."

"Just you let me catch you sloping out before dinner's over and done with, and I'll never speak to you again as long as I live. Besides, I want you to go fill the waterbucket for me in about ten minutes, and after dinner I need some help in the chicken-house, and Uncle is busy this afternoon. So you stay and be mother's li'l helper, Bill, won't you?"

"Putting it thataway," said Bill, "what can a poor man do?" Here he licked his lips cat fashion and added "Is that cake for dinner?"

"Of course not, you simple thing. Here it is half-past eleven and the cake not even mixed yet. I've got a dried-peach pie though. It's outside cooling. And there'll be fried ham, Bill, and corn fritters—the batter's all ready in that blue bowl. Lima beans, too, the last you'll see this year."

"I saw some young ones for another crop on the vines when I came through the garden," said Billy, who was no farmer.

Hazel smiled pityingly. "The frost will kill 'em before they get a chance to ripen. It can't hold off much longer. Do you realize it's nearly October, Bill? We almost had frost last night."

"Winter's coming."

"Election will be here first. Uncle Tom says you're sure to be elected. My, how important you'll be. Will you speak to a feller then, Bill?"

"I might. You never can tell. Seen Riley lately?"—elaborately casual.

"Saw him last Sunday. To look at him now you'd never know he'd been shot, would you? He's coming to dinner to-day—has some business with Uncle Tom."

"Yeah, like the rest of 'em. Fen dubs on the chicken-house. You said I could help you with that, remember."

Hazel nodded. "Here comes Riley now."

"No," said Billy, when Riley, having put his horse in the corral, made as if to step over him. "You stay right here. She's busy. She doesn't want a long, lazy lump like you clutterin' up her nice clean kitchen. Sidown on the step next mine. I don't care how close you sit."

"But I do," returned Riley, seating himself opposite his friend. "Last time I sat next you I lost my tobacco. Good thing my watch wasn't on that side."

"Shucks, that watch!" Bill said scornfully. "It was good maybe when your grandad had it. It must have cost him two dollars easy."

"Alla same, that's a good watch." Riley returned tranquilly. "It only loses thirty minutes a day now since I had it fixed. Say, Hazel, lemme throw this jigger out, will you? He's only sliming round to mooch a bid to dinner."

"I've asked him to stay," smiled Hazel, "but I don't remember saying anything about it to you."

"You didn't. I said I was coming. Here I am. What's fairer than that, I'd like to know? As I was sayin' before you interrupted, I saw you out ridin' last Sunday."

"Did you?" indifferently.

"Yeah—with that nice old Samson man."

"He's not old," Hazel denied vigorously, "and anyway, he's nice."

"He gives her lollypops," Riley confided to Billy, "and sometimes as much as half-a-pound of chalklet creams. Oh, he's a prince."

Hazel stamped a small foot. "It wasn't half-a-pound. It was—it was—" Her voice dwindled away.

"Say a pound," offered Billy, entering into the spirit of the thing, "and that's a generous estimate."

"Almost as generous as Samson," grinned Riley. "Hazel, go easy on the poor old feller. He can't afford to be givin' you expensive presents like that."

"Sure not," slipped in Billy. "Why, I don't believe Samson makes a bit more than fifty per cent on everything he sells."

"You two think you're smart, don't you. He's a nice man, Mr. Samson is, and he spends an evening here quite often."

"He never spends anything else," said Billy.

"Cheap wit," flung back Hazel.

"Almost as cheap as Samson," tucked in Riley.

Hazel's eyes were beginning to sparkle, and Billy seized his opportunity. "Here, here, Riley, stop it! Don't you lemme hear you making any more slurs against Mr. Samson. He's a friend of mine, and——"

"Oh, you!" cried Hazel, instantly regaining her good humor. "You're as bad as Riley, every bit. But you almost did get a rise out of me. I don't like to hear my friends run down."

"I didn't mean it—anything," said Riley, with well-feigned humbleness. "I like Samson, I do, the poor old good-for-nothing lump of slumgullion."

Billy shook a sorrowful head. "Honest, Hazel, I'm ashamed of you, robbing the grave thataway."

"I don't believe he's much over sixty, Bill," said Riley.

"Say sixty-one."

"He's forty-one, if you must know," Hazel said.

"I knew it was getting serious," mourned Billy. "They're exchanging birthdays. We'll have to find us a new girl, Riley."

"Not me. I'm satisfied. I'll stick to the last shout and a li'l beyond. Hazel's only fooling these other fellers. I'll make her the best husband in four counties, and she's the girl that knows it. Don't you, Hazel?"

"I'm not that hard up," replied the girl, with a smile that belied the harshness of her words.

"There, you hear?" chuckled Billy. "Now you'll be good, I guess."

"If you won't have me for the twenty-fourth time hand-running, why not take Bill here? He's a good feller, don't drink much, and he's got a heart of gold and a brand of his own—six horses and one calf at the last round-up. Besides, if all that ain't enough, he's gonna be our next sheriff. What more could a girl want?"

"She'd want him to ask her first," said Hazel, not a whit put out.

Riley turned to Billy in mock surprise. "Ain't you asked her yet, Bill? Shucks, whatsa matter with you? You make me sick, and she don't like it either. G'on—propose. I'm with you. We all are. And she expects it, can't you see? G'on, Tommy Tucker, sing for your supper."

But Tommy Tucker firmly refused to sing. Instead he seized the jibing Mr. Tyler by the ankle and skidded him off the step.

"Ow-wow! You poor flap!" bawled the erstwhile humorist, who had picked up a splinter. "Leggo my leg, or I'll roll you!"

But it was Riley Tyler who was rolled, and rolled thoroughly.

"You boys stop that!" directed Hazel, appearing in the doorway with a bucket. "Acting just like overgrown kids! You ought to be ashamed! Bill, I'll take that bucket of water now, and Riley, how about fetching in an armful of wood for your auntie?"

The two men started to obey, but stopped short in their tracks.

Billy cocked a listening ear. "Wasn't that a shot?"

"Down the draw," responded Riley.

"Near the Hillsville trail," was Hazel's opinion. "There goes another, and another."

"It's no hunter," declared Billy. "I can hear horses galloping."

Within five minutes they three saw a horse come galloping. He was tearing up the draw. The man on his back was half-turned about in the saddle, a rifle at his shoulder. He fired. They could not see what he was firing at. There was a bend in the draw concealing what was behind him.

But they could hear the galloping of the other horses quite plainly. The drum of the racing hoofs grew louder. Three horses swept round the bend in the draw. They were followed by two others. The pursuers uttered a yell as they sighted the house. The pursued fired twice without effect. There was a crackle of shots from the five horsemen. Apparently none took effect on either the pursued or his mount.

Billy regarded the pursued's mount with critical eyes. "That horse is about done."

"Yeah," acquiesced Riley. "Not another mile left in him."

It was but too evident that the horse was in distress. He rolled a little in his stride. Once he stumbled. The rider caught him up with a jerk. The man turned a desperate, determined face toward the house in the draw ahead of him. He was not fifty yards from the house. The draw was wide. He sheered his horse to one side. The animal staggered, crossed his legs and turned a complete somersault. The rider flew from the saddle, turned over in the air and struck hard on his head and right shoulder. The horse lurched to his feet and stood trembling. The man lay still.

The pursuing horsemen were coming along at their tightest licks, but it was Billy and Riley Tyler who were the first to reach the fallen man. Hazel, kilting her skirt in both hands, had run with them.

Billy stooped and turned over the sprawled-out citizen. The man, a square-jawed youngster with a stubby brown mustache, lay breathing heavily. His sun-burnt skin was a little white. Hazel pushed Billy to one side and sat down beside the young fellow.

"Let me," she said quietly, and took his head in her lap. "Riley, get me some water quick and the whisky bottle on the shelf over the fireplace."

Riley darted toward the house.

The five riders dashed up and flung themselves from their saddles. They were Rafe Tuckleton, Jonesy, the Tuckleton foreman, Ben Shanklin and two more of the Tuckleton outfit. Billy faced them, his thumbs hooked in his sagging belt.

"Caught him!" Rafe ejaculated with satisfaction, striding forward, his men at his heels.

"He don't look shot any," said Jonesy.

"Not a hole in him," Billy told them. "He'll be all right in a minute."

Tuckleton laughed harshly. "He's due for a relapse about a minute after that. Jonesy, get your rope. That spruce up there on the flat will be fine."

Hazel uttered a gasp of horror.

"What do you expect to hang him for, Rafe?" demanded Billy.

"Caught him branding one of my calves," was the ugly reply. "Reason enough?"

"I don't believe it!" cried Hazel.

"You know him?" Rafe inquired contemptuously.

"I never saw him before in my life. But he doesn't look like a rustler. He's got a good face."

The Tuckleton outfit was moved to mirth.

"A good face!" yelped the fox-faced Ben Shanklin, slapping his leg. "A good face! That's a fine one!"

"I expect we'll have to turn him loose, boys," Jonesy said sarcastically, returning from his horse, and shaking out the coil of rope.

"Oh, I guess we'll string him up all right," Rafe said with confidence.

"Don't let them, Billy!" begged Hazel.

Billy made instant decision. "'Nds up!"

Which command was backed by a six-shooter trained on the center of Rafe's abdomen. The way the Tuckleton hands flew upward and locked thumbs above the Tuckleton hat was gratifying. But the Tuckleton face was empurpled with rage.

"Of course," remarked Billy, "one of you may hit me, but if I go Rafe goes with me."

"It's all right, boys," Rafe assured his hesitating followers in a voice thick with anger. "Lemme argue this thing."

"There'll be no hanging here," said Billy.

"You bet not!" chimed in the voice of Riley Tyler from a position thirty yards distant on the right.

Riley had returned with the water and whisky. He had been sufficiently thoughtful to bring with him a double-barreled shotgun. He stood, the firearm held level with his hip, the blunt twin muzzles gaping at the Tuckleton outfit.

"Hazel," said Riley, "I wanna borrow this shotgun for a few minutes. I found it leaning inside the door. Ben, I wish you'd come over here and take this water and whisky to the lady. I'm stuck here, sort of."

"You go ahead, Ben," said Billy. "Don't lemme detain you."

Ben went slowly. He plumped whisky and bucket on the ground beside Hazel and then began to sidle casually toward the house.

"You come right back," urged Riley, gesturing with the shotgun. "The best place for you is right beside Jonesy. He's gettin' lonesome for you already, ain't you, Jonesy?"

Jonesy spat upon the ground. Ben slouched back to his comrades. While this byplay had been going on, Tuckleton had been talking at Billy.

"Would you mind repeating all that?" said Billy, when Ben had rejoined the group at Rafe's back. "I didn't catch some of it."

Tuckleton glared, his little eyes hot with rage. "I said that man's a cow thief and we're gonna stretch him!"

"But you said that at first," pointed out Billy. "And I said 'no' then. I haven't changed my mind."

"Since when have you been dry-nursing rustlers?" snarled Rafe.

"I don't know he's a rustler."

"I said he was, didn't I?"

"You said so, sure. But you might be mistaken."

"I don't make mistakes like that. And, anyway, all my boys here saw him branding that calf."

"We sure did," corroborated Jonesy. "Feller had a fire all lit, and was heating a running-iron when we jumped him."

"Did the calf have its mammy along?" was Billy's next question.

No one answered. Billy, however, did not remove his eyes from Rafe's face. The pause was becoming almost embarrassing when the five Tuckletonions made reply with a rush. Two of them said "Yes," and the other three said "No."

"There seems to be a difference of opinion," said Billy. "Don't you know whether the cow was along?"

"She wasn't along," declared Jonesy, sticking to his original assertion.

"But Rafe said she was," said Billy.

"I made a mistake," Rafe hastened to assure him.

Billy nodded in triumph. "Then you do make mistakes. I always knew you did. Funny how you and Jonesy saw things so different and all. Ben didn't see any cow either, and Tim Mullen and Lake did."

"Maybe I made a mistake too," said Lake sullenly, taking his cue from his employer.

"How about you, Tim?" persisted the questioner.

Tim looked furtively from his employer to his foreman and back again before answering.

"Speak up, Tim," directed Billy, "speak up. You did or you didn't. Yes or no?"

"Maybe I made a mistake," was Tim Mullen's final decision.

"They seem to have come over to your point of view, Jonesy," Billy observed dryly. "How about you? Did you make a mistake too?"

But Jonesy was not to be caught. "The cow wasn't along. I oughta know."

"You don't need to be so fierce about it. I was just askin' questions. If this feller had a fire and was heating a running-iron, I suppose he had a calf handy."

"I said we caught him with a calf," insisted Rafe Tuckleton.

"That's right, so you did. Was the calf hog-tied?"

"Naturally."

"And when you saw this stranger and jumped him, I suppose you came boiling along right after him?"

"Sure did." Thus Rafe Tuckleton.

"None of you stopped anywhere, huh?"

"Why, no, of course not. It wouldn't be reasonable, would it, if we were chasin' him, to get off and fiddle around?"

"No, it wouldn't be reasonable," admitted Billy. "Then if none of you got off to turn the calf loose, the calf must still be there—calf, fire and running-iron?"

Rafe looked a little blank at this. So did the others. Jonesy was the first to recover his spirits.

"Unless somebody else turned it loose," suggested Jonesy brightly.

"But the fire and running-iron will still be there."

"Of course they will," Rafe Tuckleton declared heartily. "Of course they will. But it just occurs to me that this man may have had a friend with him we didn't see. And that hog-tied calf and fire and running-iron—that last may have been a cinch ring, Bill—are evidence that'll hang this man. Jonesy, suppose now you ride back to the fork of that split draw south of Saddle Hill, where we saw this man's fire, and see that nobody destroys the evidence before we get there. Ben, I think you'd better go with Jonesy."

"No," said Billy decidedly. "Jonesy and Ben will stay right here."

"Remember," called Riley, "that this Greener is double-barreled."

"But see here—" Rafe began desperately.

"No see about it," interrupted Billy. "You'll all stay right here with us till Tom Walton gets here."

"But suppose somebody destroys the evidence," worried Rafe.

"I don't guess they'll destroy all of it," said Billy cheerfully. "You see, Rafe, we want to go with you to the fork of that split draw south of Saddle Hill."

Rafe's blazing eyes were fairly murderous. His men muttered behind him. But they made no hostile move. They realized that Rafe would never forgive them if they did. He would not be able to.

In the meantime Hazel had been alternately bathing the senseless one's forehead and dribbling drops of whisky between his teeth.

"He's coming round," she said suddenly.

The man opened his eyes, groaned, grunted, and sat up. He blinked his eyes rapidly several times and smiled pleasantly at Hazel.

"That was a jolt I got," said he. "Is there whisky in the bottle?"

He took a long and healthy pull, drove in the cork with the heel of his hand, wiped his lips and then seemed to see Rafe Tuckleton and his men for the first time.

"I seem to remember those bandits giving me the chase of my young life," he remarked, nodding his head. "I don't know why. I don't know why my unknown friend with the six-shooter and my other equally unknown friend with the scatter-gun are holding them up, but I'm glad they're doing it. Still, why? Why all this fuss and these feathers?"

"I don't know either," replied Billy, continuing to watch Rafe Tuckleton and his men like the proverbial hawk, "but we hope to find out. When a couple of friends of mine get here, we aim to find out."

CHAPTER SIX

CROSS-PURPOSES

"... and my name is John Dawson," continued the stranger, "and I'm on my way to visit my uncle at Jacksboro."

"Uncle! Jacksboro!" exclaimed Jonesy. "Pretty smooth and thin."

Tom Walton took no notice of Jonesy. "Where'd you work last?"

"Cross T in Redstone County."

Tom Walton nodded. "Turberville ranch? Left ribs cattle, left shoulder and jaw horses?"

"No, Tasker's," corrected John Dawson. "Left hip cattle and horses, no jaw brand."

"I know," said Tom Walton gently. "I knew it was Tasker's. I had to—be sure."

"Whatsa use of this gassing?" demanded Rafe. "I tell you, Tom, we caught this feller branding one of my calves, and I'll gamble he's the boy been doing all the rustling on your range too."

"You might be right. I don't know. But he tells a straight story."

"They all do. He's a rustler. Take my word for it."

"But he said in the beginning," objected Tom, "that he never was near that split draw."

"We saw him, I tell you!"

"All right. Soon as we eat, we'll all ride over to the draw and take a squint at the evidence."

"What for? Ain't my word enough?"

"I don't believe in gamblin' with a man's life," said Tom smoothly.

"Better be sure than sorry," said Billy.

"I won't be sorry none to hang him, the cow thief!"

"If I had my gun I'd argue that with you," remarked the prisoner pleasantly.

Rafe was understood to damn all creation. Oh, he was wild.

"Dinner!" called Hazel from the kitchen door.

"Too bad the sheriff ain't here," grumbled Rafe, on the way to the house.

"It is too bad," Tom Walton flung over his shoulder. "But I sent Roy for Sam Prescott. He'll meet us on the Hillsville trail."

Roy was the half of his outfit. The Walton ranch was a little one. Even in big seasons Tom could not afford to employ more than three men. In winter he let them all go. What little work there was to be done he managed to do himself. Small rancher though he was, Tom Walton was not a nonentity in the community. Folk trusted him. He was known to be honest.

After dinner the whole party, excepting Hazel, took horse and rode down the draw to the Hillsville trail. Rafe and his outfit would have ridden to the trail at once. But Billy Wingo carefully shepherded them from it.

"We'll keep off the trail," said Billy. "This Dawson man says he's never been off the trail till he got chased off by you fellers. We may want to examine that trail for tracks later."

The Tuckleton men muttered and swore, but they kept away from the trail. Soon after the party reached the vicinity of the trail, Roy, Sam Prescott and two of his men trotted into sight. Billy rode to meet them and turned them from the trail before they reached the spot where John Dawson said he had left it.

Sam Prescott listened in silence to the respective stories of Rafe Tuckleton and John Dawson. He seemed unimpressed by either. When he had heard all they had to say, he dismounted and examined the hoofs of Dawson's horse. Then he and Riley, closely followed by the others, rode along the edge of the trail scrutinizing the tracks upon its dusty surface.

"Here's where he says he left the trail all right," observed Bill. "You can't mistake the point of that near fore shoe. He says Tuckleton and his boys rode at him from over yonder, but if they chased him all-away from that split draw like they say they did, there wouldn't be a single track here. They'd all be on the other side of those cottonwoods."

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward said cottonwoods growing about a hundred yards to the south.

"Let's go over yonder where he said they came from," said Sam Prescott.

They all went over yonder. There they found the tracks of five horses. Not only that, but in a near-by depression behind some red willows they found where five horses had stood a considerable time.

Sam Prescott picked up in turn the hoofs of every Tuckleton horse.

"These five horses were standing here at least two hours," remarked Sam Prescott, staring at Rafe.

The latter said nothing. Really, there was nothing to say.

Led by Sam Prescott and Billy, the party followed the tracks of these five horses back to the trail and into the draw leading to the Walton ranch.

"You see," said Billy to Sam Prescott. "Those horses were coming on the dead jump. It's just like Dawson says. They were chasing him."

Although Billy's voice was loud enough for all to hear, none of the Tuckleton outfit took it upon himself to deny the statement. It may be said that they were growing a trifle discouraged.

"Le's go to the split draw," resumed Billy, when Sam Prescott had openly agreed with him. "Maybe we'll find that calf and the fire and the running-iron. But I expect that fire will be out by this time."

"I guess likely." Thus Sam Prescott, and turned his horse.

But they did not find the calf and the extinct fire and the running-iron. There was nothing in the split draw even remotely resembling any of these.

"Come to think of it," said Rafe, weakly attempting a last defense, "maybe it was another draw."

"Maybe it was," admitted Sam, turning to young Dawson. "Maybe it was, but I'm satisfied it wasn't. It was a good thing for you, young feller, that Billy Wingo and Riley Tyler were on the spot when your horse fell."

"I know it," responded young Dawson heartily. "I'm not forgettin' it. And maybe I can return the favor some bright and sunny day. Now if I can have my gun, I'll just have a word or two with the man you call Tuckleton."

"No words," said Sam Prescott firmly. "Not a word. This thing has gone far enough. There'll be no shooting round here. Rafe and his outfit are goin' home now, and you're riding with me back to Tom's ranch. And to-morrow morning I'll see you off to Jacksboro. Rafe, I don't want to hurry you——"

Rafe Tuckleton and his outfit took the hint.

"And you mean to tell me they can get away with a deal like that?" demanded John Dawson.

Sam Prescott smiled wearily. "What could they be arrested for—always supposing you could get the sheriff to arrest 'em, which he wouldn't."

"Well——"

"There y'are. Of course you could call it attempted assault. What's that? Under the statute, a week in jail. And who'd convict 'em?"

Tom Walton laughed bitterly. "You don't know this county, Mr. Dawson. Anything can happen here."

"Seemingly it can," said Mr. Dawson in frank disgust.

"You see," said Rafe, "I'd figured we'd have to find somebody to lynch for rustlin' so that infernal Tom Walton wouldn't be suspectin' us alla time. Shindle ran across this Dawson party in Hillsville and guessed he'd fill the bill, he being a stranger and all."

"So Skinny rode ahead and let you know he was coming, huh?" queried Sam Larder.

"Yeah. Oh, damn the luck! Who'd have expected Wingo and Tyler to be at Walton's?"

"They did put a crimp in your plans, sort of," assented Larder.

"And now Tom Walton is more suspicious than ever," contributed Tip O'Gorman.

"I can fix that Wingo, though," snarled Rafe Tuckleton. "He'll never get elected sheriff now."

Tip smiled. "Won't he?"

"No he won't he!"

"That's just the thing will cinch his election. I'm gonna play it up strong in the campaign."

"What! Why, he tried to show us up!"

"And succeeded in doing it, according to your tell. That's all right; Rafe, you were a little too raw, you know. I've cautioned you about being more careful. You wouldn't take advice and you'll have to take your medicine—this time. I'll explain matters to Bill, where you stand and everything. You'll find it won't happen again."

With which Tuckleton was forced to be satisfied.

That night Tip O'Gorman had a long talk with Billy Wingo. Tip did not tell him all he knew, by any means. Such was not his custom. To understand Tip one had to do a deal of reading between the lines. But when Tip went home, he carried with him the belief that Billy understood perfectly the desires and aims of the county machine and would be a willing worker.

Billy sat looking up at the ceiling for quite a long time after Tip was gone. Finally he laughed silently.

"Tip, you're an old scoundrel," he said aloud, "but I can't help liking you, just the same. I hope I don't have to step too hard on your toes."

CHAPTER SEVEN

RAFE'S IDEA

"Tell you what, Jonesy," said Rafe, "this ranch needs a mistress."

Jonesy laughed as at a pleasantry and continued to talk of the mischance in the matter of young Dawson.

"I mean it," interrupted Rafe, wagging his head. "I'm tired of living single."

"Well," said Jonesy, "you can always get some petticoat to live with you for a while."

"I don't mean a floozie. I mean a sure-enough lady like."

"Oh, one of them, huh? I dunno, Rafe. I married a good woman once, and take it from me they sure cramp a feller's style."

"It depends on the woman. There are women and women. If a feller is careful who he picks, he don't run a bad chance. Me, I got my eye on young Hazel Walton."

Jonesy looked his astonishment. "Her?"

"Why not?"

"After this Dawson business?"

"Why not?"

"She wouldn't look at you."

"Don't you fool yourself. Why wouldn't she look at me, I'd like to know? I got money. She could wear good clothes and have help in the kitchen. What more could a woman want?"

Jonesy shook his head. "This Dawson business has queered you there, and you can bet on it."

"Oh, that's easy explained—to her."

"H-m-m-m, well, maybe so. I dunno, she looks to me like one girl who knows her own mind. And there's Tom Walton who don't like us, either. You gotta think of all these things."

"I have. The more I think of it, the more I think she'll do."

"Funny you never noticed it before. She's been around with her uncle several years now."

"I never even gave her more'n a short look till I seen her holding that Dawson man's head in her lap, and then stickin' up for him the way she did. I tell you, she looked mighty handsome."

"She's a lot younger than you."

"What's a few years between man and wife? Besides, I ain't so old. I ain't forty yet."

"You will be next year, and I'll bet she ain't twenty yet."

"She'll last all the longer."

It was mid-morning next day, when Hazel was making butter, that a rap sounded on the kitchen door.

"Come in," she called continuing to turn steadily the handle of her box churn.

It was Rafe Tuckleton who opened the door and walked in. Hazel's eyes narrowed at sight of the man. Rafe Tuckleton! What on earth did he want?

"Uncle's out," she said shortly.

"I didn't come to see him," explained Rafe, with a smile he strove to make ingratiating. "I came to see you."

"I don't know what you can want to see me about."

"I have my reasons," said Rafe vaguely.

Hat in hand, he started to sidle to a chair.

"Don't they have any doors where you live?" Hazel inquired sharply.

"Oh," Rafe wheeled hastily and closed the door. He set a trifle to the young lady's account. He was not accustomed to being talked to this way. The snip!

He gained the chair at last, sat down, crossed his legs and crowned a sharp and bony knee with his hat.

"Yeah," he intoned, pulling one horn of his crescent-shaped mustache. "I come to see you." It never occurred to him to offer to turn the churn-handle for her. In his estimation women were made for the especial comfort and delectation of men. Why put oneself out? Quite so.

Hazel continued to turn the handle in silence.

"Makin' butter?" was Rafe's next remark.

"Not at all," Hazel replied sweetly. "I'm washing blankets."

As humor it was not subtle. But neither was the man subtle. He laughed aloud and slapped his knee.

"Pretty good. Got a tongue in your head, ain't you?"

Again he pulled his mustache and favored her with what he conceived to be a most fetching leer. He succeeded in making her yearn to hurl the churn at him.

"You've seen me," she said suddenly, raising her dark eyes to his face. "Why not move right along?"

"That's all right," he said easily. "You're only mad at me account of that business the other day. Nothing at all, that wasn't. Just a li'l mistake. We all make them. You mustn't hold it against me."

"But I do hold it against you!" she cried vehemently. "You tried to murder him!"

Rafe raised a bland hand, palm outward. "Not a-tall. You've got it all wrong. I might have known you would. Women never do get things straight."

"I got this straight all right, and you might as well know I haven't a bit of use for you, and I don't want you in my kitchen. So there!"

"Now listen, li'l girl," he said persuasively. "You don't understand me a-tall, I tell you. I may look hard—a rough diamond but I'm the pure quill underneath, and I like you."

Hazel was so surprised that she stopped churning. She stared at him, saucer-eyed, her mouth open.

Rafe nodded his head at her. "Yeah, I like you. I have liked you a-uh-long time. And I've got a proposition to make you. How'd you like to marry me?"

Hazel's expression registered immediate distaste. "I wouldn't like. Not for a minute. No."

Rafe considered it necessary to explain matters more fully. "I mean marry me all regular and go to live at my ranch. You wouldn't have to work hard. You could have the washin' done and have help in the kitchen. I'm a mighty easy feller to get along with too, once you get to know me."

"I don't want to get to know you!" Hazel had resumed her churning, but her negation was no less decisive.

"I'd be good to you. Give you all the dresses and fixings you want—in reason. Say, I'd even have one of these cabinet organs packed in for you. New furniture, too—in reason. I'll be generous. I've got money, and I'd sure be willing to spend it on a girl like you."

"You needn't bother."

He removed his, hat from his knee, uncrossed his legs and dropped the hat on the floor. He propped his hands on his knees and surveyed her, his head on one side.

"You don't know what you're refusing," he told her. "Marry me and you won't have to work like this. Nawsir. I'm a rich man, I am. Here, let's talk it over."

He rose to his feet and came toward her. She promptly reached behind her and possessed herself of the singing kettle.

"If you touch me," she said hysterically, "I'll douse you with boiling water!"

"There, there," he said, with a light laugh, "I didn't mean to scare you. Set the kettle down, there's a good girl."

But the good girl had other ideas. "You get out of here. I don't want you around."

Her show of temper caused his own to flare up. "There's no use for you to get mad. None a-tall. You act like I'd insulted you instead of doing you a honor."

At which her sense of humor came to her rescue and she laughed in his face. He picked up his hat and faced her, scowling.

"I ain't mad," he told her. "Not a bit. It don't pay to get mad with a woman. But I want you to know I'm comin' back for another answer. I ain't satisfied you mean 'no.' And, anyway, I want you, and I'm gonna have you. That's all there is to it. You think it over."

He nodded stiffly, still scowling, and started toward the door, but paused with his hand on the latch. When he turned and came back to the table, she instantly retreated to the stove and laid her hand on the kettle.

"You needn't go to pick up that thing," he said, both fists clenched on the tabletop. "I ain't gonna hurt you. I want to know something. Billy Wingo comes here, doesn't he?"

"He comes—yes. Why not?"

"You like him?"

"What's that to you?"

"Do you like him?"

"He's a friend of mine."

"A girl don't flush up that way over a friend. I know. And I've heard, too. They say you like Bill Wingo a lot. They say you were going with Nate Samson till you met Bill. Is that right?"

"It's none of your business."

"Lemme tell you something, young lady. Don't you think for a minute that Bill Wingo feller can give you one tenth what I can. Just because he was elected sheriff last week don't signify. Yours truly is the dog with the brass collar around here, and don't you forget it. You marry Bill, and you'll regret it."

"If I marry you, I'll regret it,—that's sure."

"Not a bit of it. I'm ace-high in the county now, and I'll go higher in the territory. You can't keep me down. I'll make money, more'n you can shake a stick at. You needn't think you'll have to live on a ranch all your life. Within three years after you marry me I'll take you—yes, I'll take you to Hillsville to live where you can see folks all you want. You know Hillsville has almost three thousand people. You wouldn't be lonesome there. I——"

"It's no use talking," she interrupted, taking care not to remove her fingers from the kettle. "I wouldn't marry you or anybody else of your crowd, not if he was the last man on earth."

"'My crowd!' What's the matter with my crowd?"

"Your crowd! Yes, I'd ask, I would! What do you suppose I mean? The gang that runs this county, that's what I mean! The gang that has a finger in every crooked land deal and cattle deal, the gang that cheats the Indians on the government contracts. Yes, and if it hadn't been for your gang and for what they've done to the morals of Crocker County, you wouldn't have dared to try and lynch young John Dawson the way you did! Let me tell you something: The new sheriff will show you a thing or two. He is honest!"

"Is that so? Honest, is he? You know who elected him, don't you? We did, and we own him, body and soul and roll. He'll sit up and talk when we tell him to, and he will lie down and go to sleep when we tell him to; and if he don't, he's mighty liable to run into a spell of bad health. Not that we'll want him to do anything he shouldn't. Not us." Thus Rafe Tuckleton, realizing his temper had carried him away and he had said too much by half, thinking it well to right matters if he could, continued hurriedly:

"Those cattle deals you spoke of and the government contracts weren't crooked a-tall. Just straight business, but of course the fellers we got 'em away from are riled up and bound to talk. Naturally, naturally. But don't you get the notion in your head that everything wasn't all right. Everything was perfectly straight and aboveboard, you bet. Shucks, of course it was. I could explain it to you mighty easy, but it would take a lot of time and whatsa use? Politics ain't for women, or business either, for that matter. You better forget what you've heard about our crowd. It's just a pack of jealous lies, that's all, and if you'll tell me the name of who told you anything out of the way about us, I'll make him hard to find."

"I know what I know," said the stubborn Miss Walton. "You can't fool me! Not for a minute! And I've listened to you long enough! You get out of here and don't you come back! Flit!"

She swung the kettle from the stove. Rafe Tuckleton sprang back two yards. His temper had again gained the ascendancy. He was so mad he could have beaten her to a frazzle. But there was not a club handy, and moreover the lady had, by way of reinforcing the kettle, slipped a butcher knife from the table drawer.

"All right," gritted Rafe, and turned around from the door to shake his fist at her. "I'll get you, you li'l devil! You needn't think for a minute you can get away from me by marrying some one else. I don't give a damn whether it's Bill Wingo or who it is! Within a week after you get married, you'll be a widow! A widow, y'understand! I'll show you!"

He went out, slamming the door. Hazel made haste to run around the table and drop the bar in place. Then she went to the window and watched the man cross to the cottonwoods where he had tied his horse.

She uttered a sharp "Oh!" of disgust as he jerked at the horse's mouth and made the animal rear. He brought it down by kicking it in the stomach.

"What a beast!" muttered she, with a shudder. "What a cruel beast that man is."

Not till Rafe rode away, quirting his mount into a wild gallop, did she return to her churning. She found the butter had come, and she removed the elmwood dasher and poured off the buttermilk. She put the butter into a long bowl full of water and began to wash and knead it, but not with her accustomed briskness. She was thinking of what Rafe Tuckleton had said. He would come again, the brute. She did not want him to. He had made her afraid.

She shivered a little as she poured off the water in the bowl and refilled it from the water bucket behind the door. She had no desire to marry anybody yet. She supposed she would some time, of course. All girls did eventually. But he would have to be some nice boy she loved. She guessed yes.

At that very moment a certain nice boy was riding up the draw toward the Walton ranch. He met Rafe Tuckleton riding away. Rafe gave him a nasty look. The nice boy smiled sweetly and pulled his horse across the trail. "Why all the hurry-scurry this bright and summer day?"

It was not a bright and summer day. It was late fall, the clouds were lowering darkly and there was more than a hint of winter in the air.

Rafe Tuckleton pulled up with a jerk and a slide. "What do you want?"

"I don't know yet," was the reply, delivered with still smiling lips but accompanied by a look as chilling as the day. "You been at Walton's?"

"Yep, I have. Not that it's any of your business."

"Maybe you're right. Let's go back and make sure."

Rafe's blazing rage was so augmented by this naïve suggestion that his native prudence was almost overcome by the sharp impulse to argue the matter. But almost is not quite. His coat was buttoned, and his six-shooter was under his coat. Bill Wingo's six-shooter was likewise under its owner's coat, but the coat was unbuttoned and—Rafe recalled another day, a day when he had held his hands above his head while the muzzle of Wingo's gun gaped at his abdomen. That had been a quick draw on the part of Billy Wingo. Uncommonly quick. What happened once may happen again. This is logic.

The logician spat upon the ground. "Because you're elected sheriff now, you needn't think that you can boss everybody in the county."

"But I ain't trying to boss anybody," denied Bill. "I'm only askin' a favor of you, only a li'l favor. And I'm hoping you'll see it that way. I don't want any trouble with you, Rafe," he added, "or with anybody else."

Rafe hesitated. He stared into Bill's eyes. Bill stared back. Rafe did his best to hold his eyes steady. But there was something about that gray gaze, something that seemed to bore deep down into that place where his sinful soul lived and had its being. The Tuckleton eyes wavered, veered, came back, clung an instant, then looked away over the landscape.

"Turn your horse, Rafe," said Billy Wingo in a soft voice.

Rafe Tuckleton turned his horse. They rode back to the Walton ranch in silent company. Dismounting at the door, Billy was careful to keep his horse between Rafe and himself.

Billy looked across the saddle at Rafe. "You better knock at the door, feller."

With extremely bad grace, Rafe obeyed. Following the knock, a window curtain was pulled aside and Hazel looked out. She nodded and smiled at Billy. The curtain dropped. Billy heard the grating of the bar as it was withdrawn from the iron staples. The door had been barred, then. Why? Was Rafe indeed the qualified polecat Billy had half-way suspected him of being when he meet him hurrying away from the Walton ranch? But Hazel's smile had been natural as ever. Bill took comfort in that fact.

The door opened. Hazel stood wiping her damp hands on her apron.

"'Lo, Hazel," said Bill. "Everything all right?"

Hazel smiled again. She did have beautiful teeth. There was the fetching dimple too.

"Why, of course everything's all right," she told him. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Bill noticed that she did not look at Rafe Tuckleton.

"Here's Mr. Tuckleton," said he.

"I see him," shortly.

"And—you're—sure—everything's—all—right?" Bill drawled in a lifeless voice.

"Of course I'm sure."

"And—you're—sure everything—has—been—all—right—all day?"

Hazel nodded. "Of course it has. Won't you come in, Billy—before the kitchen gets all cold?"

"I'll put the li'l horse under the shed first. He's kinda warm. Rafe, don't lemme detain you. You seemed all in a rush when I met you."

Rafe Tuckleton lingered not.

Billy Wingo led his mount under the shed and returned to the house. Hazel was pouring off the washing water when he entered the kitchen.

"What made you bring Tuckleton back?" she asked pouring fresh water over the butter.

"I met him coming away from here, and I didn't like the way he looked. I thought maybe—" He let it go at that.

"He was here for a while," said Hazel, bringing her bowl to the table and beginning again to knead the yellow mass of butter. "I don't like that man."

Billy was at the table instantly. "Look here, Hazel——"

"Look here, Billy," she mimicked, lifting calm black eyes to his face. "Don't you go fussbudgeting. I'm quite capable of managing my admirers."

"Admirers! Him!" gasped Wingo.

"He proposed to me. I turned him down."

"Shows your good sense," said Billy, going over to the chair lately vacated by Rafe Tuckleton and sitting down. "But I'd like to know what he's thinking of, the old jake."

Her amused eyes sought his. "Am I such a poor match as that?"

"You know what I mean," he grumbled. "He's got no right proposing to you, no right a-tall. Why, he's old enough to be your father."

"So he is. Do you know, I never thought of that?"

"You're foolin' now," grunted Billy. "Tell you, Hazel, what you want is some young feller with property and all his teeth."

"I don't want anybody," she declared, "young or otherwise. Billy, you're sheriff now—" she continued, changing the subject.

"Not yet," he interrupted. "I don't take office till the first of the year."

She nodded. "I understand. And I want to ask you a question. It's—it's—you will say it's none of my business, I expect."

"Anything's your business you want to ask questions about. Fly at it."

"Who elected you sheriff, Billy?"

He regarded her in some surprise. "The voters."

"I know, but who manages the voters?"

"You mean the party machine?"

"That's it. Well now, Bill, suppose the machine put a man in office, would he have to do what the machine told him?"

"He would, if he was that kind of a man."

She straightened and gave him a level look. "Billy, they say the gang that runs this county elected you sheriff."

"Who's they—Rafe Tuckleton?"

"Never mind who. What I want to know is do you have to do what that gang tells you to do?"

"I don't have to. Has anybody been saying I'd have to?"

"I—you hear rumors sometimes, Billy. Will you have a free hand, then?"

"So far as my powers extend, I will," he said.

"And you'll use it?"

"I'll use it," curiously.

"Is—is that quite safe?"

"Safe?"

"Safe to antagonize the gang?"

"It may not be safe for the gang."

Hazel raised a great gob of butter in her two hands and squeezed it out slowly between her fingers. "Couldn't you give 'em their way, sort of? Not in everything. I don't mean that. But just enough to keep 'em good-natured?"

His curiosity changed to blank amazement. "You know what you're asking, I suppose," he said coldly. "I thought you didn't like Rafe Tuckleton?"

"I hate him," was her simple statement. "But I—I'm afraid."

"Afraid? How afraid?"

"Afraid for you."

"Why for me?"

"Because—oh, it's so hard to explain!" she almost wailed. "You misunderstand me so. You think I'm asking favors on their account!"

He believed he detected a sob in her voice. This would never do. Couldn't have Hazel crying.

"If you'd only explain," he suggested soothingly.

"Well," she said, her hands busy in the butter, "Sally Jane Prescott was over here yesterday, and she said what a darn good thing your election was for Crocker County; how you'd reform it and all that, and how you'd surely put out of business the gang that's running it now. I agreed with her, of course, but I never really realized till—till later what it might mean to you."

She paused. He awaited her pleasure. After a minute's silence she continued.

"You see, Billy, you've been pretty nice to me—uncle and me. And you've come to be sort of a—sort of a friend—kind of and—and I—we don't want to see you hurt," she finished with a rush.

"So that's the reason you think I'd better go easy on the gang."

"It will be safer. You don't have to be too open about it. You can arrest the people the gang doesn't care anything about."

"That would be hard on the people, I should say."

"It's better than running into danger all the time. I tell you, Billy, as true as I stand here this minute, if you try to fight the gang, you won't last out your term."

She clasped her hands and regarded him piteously. When a pretty girl clasps her hands and regards you piteously, what are you going to do? Right. You can't help yourself, can you? Neither could Billy.

But when he had kissed her three times on the mouth she pushed him away and cried distractedly. "You mustn't! You mustn't! You don't know what you're doing!"

"Oh, yes, I do," he assured her and seized her buttery hands. "We'll be married to-morrow!"

At which she whipped her hands from his grasp and put the table between them. "No! Go over there and sit down!"

"I won't! I love you! And you love me!"

"I don't," she stormed.

"What did you kiss me back for then?" he demanded triumphantly. "You did! You know you did! I felt you!"

This was true. But she continued to keep the table between them, despite his efforts to come around to her side.

"You go over there and sit down—please!" she begged. "Please, please, pretty please!"

He went slowly. He sat down. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and teetered his heels on the rowels of his spurs.

"Look here, Hazel," he complained, for he was feeling most ill-used, "I don't understand this a-tall. You lemme kiss you three times and then you shove me away, and when I ask you to marry me, you run behind the table. What did you let me kiss you for if you don't love me?"

"I couldn't help myself. You were so quick."

"You kissed me back, too. Don't forget that."

"It was a mistake, all a mistake. You don't love me."

"You don't know a thing about it. I do love you. And you love me, you know you do."

But by this time she had regained complete control of herself. "I don't know anything of the kind. Let's forget it."

As if he could forget the pressure of her soft lips! Why, for another such kiss he would cheerfully have fought a grizzly. For that's the kind of a kiss it was.

He shook his head. "I can't forget."

Her poor heart almost choked her at the words. She wanted him to kiss her again, and keep on kissing her till she told him to stop. How wonderful that would be! But she stifled the desire with an effort of will that turned her cheeks white.

"You must forget," she told him, her chin wobbling.

"Tell me you don't love me, and I'll do my best."

"I don't—" she began and paused. To save her life she could not tell this man the contrary of what every fiber of her being was proclaiming. She could not. She compromised. "I don't know," she said tightly. "I don't know."

"But I know," objected Billy. "You just give me a——"

"No," she interrupted, "don't plague me, Billy, please don't. Just—just don't ask me again, that's all."

"Is there anybody else?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "No one."

"Then I've got a chance."

But at this she took fright anew. "You mustn't think of it! You mustn't! I can't marry you now, Billy."

"Now? All right, some other time."

He stooped over as though to pick up something from the floor. Apparently he overbalanced himself, for he fell forward on his hands and knees. When he picked himself up he was within arm's length of Hazel. He reached out two triumphant arms and swept her against him. A bare instant she struggled desperately. Then with a sigh she relaxed and put up her mouth to be kissed.

"There, there," he said later, his lips pressed against her hair, "I knew it would be all right once you let yourself go."

She lifted her body slightly in his arms. "Tell me you love me, dearest."

Then when he told her, she asked, "How much? More than anything else in the world? Are you sure?"

What ridiculous questions. Of course he was sure.

"Then you'll do anything I ask, won't you? Promise?"

She raised her head from his shoulder. "Promise?" she repeated, her warm lips on his.

Even as her arms tightened about his neck, he felt a tightening at his heart. And the latter was not a pleasant tightening. What did she mean? He loved her. God, how he loved her dark loveliness, but—what was she driving at?

"I can't promise till you tell what you want me to do."

"No, say you promise. Say it, say it."

But he would not, and she tried a new angle. "If I tell you, will you promise?"

"After you've told me," he persisted.

She sat up straight at this and took his face between her two arm palms.

"Billy, you know I love you, don't you?"

Looking into her eyes how could he doubt it.

She resumed. "You know I wouldn't ask you to do anything that wasn't for your own good, yet you won't promise the first promise I ever asked you to make."

He shook his head. "I can't."

"All right, I'll have to tell you then, Billy. I've heard things—about your job. I've heard that if you don't do exactly as the gang says you'll be kuk-killed. Oh, not exactly in those words, but I know what was meant. No, I shan't tell you where I heard it. It doesn't matter anyway. It was bad enough when you—I thought you were just a friend, but now—now when you're just everything to me, I cuc-can't bear to have you run any risks. Suppose something happens to you, what would I do? I'd die, I think. I'd want to, anyway."

At which he tried to kiss away her fears, but these were too deep-rooted for any such old-fashioned remedy as that to be of any avail.

"No, no, don't!" she protested, holding his head away by main force. "Not now. I'm not through yet. Listen. You'll fight the gang, I know you will."

He nodded a slow head. "I've got to. That's why I took the job of sheriff."

"I knew it," she said sadly. "But you can resign, can't you?"

"I could, but I won't."

"Not if I ask you to?"

"I can't. It would be lying down without a fight, and I've never done that yet. They'd say I was afraid of 'em."

"What does it matter what they say? You'll have me. We'll be together."

He put up a hand and stroked the tumbled waves of her black hair. "You wouldn't love me if I did a thing like that. You'd know I wasn't doing right."

She shook his face between her hands with gentle earnestness. "Yes, I would! I would! I know I would! Everything you do is just right! It would be right if you did it! Don't you see? What does anything matter so long as we have each other? Why do you have to risk your life? Oh, take me away, beloved, take me away and I'll marry you to-morrow!"

Because of what he did then, you'll say he did not love her. But he did, heart and soul and body, he loved her. Yet he put her resolutely from him and held her off at the full stretch of his arms. "There's more to this than you've told me," said he shrewdly. "You're scared. You're scared bad, but it isn't only the thought of the gang that scares you. There's something else. What is it?"

At first she would not tell him. He argued with her.

Finally she surrendered. "If you marry me and stay here, you'll be killed."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Is that all that's worrying you? We'll be married to-morrow, like I said."

"No, we won't—unless you take me away at once. No, don't kiss me. I mean it."

"Who told you I'd be killed?"

"I won't tell you."

"Tell me, and I'll make him come here and take back everything he said."

But the recollection of what Rafe Tuckleton and his outfit had almost succeeded in doing to John Dawson was too fresh in her mind. She did not dare tell Billy who had told her. She knew right well that if she did it would simply mean that her lover would be killed the sooner. The odds against him were great enough as it was.

She shook her head. Her eyes were bright with pure terror. "I can't tell you!" she whispered in agony of spirit. "I can't!"

"Was it Rafe?"

"I can't tell you!" twisting her head to escape his eyes.

"It was Rafe!"

"It wasn't Rafe!" she lied wearily. "It doesn't matter who it was. Oh, boy, boy, I don't dare marry you if you stay here. And I want to marry you, dear heart. I love you so! I love you! Oh, let's go away where we can be happy together! Why won't you be sensible and take the easiest way out?"

"God knows I would if I could, but I've got to play the hand out. I can't back down because there may be a li'l danger. You know I can't, and down deep you don't want me to. Listen. When you saw Jack Murray was out to bushwhack me, what did you do? Did you take the easiest way out and go on about your business, or did you jump right in and risk your life to save mine?"

"That was different," said she piteously, realizing that her cause was lost, but fighting to the last. "I did it for you. I'd be willing to die for you any time. Boy! I love you so hard, nothing else matters! Nothing! I'd lie, steal, cheat and fight for you! Oh, I'm shameless, shameless! But that's the way I love you! Why can't you give up everything for me the way I would for you and take me away and marry me?"

He was more than a little shaken. He had to summon all his resolution to withstand her pleadings. But he did more. He got upon his feet and thrust her down into his place in the chair and held her there with one hand for all she struggled might and main to wind her arms again around his neck.

"Listen to me," he said in a voice that trembled. "You don't know what you are asking me to do. If I did it, I'd be a dog, and I won't be a dog even for your sake. Marry me now and we'll see it through, you and I together."

She shook her head. "I—I can't," she whispered, and added with most human logic, "I don't believe you love me!"

At which he was moved to wrath. "It's you that don't love me! You listen here! I've asked you for the last time to marry me! You turned me down for some fool notion that isn't worth a hill of beans. All right, let it go at that. If ever you change your mind, you'll have to come to me and put your arms around my neck and tell me I was right to stick it out and you were wrong to want me not to. And if you don't do it, you're not the girl I took you for, and I wouldn't look at you with a telescope!"

She sat speechless. Without another word he stooped, swept his hat from the floor and went out. And, it must be said to his discredit, he slammed the door behind him.

A long five minutes Hazel was staring wide-eyed at the door. But he did not come back. She crept to the window. He was riding away down the draw. He did not look back. He passed out of sight around the bend. Hazel slid quietly to the floor and, her face buried in her hands, began to cry as if her heart would break.

For her little world had been shattered and she was left disconsolate among the fragments. Her man did not understand.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE NEW BROOM

Tip O'Gorman sat comfortably near the red-hot stove. The wind and the snow were blustering outdoors. It was what the people you yearn to kill call a bracing day in January. Actually the weather was such that the well-known brass monkey would have been frostbitten in at least one ear.

"It's a good old world." Tip sighed luxuriously and wiggled the toes of his roomy slippers.

Entered then one who changed the pleasing aspect of the good old world.

Judge Driver slammed the door behind him and untied the comforter that held the hat to his head. He removed the hat and buffalo coat, hung both on pegs behind the door, sat down and glared at Tip O'Gorman.

"You've done it now," exclaimed Judge Driver.

"What particular thing have you on your mind?" Tip queried equably.

"The sheriff you were so set on having elected! Oh, yes, says you, put in an honest man. Give the dear people a bone to chew on. And we took your advice and gave 'em their bone. And now look at the damn thing."

"What's happened to the sheriff?"

"Not a thing. I wish something would. It's what's happening to us that bothers me. Your fine li'l love of a sheriff is appointing his own deputies."

"The law gives him that privilege."

"You don't understand. I had picked two deputies for him to appoint—good safe men. You know that part was left to me, and I fixed on Johnson and Kenealy. This morning I mentioned their names to the new sheriff. 'I thank you kindly for your good intentions,' says Bill, or words to that effect, 'but I have already decided to appoint Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler.'"

"What?"

"I'd say what! I'd say hell, I would! Ain't it nice, ain't it funny, ain't it a pretty state of affairs? And what are you going to do about it?"

"Has he appointed 'em yet?"

"They're sworn in by now. He said he was expecting 'em any minute when I left."

"Shillman's the nearest," said Tip, glancing out of the partly frosted window pane, "and he lives forty miles away. I wouldn't count on those boys being appointed to-day. The storm may have kept 'em away."

"No such luck," growled the judge. "They're appointed, all right enough."

"Think so if it makes you happy," Tip said with a grin. "You're always such a pessimist."

"Here!" snarled the judge. "Don't you try to ride me, Tip. Say right out what you mean."

"I did," smiled Tip. "However——"

"Huh," snorted the judge, and put his feet on the table and began to pull at his lower lip.

"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler," murmured Tip musingly. "Hum-m-m!"

"Can't you think of anything to do but buzz like a bee?" demanded the irritated judge.

"There's lots of things you can learn from bees," protested Tip O'Gorman. "Maybe they do buzz some, but they gather lots of honey."

"We'll gather lots of honey, won't we?" snapped the other. "Both Shotgun and Riley are absolutely honest."

"And sharp—infernal sharp. Don't forget that."

"You take it easy."

"Spilt milk. We've overlooked a bet, that's all."

"Oh, that's all is it? I tell you it won't be all. I've got a hunch."

"Don't be superstitious. Politics is no place to play hunches."

"Apparently it isn't even a place to play common sense," said the judge. "If it hadn't been for you and your advice, we wouldn't be in this fix. You got us in. Now you get us out."

"You make me sick, Tom. You're getting to be a regular old granny. I tell you there is no rat in the hole. Suppose Bill does appoint two honest deputies. There is still Bill, isn't there? What are two deputies going to do against Bill's orders? And Bill will do what I tell him. Oh, yes, he will. You needn't shake your head. I can manage Bill Wingo."

"I wish I could be sure of that," worried the judge.

"You can be, old-timer, you can be. I'll manage Bill as per invoice, so you just bed your mind down and give it a rest. The bottle's in that cupboard, water's in the kettle, sugar's on the table, lemons in that box. Help yourself, make punch and be happy. Make enough for two, while you're about it. Your punch always did taste better than mine. I never could mix one to taste anything like. Lord knows how you do it. It's a gift. I hear you had a long run of luck at Crafty's last night."

Et cetera, words with end and amen. Tip O'Gorman was a skilful scoundrel. He knew precisely how far to go and he rarely employed a shovel. For even the dullest have a wit flash now and then.

He soon had the jurist purring.

To Billy Wingo that evening came Tip O'Gorman; a bluff, hearty, good-hearted Tip; a Tip that told funny stories and was a good listener himself and laughed at the right place. You've heard it all before doubtless and know the method: "A chair for Mr. Dugan. He owns the stockyards. His pockets are full of greenbacks. Let him win as much as he can and don't forget to tell Patsy to be waiting for him at the corner with the lead pipe when he goes out."

The old, old game, you see. Shabby, moth-eaten through and through, fairly obvious; but it works—most of the time.

"That's fine whisky, Bill," observed Tip, cupping an affectionate hand ground his glass. "No, no, tempt me not, brother. I know when to stop, if I am old and sinful. A pleasant fire, a comfortable room, a hot drink, and a cold and winter's night. What more can a man want?"

"What indeed?" said Billy politely. Inwardly he thought, "What the devil does he want?"

You will perceive that the game was not running true to form. For it to be successful, the victim must not become a prey to low suspicion.

"Sworn in your deputies yet?" Tip made casual inquiry.

"Not yet. Storm might have kept 'em away."

Then all was not lost. Tip began to feel a mental glow. He had been counting on the storm.

"Have you appointed 'em?" he put the dread question.

"Sure thing."

"Who are they?"

"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler."

"Oh, yes. Good men, both of 'em, but——"

Tip O'Gorman fell silent. He toyed with his glass.

Billy Wingo regarded him slantwise. That "but." "Yes?"

"But," continued Tip O'Gorman, "I know of better men."

"Yeah?" Rising inflection and a cocked eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"For instance?"

"Johnson and Kenealy."

"Why Johnson and Kenealy? Why not Shillman and Riley?"

"Shillman and Riley never have done anything for the party. Johnson and Kenealy have."

"What have Johnson and Kenealy done for the party?"

"For one thing, they have always voted right."

"That is one thing, but not a large thing. Other men have voted right too—frequently. Some too frequently; if you know what I mean."

"Politics, my dear fellow, is not child's play. We do what we must to win. But it doesn't pay to look a gift horse in the mouth too closely. He may bite." Tip O'Gorman stared at the new sheriff.

The latter smiled a long, slow smile. "There are muzzles," said Bill Wingo.

Tip dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Too big a horse and too many teeth," said he.

"Ah!" murmured Billy Wingo.

"Come, come, Bill, you're no fool. You know what I'm after. You know what you owe the party. Johnson and Kenealy must be taken care of."

"Must," observed Billy, "is the hardest word in the dictionary."

"Sometimes it means the most," declared Tip O'Gorman. "This is one of those times."

"Ah!"

There it was again, that irritating monosyllable. For the first time Tip O'Gorman began to experience a doubt.

"We expect you to appoint Johnson and Kenealy," he said bluntly.

"And if I don't?"

"Oh, you will—after you've thought it over."

"I thought it over after Judge Driver came to me. And I decided not to. I prefer my own men."

"Johnson and Kenealy will be your own men."

"That is a question." Billy sat back in his chair and made a church roof and a steeple with the fingers of his two hands. He raised lazy gray eyes to Tip's face. "That is a question," he repeated. "They may be my men and then again—" He ceased speaking, leaving the sentence unfinished. The church steeple became a gallows. "You see, I can't risk it," drawled Billy.

Tip O'Gorman carefully set his glass down on the table. "You must," he remarked softly.

"As I said before," murmured Billy, his drawl drawlier than ever, "must is a hard, hard word. But I'll tell you what I'll do, Tip," he continued in a louder, more cheerful tone. "You show me what 'musts' in the statutes apply to the sheriff's office, and I'll obey every last one of 'em. When I took office, I made oath to obey and support the laws, you know."

He smiled at Tip. The latter smiled back. "Lookit here, Bill," he said in his best and most fatherly fashion, "I like you——"

"I suppose that was why I was elected," interrupted Billy.

"Partly," was the brazen reply. "But there were other reasons, of course. We needed a good man to win, a man that was on the level, an honest man, a——"

"Not a crooked man, or a dishonest man, or a pink man, or even a man with purple spots. So you elected me. I'll take it as a compliment. Go on."

"A straight man doesn't throw down his friends," said Tip O'Gorman.

"Sure not," declared Billy warmly. "He'd be a pup if he did. I agree with you, Tip. We won't fight over that."

"You're throwing us down," insisted Tip.

"Now, we're getting down to carpet tacks," said Billy. "But who are 'us'?"

"The party."

"The party?"

"The party."

"But the party and my friends are not necessarily the same thing."

"We elected you."

"That doesn't make you my friends. Understand me, Tip, there are a lot of folks in the party I like and admire—a lot of 'em. But the folks I like and admire don't come to me and give me orders, and my friends don't either. Not that you've been giving me any orders, Tip. You wouldn't do such a thing."

"It's all right to ride me," said Tip, without losing for a minute his amiable smile, "but you might better leave off the spurs."

"I ain't riding anything to-day," averred Billy. "There's the bowl. Dip you out another glassful."

Tip O'Gorman did not accept the invitation. "I wish I could make you understand," he said slowly, crossing his legs and clasping both hands around a plump knee. "This is a serious matter, Bill."

"Sure it is," asserted Billy. "You're serious. I'm serious. He, she or it is serious. Outside of that, it's a fine, large evening."

"Lookit here, Bill, what's your game?"

"Game? What game are you talking about?"

"What do you want? What are you after, anyway?"

Billy made swimming motions with his arms and hands. "Paddle out, paddle out. You're over my head and getting deeper."

"Are you trying to give me the double-cross?" inquired Tip.

"Now why should I do a fool thing like that?"

"I don't know. I'm asking."

"What makes you think I'm giving you the double-cross?"

"The first favor I ever asked of you—the appointment of these two men."

"When I was elected, then, it wasn't intended I should have a free hand?"

"Free hand? Of course, of course." Tip was beginning to find the atmosphere oppressive. He passed a handkerchief across his beaded brow.

Observing which, Billy said affectionately, "It is hot in here. Shall I open a window?"

"Nemmine a window," Tip said. "Think a shake, Bill. Is it wise?"

"Wise?"

"You know what I mean."

"Not I," denied the cheerful Bill.

"You can't buck the party."

"There ain't no such word, but just for the sake of argument, why can't I?"

"It has been done, but——"

"Where are the snows of yesteryear, huh?"

Tip nodded. "Something like that."

"If I don't appoint your men and do appoint mine, what particular form of devilment would the party feel called upon to put on me?"

"Devilment," grinned Tip. "You don't know us."

"Backward and forward, sideways and from the bottom up. Don't you fool yourself I don't know you. I been looking over the situation a long time. It's been a liberal education."

"So that's it," murmured Tip. "Driver told me, but I didn't believe him."

"The judge sometimes tells the truth."

Tip O'Gorman sighed. He thought he saw what he would have to do. And he didn't want to do it. It meant one more mouth to feed, and one more finger in the pie.

"You understand, Bill," said he, "that it was always intended you should have your share."

"Nothing was ever said to me about any share," said Billy truthfully.

"We occasionally prefer to leave something to the imagination."

"It beats leaving it to the taxpayer," smiled Billy.

"Sure, sure."

"But my share you were speaking of, Tip," prompted Bill. "What is this share—large, small or indifferent?"

"That depends," replied O'Gorman cadgily.

"On the weather, or some one's generosity?"

Was there mirth or something sinister in the gray eyes? Tip O'Gorman couldn't be sure. But Lord, there was no cause for apprehension. He'd been making himself unnecessary worry. Bill Wingo was too easy-going and good-natured to hold out on the boys. He was just making a play for his legitimate share. That was only right. Not that Tip had intended in the beginning that Bill should have his legitimate share. These politicians!

"You see, Bill, it's thisaway," said Tip. "Some years the party makes more than other years, and——"

"And the years it makes the most," insisted Bill, "are the years I make the most. Is that it?"

"You get the general idea."

"But not the general idea of what I get," persisted the strangely obtuse sheriff. "What is the minimum I can expect?"

Tip did not relish being pinned down to cases in this fashion. He preferred generalities.

"The minimum," repeated Tip.

"And the maximum," suggested Bill. "I might as well know all the horrible details."

"From three to five thousand dollars," said Tip, watching his vis-à-vis closely.

Said vis-à-vis looked disappointed. "Small change," he remarked coldly. "Who gets the other nickle?"

"Your salary is two thousand," Tip told him reproachfully, "and three to five thousand above that makes five to seven thousand. What more do you want?"

"Whatever's right," declared the amazing Mr. Wingo.

"That's right—what I told you."

"What did the last sheriff get?"

"I told you it varied."

"I know you told me. Tell me again."

Tip O'Gorman shifted his position in the chair. He was being baited. He realized it now. A slow anger rose in his breast. But an admixture of dismay in the anger kept it from boiling over.

He continued to temporize. "Your slice will be worth while, well worth while. Leave it to us. You can trust me."

"Can I? I wonder."

"Meaning?" O'Gorman's face was cold as his heart was hot.

"I wonder. I do it now and then. Habit, I suppose. No harm in it, is there?"

"Lookit here, you don't doubt me, do you?"

"Unhand me, Jack Dalton! I may be poor—I may starve to death, but I will never be an old man's plaything. Better death than dishonor-rur-rur. Don't be so melodramatic, Tip. Who am I to doubt you? You? What a question!"

The fingers with which Billy Wingo then proceeded to make a cigarette were steady and sure in every movement. Billy licked the length of the white roll, smoothed it down and twisted one end. Tip O'Gorman did not know what to make of him. Or rather he thought he knew too well, which frequently amounts to the same thing.

"You'd better trust me," rumbled Tip.

"Be reasonable, Tip. You ask for trust and you give me a stone."

"A stone?"

"What else is three to five thousand bucks, I'd like to know. I'm no child, man. I've got my growth, and I've put away childish things, including all-day suckers."

"You must take me for one."

"Not you, not in a million years. But—" Mr. Wingo paused and looked up at the ceiling. His lips moved. He muttered of figures and sums.

Tip O'Gorman awaited his pleasure. What else was there to do?

"I think between nine and ten thousand is nearer the correct amount for li'l me," Billy said at last.

"What?" screeched Tip, fairly jarred off his balance at last.

Billy made his position plain. "Say ten thousand in round numbers."

"Ten thousand devils!"

"Not devils—dollars."

"You're crazy!"

"It's the least you can do," insisted Billy.

Tip O'Gorman made an odd noise in his throat. After making which, a dog would have bitten Mr. Wingo. Tip may have been a bad old man, but he was not a dog. He really dissembled his foamingly murderous rage very well indeed.

"I'll have to see the rest of the boys," said Tip O'Gorman, and he actually smiled.

"Why, no," contradicted Billy. "You won't. Why should you? Rafe and you are the dogs with the brass collars in Crocker County, and you wear more brass than Rafe, when you come right down to it. What you say usually goes without question."

"I never said ten thousand for a sheriff before," protested Tip.

"There's nothing like establishing a precedent. Don't be hidebound. This is the newer generation, and advanced age, you know; one that's advanced by jumps, if you could only be brought to realize it."

Tip held up an arresting hand. "Don't joke," he said. "I realize what the blessed age is doing, but doubling the ante this way is more than a jump—it's a mighty wild leap."

"It can be done," Billy said placidly. "What are impossibilities to-day become realities to-morrow. Q.E.D. P.D.Q."

Tip O'Gorman raised plump hands to the level of his ears. "I didn't think when I proposed you for sheriff," he remarked earnestly, "that I was proposing a road agent too. Oh, you burglar! I do admire a hawg. Yes, sir. But what can a feller do? Ten thousand goes. About those deputies—I don't suppose you'll have any objections, now that you've got what you want, to appointing Johnson and Kenealy?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I have—plenty. No Johnson and no Kenealy. Shillman and Tyler. Yes."

"No. You've got to earn that ten thousand."

"Bribery and corruption, Tip, is a serious crime."

"Bosh! You listen to me, young feller. We're buying you, body, soul and roll, with that ten thousand cases! You've got to do as we say. Hells bells, what do you think you are?"

"A stranger in a strange land. Damn strange, too. Tip, you're an old scoundrel!"

Tip O'Gorman's hand halted half-way to his armpit.

"No, no, Tip, not that," Billy warned him, keeping turned on the other man's stomach the gun that had suddenly appeared from nowhere. "Don't turn rusty in here. The carpet is new and so is the furniture. Go a li'l slow, or a li'l slower, whichever appeals to you."

Tip locked his hands behind his head. "Be sensible, Bill," said he calmly. "You can't hope to buck us, if that's your idea. You can't."

"Can't I? We'll see."

"What can one man do?" contemptuously.

"One-two-three. Three men. Three men can do a lot. Yep. I've seen it done."

"Have you?"

"I have. But I want to be fair to you, Tip. You'll notice I haven't removed your gun. I'll return mine where it came from—behind the waistband of my pants. Now turn your wolf loose."

But Tip O'Gorman merely smiled. "I thank you kindly," said he. "You mean well; but as you say, the carpet and the furniture are new. It would be a pity to spoil both them and the evening."

"You mean we'll go outdoors then?"

"We will not, but I will. You will stay here and, I hope, enjoy one good night's rest."

"One, huh? Do I hear you say one? I do. I get your meaning, thank you. So good of you. Don't get up. I would a tale unfold. Did you ever hear the story of Benjy and the bear. No? This is it. Benjy was out hunting one day and it happened the bear was out hunting too. For the bear was hungry, and the bear saw Benjy before Benjy saw the bear. And after the dust had cleared away and all, the bear was bulgy and the bulge was Benjy."

"Huh," snorted Tip O'Gorman, "what does that prove?"

"It proves that it's better to be the bear than Benjy. At least, that's the way it looks to a man up a tree. I made up my mind some time ago that if I got tangled up in a situation like that I'd be the bear and not Benjy."

Tip O'Gorman stared with an odd expression at Billy Wingo. "You have changed," he remarked with conviction. "I wonder——"

"Give it a name," begged Billy, when Tip failed to complete the sentence.

Mr. O'Gorman shook his bullet head. "No, I got other fish to fry."

He got up heavily and began to pull on his overcoat.

When he was gone, Billy Wingo crossed the room unhurriedly and barred the door. He threw a quick glance at the blankets nailed across the windows ostensibly to keep out the drafts. All tight. No one could look in.

"All right, boys," he said in a conversational tone. "You can come out now."

The door of an inner room opened. Two men emerged. One was a long, lean citizen with a long, lean face barred by a heavy grizzled mustache. The other was shorter, of equally lean build, and considerably younger. The older man was Shotgun Shillman, the younger was Riley Tyler.

In Riley's hand was a thin block of paper. A pencil stuck up behind his ear.

"Did you get it all?" queried Billy, sitting down in his chair and hunching it close to the table.

"Most of it," Riley replied. "All the important part, especially where he tried to buy you up. Gee, you've got him now. Send him over the road any time."

"But it's only Tip," said Billy, taking the block of paper from Riley and riffling through the scribbled leaves.

"Arresting him would sure throw a heap scare into the others," Riley grinned.

"And that is what I want to avoid," said Billy. "There's no use in scaring off the flock by downing one bird. We'll just file away Tip O'Gorman's remarks for future reference. We can afford to wait. Where's that Bible? I'll swear you boys in right away."

CHAPTER NINE

THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY

It was the next day that Arthur Rale, the district attorney, called on the new sheriff. He was a heavy-jowled, heavy-handed, heavy-bodied individual, with black hair, close-set eyes, and, what was curiously at variance with those heavy jowls, a long and pointed nose.

Billy Wingo was expecting the district attorney to pay him a visit. For Shotgun Shillman had been told that Tip O'Gorman, Rafe Tuckleton and Judge Driver had spent the morning closeted with that gentleman.

Billy Wingo was cleaning a Winchester when the district attorney knocked and entered.

"Si'down, Arthur," invited Bill, indicating a chair with the barrel of the rifle.

The district attorney returned the salutation gruffly. Billy smiled sweetly down at the rifle stock he was hand-rubbing. Mr. Rale stamped his feet, hung up his hat and coat and sat down heavily in the chair. Resting both fists on his knees, he fixed Billy with a hard eye.

"What's this I hear?" he wished to hear.

"I dunno," said truthful William.

"I hear you've appointed Shillman and Tyler deputies," Rale said accusingly.

"Seems to me I have done something like that," admitted Billy.

"You've got to cancel their appointments."

"Got to?"

"Got to."

"I must be gettin' deaf," drawled Billy. "Seems like I heard you say got to."

"You heard me right," declared Rale, with a vicious snap of strong, white teeth. "You cancel those appointments and put in Johnson and Kenealy instead."

"Everybody seems to want those two fellers," said Billy, wagging a puzzled head. "I don't understand it."

The district attorney leaned forward. His broad, flat face was venomous in its expression.

"Look here," he said harshly, "you like Hazel Walton, don't you?"

Whang! In that confined space the crash of the gun was deafening. The district attorney, coughing in the smoke, picked up himself and his chair from the ground. He had fallen over backward at the shot, struck the back of his head and now his actions were purely mechanical.

"Dazed you like, didn't it?" Billy queried in a soft voice. "You did hit pretty hard. Luck is with you to-day. I'll bet if you went down to Crafty's, you'd bust the bank and Crafty's heart."

Rale did not take the palpable hint. He sat down again and looked uncertainly at Billy Wingo. He had courage, this district attorney, the species of courage, you understand, that to function properly must have a shade the better of the break, that bets always on a sure thing and never on an uncertainty.

Rale had been knocked off balance mentally and physically. He did the wrong thing.

"You tried to murder me," he blurted out.

Billy shook a solemn head. "You're mistaken. If I'd tried to murder you, I'd have done it. Accidents will happen, though, even to the most careful fellers. Yeah. You were speaking of the Waltons, Arthur. I didn't quite catch what you said."

He gazed expectantly at the district attorney. It seemed to the latter that the barrel of the rifle was in a line with the third button of his vest. Certainly the muzzle looked as large as a mine opening. Was the rifle cocked? Billy Wingo's large hand covered the breech. Billy moved the large hand a trifle. Yes, the rifle was cocked. The district attorney's eyes strayed downward. At Billy's feet was a spent shell.

"Look here," said Rale, "if that shot was an accident, why did you flip in a fresh cartridge?"

"How do you know I worked the lever?" demanded Billy.

"Because the spent shell's on the floor between your feet."

"You've been reading those detective stories again. Arthur. It would look mighty bad for me if you were to pass out in here to-night. You're a big man and a heavy man. And the ground is frozen harder than rock. Bet I'd have to use a pick. I hope, Arthur, you're not thinking of doing anything to make me use a pick."