Introductory material (continued 3)

Billy had uttered these sinister words in a mild and plaintive tone. The expression of his countenance was even milder and more plaintive. The district attorney found it difficult to believe that he had heard aright. Yet he had heard the report of the rifle aright. There could be no mistake about that.

The district attorney sat rigidly erect. He cleared his throat. He wished his heart would stop pounding so hard. Odd, too, that it should seem to have moved out of its usual position to another that was already occupied by his windpipe. Breathing and speaking were rendered difficult. Quite so.

He cleared his throat again. "Wingo," he said, "are you threatening me?"

"Threatening you?" Billy said in a shocked tone. "Certainly not. Wouldn't think of such a thing."

The district attorney tried again. "Wingo, I don't know what to do with you. I——"

"Don't do anything," suggested Billy. "I'd feel better about it, too."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, I would. I've got a new job here, Arthur, and I guess it will keep me busy—busy enough, anyway. And how am I going to swing it and do justice to the taxpayers, if well-meaning fellers like you are alla time experimentin' with me?"

"Wingo," said the district attorney sternly, "stop this tomfoolery! Instantly! You have played the buffoon long enough."

"All right," smiled Billy. "I'll be good."

"That's better. Much better. Keep to that tone and we'll get along, we'll get along."

Again the district attorney cleared his throat.

"Lord, Lord," thought Billy Wingo, "what a foolish thing this man is!"

The district attorney picked up the thread of his discourse. "We can't have you upsetting our plans in any way, Wingo. We can't have it, and we won't have it. I order you to immediately cancel the appointments of Shillman and Tyler and appoint instead Johnson and Kenealy. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Billy in a weary voice, "I understand. I understand perfectly. You can go now."

"I'll go when I have your answer."

"Your mistake. You're going now."

So saying, Billy arose, lowered the hammer of his rifle to the safety notch and laid the weapon on the table. Then he raised himself on tiptoe and stretched luxuriously. His arms came down slowly. He turned a surprised gaze upon the district attorney.

"Haven't you started yet?" he said briskly. "Come, come, get a-going."

Even as he spoke he leaped with cat-like agility upon the district attorney where he sat in his chair and wrenched the right arm of that surprised gentleman around behind his back. With his left hand, despite the struggles and protesting roars of the captive, he removed a six-shooter from a shoulder holster and a derringer from a vest pocket.

"You must be scared of some one," observed Billy Wingo, as the derringer followed the six-shooter to a place on the table. "Arise, pushing your stomach ahead of you, and depart in peace."

But the district attorney was averse to departing that way. "You will regret this outrage!" he bellowed, his ripe cheeks and the veins in his neck swollen with passion.

"So will you," said Billy, twisting the man's arm ever so slightly. "You are in a serious position. If you'd only realize it, and be reasonable, we'd all be happier. I don't want to break your arm—unless I have to. Observe, Mr. Man, how easily I could do it."

So saying, he pushed the district attorney's arm somewhat farther up his back. The district attorney groaned. Billy eased the pressure. The district attorney began to curse. Billy, boosting him with his knee, assisted him toward the door.

With his left hand Billy withdrew the bar from the staple, opened the door, swung his right foot and kicked the district attorney out into a snowdrift. After him Billy tossed his coat and cap. Then he closed the door and shoved the bar into place.

"And that's that," said Billy Wingo.

CHAPTER TEN

A SHORT HORSE

"You took your own time about coming," grunted Rafe Tuckleton.

Dan Slike crossed his knees and stared at Rafe and Skinny Shindle. "I always take my own time," said he, in a voice as blank and expressionless as his ice-blue eyes. "Why hurry?"

"Because you should have hurried," nagged Rafe. "Y'oughta come when I wrote you last summer. This Tom Walton has gone on living all fall, and here it is January and he ain't dead yet."

"That's tough," sympathized Mr. Slike and wagged a belying foot.

Skinny Shindle, looking somewhat worried, went to the door, opened it and looked out into the short hall. Satisfied that the breed cook was busy in the kitchen, he closed the door and returned to his chair.

"It's worse'n that. Tom ain't the only li'l job I want you to attend to. There's the sheriff, Billy Wingo."

"That will be extra."

"Extra?"

"You haven't any idea I'm gonna do two jobs for the price of one, have you?"

"Well——"

"Well, nothin'. I ain't in the business for my health, you can gamble on that. If you're looking for charity, you're roping at the wrong horse."

"No, no, nothing like that," Rafe hastened to say. "I'll do whatever's right and fair. You can trust me."

Dan Slike shook a slow head. An amused twinkle lightened those blank eyes. "Oh, yes," he said. "I'm almost sure I can trust you. Yeah. Almost."

"What do you mean?" blustered Rafe Tuckleton.

"Folks I talk to don't generally need any dictionary," said Slike.

"Huh," grunted Rafe, content to let it go at that. "Anyway, you'll be well paid."

"I didn't come alla way from the Jornada just to hear you say I'd be well paid. Your 'well paid' and my 'well paid' might be two different things. Sometimes you and I don't talk the same language."

Rafe Tuckleton considered a moment. "Five hundred dollars apiece for Tom and the sheriff," said he, looking at Slike from beneath lowered eyebrows.

"We'll bargain for 'em separately," said Slike. "One thousand for Tom, payable in advance."

"No," denied Rafe. "Too much."

"Aw right," assented Slike cheerfully. "I'll be pulling my freight for New Mexico to-morrow. What you gonna have for dinner?"

"Let's talk it over. One thousand dollars is a lot of money for a li'l job like rubbing out Tom Walton."

"If it's a li'l job, why don't you attend to it yourself?"

"Oh, I can't. Impossible. Why, man, consider my position."

"Sure, I understand. You'd rather live than have Tom Walton kill you. Don't know that I blame you, Rafe. You always were a sensible jasper."

Slike's eyes dwelt on Rafe's face with tolerant contempt. The red color of Rafe's leathery cheeks was not entirely due to the heat of the cannon-ball stove. No.

"I'm not a gunfighter," disclaimed Rafe quickly. "Never was. That's your job."

"And I am a gunfighter. Always was. And it's my job. And I intend to get my price for my job. One thousand in advance, or the deal's off."

"I'm not a rich man," protested Rafe. "I lack ready money. So does Mr. Shindle here. Say five hundred now and the rest in the spring."

"I know how rich you are," said Slike. "And I can make a fair guess how you and Mr. Shindle stand for ready money. You can raise the thousand without too much trouble, I guess. Anyhow, it goes."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"A man in my business can't afford to be squeamish." As Slike spoke his eyes narrowed.

"But——"

"No buts. You want Walton killed——"

"Sh-h! Not so loud," cautioned Skinny Shindle. "Removed is a better word than killed, anyway."

"Aw, hell," sneered Dan Slike, "you make me sick. I've got no use for a jigger that don't call a cow by its right name. I dunno the first thing about removing. But I'll kill anybody you say. I ain't a bit particular. Not a bit." Here Slike bent on Skinny Shindle the full measure of a most baleful regard.

The strangely squeamish Shindle strove manfully to stare down the other man, but dropped his eyes within the minute. This appeared to please Mr. Slike. He smiled crookedly and turned his attention to Tuckleton.

"Rafe," said he, "my time is money. I can't stand here higgle-hoggling with you from hell to breakfast. One thousand, or you get somebody else to do the job."

"I suppose I'll have to do as you say," Rafe grumbled. "And the same amount for the sheriff."

"Not-a-tall," denied Slike. "Not a-tall. Do you think I'm gonna rub out a sheriff for a thousand cases? You must have mush for a brain! Killing a rancher is a short hoss, but a sheriff is another breed of cat. Besides, he's got two deputies, to say nothing of the feelings of the county. Killing this sheriff for you means I gotta leave the county on the jump. Do you think I'm gonna run the risk of being lynched for a measly thousand dollars? If you do, take another think. Take two of 'em! Me, I'll take two thousand for your man."

"Two thousand dollars for simply shooting a sheriff?"

"Again lemme remark that if the business was as simple as you say it is, you'd do it yourself. Two thousand in advance."

"But that's three thousand in all."

"You're a wonder at arithmetic. I make three thousand too."

"But look here, Dan, we——"

"I'm looking," interrupted Slike, "and three thousand dollars is all I can see. You gotta expect to pay for your mistakes, Rafe. If you didn't want to have this sheriff hold office, what did you elect him for? You told me your political outfit was responsible."

"How could we tell he'd turn out this way? We took it for granted he'd do what the party wanted, and the first card out of the box he appoints his own deputies."

"Good men with a gun?"

"Both of 'em," Rafe nodded absently.

"Wingo's no slouch himself," Shindle supplied without thinking.

"And that's the kind of bunch you want me to go up against for a thousand dollars!" exclaimed Dan Slike. "You fellers sure have your nerve!"

Slike teetered his chair back on two legs and laughed loudly, but without cheer. Rafe and Skinny found themselves somewhat chilled by the sardonic merriment. They looked one upon the other. Slike caught the look and laughed anew.

"You're a fine pair," he said loudly, "a fine pair. Letting a two-by-four sheriff run you. Ha-ha, it's a joke!"

"You go slow, you hear!" directed Skinny Shindle.

Dan Slike's eyes slid round to survey Skinny. "Me go slow?" he drawled, "Who'll make me? You? Not you or Rafe either. Wanna know why? Because I'm the best man in the room, that's why. Wanna argue the matter?"

Apparently neither Skinny nor Rafe cared to argue. At least they made no audible reply to the challenge.

Dan Slike nodded a satisfied head. "Now that's settled, let's go back to business. About that three thousand—yes or no?"

Skinny looked at Rafe. Rafe looked at Skinny. Skinny shook his head. Rafe nodded his. Dan Slike, missing nothing of the byplay, smiled delightedly. His thin lips curled into a crooked sneer.

"There seems to be a difference of opinion," said Dan Slike. "Give it a name."

"Three thousand is too much," averred Skinny Shindle.

"You'll only have to pay half of it," said Rafe.

"But this payment in advance—I don't like it," objected Skinny Shindle.

Dan Slike's boots came down from the table. They came down with a certain amount of speed, yet curiously enough they made not the slightest noise as soles and heels struck the floor. Dan Slike's chair creaked as his body turned ever so slightly sidewise.

"Shindle," said he softly, "you ain't thinking I wouldn't keep my part of the bargain if I take your money, are you?"

"No, oh, no," Skinny reassured him hastily. "Of course you would."

"This being so," pursued Dan Slike, "what's the difference whether you pay me now or later?"

"Why, none," admitted Skinny, finding himself fairly cornered. "None whatever. I—we will pay you what you ask."

"Spoken like a li'l man," fleered Dan Slike, and switched his gaze to Tuckleton's face. "Second the motion, Rafe?"

"On one condition."

"Let's have it?"

"You finish both jobs within thirty days."

"No, not thirty days, old-timer, nor yet forty-five. Sixty."

"Thirty."

"Sixty days from to-night and the three thousand dollars, half gold, half bills, in my pocket by noon to-morrow."

"Oh, hell, all right!" Rafe cried, tossing up helpless hands. "Come around here to-morrow noon and get your money."

Dan Slike nodded. "Guess I'll be going, Rafe—No, nemmine dinner, I ain't hungry now."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE TRAPPERS

"It's the women make half the trouble in the world," mused young Riley Tyler, who had received the mitten from his girl of the period, the restaurant waitress, and was a misogynist in consequence.

"You're wrong," said Shotgun Shillman. "They make all of it."

"All?"

"All. And not only that—they make all the good, too. Yep, Riley, you can put down a bet there ain't a thing happens to a feller—good, bad or indifferent—that you won't find a woman at the bottom of it. A good man goes to hell or heaven—it depends on the woman."

"That's right, dead right," corroborated young Riley.

"Those fatal blondes!" grinned Shotgun; for the waitress was decidedly of that type.

"They're all deceivers," muttered Riley Tyler, reddening to his ear tips.

"Ain't it the truth!" said Shotgun Shillman. "They can lie to you with a straighter face than a government mule. Like that jail lady in the Bible who put the kybosh on a feller named Scissors by nailing his head to the kitchen floor with a railroad spike. Yeah, her. Hugging him she was ten minutes before using the hammer. Oh, that's their best bet; kiss you with one hand and cut your throat with the other."

"That's news," said Riley Tyler. "Where I come from the gent kisses with his mouth, and if he has to cut your throat he uses the butcher knife."

"Did that hasher do all those things?" Shotgun asked instantly.

Riley made believe not to hear. Shotgun chuckled.

"Billy's coming back," observed the latter, gazing through the window. "Where did he go?"

"Walton's, he said."

"I thought he liked Hazel Walton."

"He likes 'em all." Thus Riley, thinking of the scornful waitress who did not like him. "'Lo, Bill, remember to wipe your feet on the mat. Li'l paddies all cold?"

"She's a-thawing," replied Billy Wingo, kicking the snow from his boots. "But I need a large, long, hot drink alla same. Where is that bottle?"

When the bottle and the three glasses had been returned to their appointed place between the horse liniment and the spare handcuffs, Riley moved listlessly to the front window and drummed on the pane.

"Oh, the devil," Riley groaned. "Here's work for li'l boys. As if there wasn't enough to do in summer."

"Good thing to-day's a chinook," remarked Shillman, without interest.

Billy joined Riley at the window. "Looks like Simon Reelfoot. It's Simon's horse, anyway. It is Simon. I can see his long nose."

Riley squinted at the approaching man. "I wonder what he wants."

"I thought maybe I'd ask him when he comes in," said Billy.

"I would," observed Riley. "That'll show you're interested in your job. It'll please Simon, too. He'll think you've got his interests at heart. After that shall I kick him out, or will you let Shotgun bite him?"

For Simon Reelfoot was not well thought of by the more decent portion of the community. Men that put money out at high interest and are careless of their neighbors' property usually aren't. It was said of him that he still had the first nickel that he ever earned. Certainly he was not a generous person. Three women, at one time and another, had been unlucky enough to marry him. Each wife died within two years of her marriage—murdered by her husband. Not in such a way, however, that the law could take its proper course and hang Simon by the neck till he was dead. The murders were done in a perfectly legal manner and all above-board—overwork and undernourishment. The two in conjunction will kill anything that lives and breathes. So Simon, if not a murderer, was at least an accomplice before and after the fact. A cheerful creature, indeed. There were no children.

Something of all that Simon was and stood for passed through Riley Wingo's mind as he stood with Riley at the window.

"He always keeps his horses in good condition," said Billy.

"He does—the skunk!" acquiesced Riley.

"Stop calling a honest citizen names," directed Shotgun Shillman. "Mr. Reelfoot is an upright man. I don't believe he'd rob a child or steal the pennies off a dead baby's eyes. I don't believe he would—if any one was looking."

Simon Reelfoot rode up, tied his horse on the lee of the building—he was always tender of his stock—and entered.

"Howdy," he said glumly. "Cold day."

"If you'd wear something besides that relic of the days of '61 you wouldn't find it such a cold day," observed the straightforward Shotgun.

At which allusion to his ratty old blue army overcoat Simon's upper lip lifted. It might almost be said that he snarled silently.

"Feller as poor as I am can't afford to buy buffalo coats," he declared in the grumbling rumble so oddly at variance with his build. For he was a little clean-shaven man, this Simon Reelfoot, with a hatchet face and the watery peering eyes of the habitual drunkard.

"Yeah," he grumbled, staring from one to another of the three officers with open disapproval. "I ain't got money to buy buffalo coats. I have to work to earn my living, I do. I ain't got time to sit on my hunkers around a hot stove come-day-go-day a-taking the county's money for doing nothin'."

"Which will be just about all from you, Reelfoot," Billy Wingo suggested sharply.

"Oh, you can't scare me," said Simon, shaking a lowering and dogged head. "I say what I think, and if folks don't like it they know what they can do."

"Of course, Reelfoot," pursued Billy, with his most pleasant smile, "folks naturally know what they can do. But you don't guess now it gives a feller any pleasure to squash every spider, caterpillar, hoptoad or snail he runs across. And— But I don't know that I ever saw any snails in this part of the county. Suppose now we hold it down to spiders, caterpillars and hoptoads. Yeah. Why kill 'em? Yeah again. Why put the kibosh on you, Mr. Reelfoot, just because you make me think of a hoptoad? You may be a bad old man. I dunno that I care. But I don't like your company. Not a bit. You're a slimy old devil, and you never wash. Therefore let's hear what your business is so you can take it away with you in a hurry."

So saying Billy sat down, cocked his feet up on the table and regarded Reelfoot gravely. Shillman and Tyler stood before the fireplace, their legs spread, their hands in the their pockets and their faces expressionless.

Simon Reelfoot's upper lip lifted in the same soundless snarl.

"I'll go when I please," he began, "and——"

"You're mistaken," contradicted Billy, taking out his watch and holding it open in the palm of his hand. "Not to give it too a coarse a name, you'll go when I please. Yep. If you haven't begun to state your official business with the sheriff within forty-five seconds, out you go, Mr. Reelfoot, out you go."

"You fellers are paid to see that the law is obeyed," growled Simon Reelfoot. "You can't throw me out."

"'Round and 'round the mulberry bush,'" quoted Billy Wingo. "Reverse. Try the other way for a change. You're getting dizzy."

"You make me sick, you fellers. Talk! Talk! Talk! That's all you do. Talk alla time. All right, I will see if you're able to do anything besides talk. Two of my cows have been shot and there's two or three strangers baching it in that old shack of Cayler's on Mule Creek. Cows are worth thirty dollars per right now, and I want you to find out if them fellers beefed my cattle."

"Been over there yourself?"

"Sure I have. They wouldn't lemme get inside the door. Threw down on me. Bad actors, them two lads."

"I thought you said there were three," said Billy Wingo.

"Two or three," snappily.

"Suspicions don't count for much," said Billy. "You know that, Reelfoot. Have you any evidence against these men?"

"Sure I have," was the reply. "The bodies of my two cows and a plain track of blood and moccasins to within a mile of the cabin."

"Did the trail stop there—within a mile?"

"Feller had a horse tied. He packed on the beef and rode himself. I trailed the horse to the corral back of the cabin."

"Were you alone?"

"My friend Jack Faber was with me. He can back up everything I say."

"And you mean to tell me, Reelfoot, that you trailed this beef to the Cayler cabin and then allowed the men inside to get the drop on you and run you off?"

"They threw down first," Reelfoot insisted sullenly. "They got the drop. What could we do?"

"I don't know," replied Billy Wingo dryly. "I wasn't there."

"Perhaps," put in the irrepressible Riley Tyler, "the parties of the second part forgot their guns."

"A gun ain't much good when the other feller's got the drop," Simon said sourly.

"The trick is," observed Billy, his manner that of one stating a newly discovered fact, "the trick is, Reelfoot, to get the drop first."

Reelfoot gaped at him. Then his jaws closed with a click. But they reopened immediately in violent speech. "What about my cows?" he squalled. "What you gonna do about them cattle?"

"We can't unscramble any eggs for you, Reelfoot, not being magicians, but maybe we can dump the rustlers for you. How will you have them—shot or half-shot? Now, son, you shut up, close your trap, swallow your tongue or something. Riley Tyler is the only one allowed to swear around me. Where do you want to cool off—in here or out in a snowdrift?"

Simon Reelfoot subsided into a chair. He produced a plug of tobacco from one capacious bootleg, a clasp-knife from the other, snicked open the claspknife and haggled off a generous chew.

Billy nodded approvingly. "That's better. Shotgun and I will be with you in two minutes."

Simon Reelfoot glared out of the window. Billy Wingo, whose eyes, for all their casualness, had not strayed from Simon for a minute, had not overlooked the pucker of worry that had appeared between Simon's chin and straggly eyebrows at the mention of the two minutes. With folk like Simon it is always well to proceed with caution, to learn the real reason, not the apparent one at the bottom of every move. Quite so. Why was Simon worried?

Simon's gaze returned from the world without. It skimmed across Billy Wingo, dodged around both Shillman and Tyler, and dropped to the floor, where it fastened upon and clung to the nobbly tips of the Reelfoot boots.

"I don't guess there's any tearing rush," he mumbled.

Strangely enough or rather naturally enough, Billy experienced no surprise at the remark. "No hurry, huh?" he observed. "A minute ago you were in a hot sweat to have us do something right away quick. And now you ain't. What has changed you, Mr. Reelfoot? I ask to know."

"I want the job done right," was the lame explanation. "If you hustle off too sudden you might forget something."

"What do you think we're liable to forget?" queried Billy.

"How do I know what? But I know it don't pay to go off half-cocked."

Again Simon Reelfoot's eyes strayed to the window. When the eyes swiveled back to meet those of Billy Wingo, the pucker of worry had been wiped from Reelfoot's eyebrows.

"No," he resumed, in a tone that was unmistakably relieved, "it don't pay to go off half-cocked."

"No, it don't," concurred Billy, wondering greatly, both at the change in Simon's expression and the relief in his tone. Why? He desired to know why. And he made up his mind to know why. For among his other vices, Simon was friendly with Rafe Tuckleton and his precious gang.

Billy Wingo, shoving cartridges through the loading-gate of a Winchester, slouched casually past the window through which Simon was looking. He perceived, kicking his way through the snow, Mr. Tom Driver, the local Justice of the Peace. There was no one else in sight.

"Lordy, how the snow dazzles your eyes," remarked Billy, stepping back and squinting. "Is that Tom Driver coming here?"

"Where?" inquired Simon Reelfoot, and looked through the wrong window. Yet when Simon had glanced through the other window a moment before, he must have seen the judge. Hum-m! Billy Wingo continued thoughtfully to shove cartridges through the loading-gate.

Entered the judge. "Good morning, gentlemen!" was the judicial greeting. The judicial eyes absorbed the sheriff's preparations. "You're not going anywhere, are you, Bill?" he inquired, hooking a chair up to the table and sitting down after he had hung up his hat and coat behind the door.

"Reelfoot's had two cows shot," explained Billy. "He thinks he knows who did it. Shotgun and I are going to see about it."

"Only two cows," said the judge. "Then your presence isn't absolutely necessary. You can send Riley Tyler instead. I have a little business to go over with you, Bill—a county matter. And——"

"Is it important?"

"I think it is."

"All right. I'll stay. Riley, I guess you'd better go with Shotgun."

It was pure chance that enabled Billy to catch the gleam of satisfaction in Reelfoot's eyes. He had just happened to be looking at the man. Satisfaction, yes. Why? Why was Simon glad chat he, Billy Wingo, was not going with him on the trail of the beef-killers?

When Shotgun and Riley were gone away with Reelfoot, Billy looked across at the judge and nodded.

"Fly at it," said he.

Without haste the judge fished some papers from his pocket and opened them on the table. He did it awkwardly. His fingers might have been all thumbs. He seemed to have difficulty in finding the paper he wanted.

Billy Wingo, his eyes drowsy-looking, watched silently. "What's it all about?" he asked curiously.

"Jake Kilroe," replied Judge Driver. "He's been selling liquor to the Indians."

"He always has."

"I know he has. And it's a disgrace to the community. It's got to stop."

Billy stared at the judge even more curiously. For this high and moral tone he did not understand at all. It was not like the judge. It was not in the least like the judge. No, not at all.

"Stopping liquor-selling to the war-whoops is none of my job," pointed out Billy Wingo, "the man you want to see is Henry Black, the United States Marshal at Hillsville. Besides, what have you got to do with it, anyway? You're not a Federal judge?"

"But the Federal authorities have ordered me to coöperate with them," the judge said smoothly.

"Which one asked you?" probed Billy Wingo.

"The second deputy."

"Slim Chalmers, huh? When did you see Slim Chalmers?"

"Day before yesterday."

"Here?"

"No, over at Hillsville."

"I didn't know you'd been out of town," Billy Wingo burrowed along.

"Just got back this morning."

"No trouble getting through?"

"Not a bit. This chinook has thawed the drifts."

"Did you go by stage?"

"No, I rode."

The judge was answering these apparently most unnecessary questions without a quiver or trace of annoyance. Billy made another cast.

"Did you ride your gray horse?"

"No, the black."

"I hope you wore a coat." The gravity of Billy's tone could not have been bettered.

"An overcoat?" smiled Judge Driver. "Naturally."

"That's good, that's good. I like to see you looking after your health thisaway. You'd be a valuable citizen to lose, Judge. I dunno what we'd do without you. I don't indeed."

What had gone before had been bad enough in all conscience. But this was even worse. Yet the judge took no offense. He merely smiled blandly upon Billy Wingo and proffered the latter gentleman his cigar case. Billy declined with thanks. Whereupon the judge drew a long and very black cigar from the case and bit off the end.

"It's funny I didn't meet you in Hillsville," mused Billy, turning his head as if to look at the stove but in reality looking at a mirror hanging on the wall beside the stove that showed on its face an excellent reflection of Judge Driver's features.

As he expected, the judge gave him a quick sharp glance, but what he had not expected was the demoniac expression of hatred that flashed across the judge's face as summer lightning flashes across the face of a dark cloud.

Billy Wingo turned a slow head. His eyes met those of the judge squarely. Gone was the expression of hatred. In its place was one of courteous regret,—regret that he had been so unfortunate as to miss his friend Sheriff Wingo in Hillsville.

Billy nodded indifferently. "That's all right. I wasn't in Hillsville. My mistake. Sorry."

The judge stared in frowning puzzlement.

It was at this juncture that the door opened and Skinny Shindle entered. He greeted the two men surlily and laid a note on the desk in front of Billy.

"I stopped at Walton's on my way back from Hillsville," said Shindle, "and Tom's niece gimme this. She said I was to be sure and give it to you soon as I could. Seemed worried like, I should say."

"When did she give you the note," Billy inquired casually.

"When I stopped there for a drink. I was only there about five minutes."

"When was that?"

"Oh, round half-past two."

"And you came straight here?"

"Sure I did. You don't think I was gonna stop anywhere a day like this, do you?"

Without another word Shindle pulled his fur cap forward, turned and walked out. He closed the door with a slam that shook the building. Billy Wingo opened the note.

DEAR BILLY:

Please come out here as soon as you can. Come to-night without fail. I need you.

It was signed with Hazel Walton's full name.

Billy folded the note carefully. He did not look directly at the judge. He looked at him by way of the mirror. He was not unduly astonished to perceive that the judge was watching him like the proverbial hawk.

Billy unfolded the note, read it again, then refolded it. He started to put it into a vest pocket, though better of it, balled it into a crumple and tossed it into the cardboard box that served for a waste-paper basket.

He got to his feet, pulled out his watch and glanced at the time.

"Four-thirty-two," he muttered, apparently oblivious to the judge's presence. "I'll have to hurry."

He crossed the room to an open door giving into one of the inner rooms. Passing through the doorway, he pushed the door partly to behind him. Turning sharply to the left he sat down on a cot that creaked. The foot of the cot butted against the jamb on which the door was hung. Billy threw himself sidewise and applied his eye to the crack between the door and the jamb. His feet at the end of the cot were busy the while, gently kicking the wall and iron-work of the cot. Any one hearing the noise would have been reasonably assured that Billy Wingo was employed in God knows what, at a distance from the door of at least a cot length. What he might be doing did not matter. The point was to give the judge the impression that he was not close to the doorway.

Evidently the judge was thus impressed. Billy saw him lean forward, pluck the wadded-up note from the wastebasket and dive noiselessly across the room to the stove. Without a sound the judge opened the stove door and dropped the letter on the top of the blazing wood. Closing the door as noiselessly as he had opened it, the judge returned to his chair, sat down and crossed one knee over the other. His expression was that of the cat that has just eaten the canary. Billy could almost see him licking his demure chops.

Billy returned to the office. He was carrying a box of cartridges and an extra six-shooter. His regular six-shooter, with its holster and belt, hung on the wall behind the table.

"About Jake Kilroe now," said Billy, sitting down at the table and snicking open the box of cartridges, "about Jake Kilroe—what does the marshal want me to do?"

"Get evidence against him," was the smooth reply. "Enough to convict him, of course."

"Of course. Not enough to convict him would help us very little. Yeah. Any suggestions, Judge?"

"What kind of suggestions?" the judge inquired with just a trace of impatience.

"How I'm to start in—what do you guess? I don't know much about Jake, y'understand. For instance, where does Jake get his liquor in the first place?"

"How should I know?"

"I dunno. Thought maybe you might. Judges are supposed to know a lot. But if you don't, you don't, that's all."

Judge Driver sat up a trifle straighter in his chair. He looked at Billy with some suspicion. It could not be humanly possible that Billy was joking with him, yet——

"I guess I'd better start in this afternoon," continued Billy briskly. "There's nothing like a quick start. And the marshal would like it too. Suppose you and I, Judge, go down to Jake's and see what we can see."

"I thought you were going somewhere else," demurred Judge Driver.

"What makes you think so?"

"That note— You said you had to go some place in a hurry."

"Did I? Well, I am. I'm going down to Jake Kilroe's, and you're going with me, huh?"

"Look here," said the judge, the light of desperation in his eyes, "you don't have to go down to Kilroe's now. That can wait. The marshal ain't in such a fright of a hurry as all that. Go on and do whatever you have to do. I didn't mean—I don't want this to interfere with your personal business, and I'm sure the marshal wouldn't. He'll understand. I know he will. You go on and do whatever you have to do, Bill."

"I will," murmured Billy. "I will. Where are you going, Judge?"

"Oh, I guess I'll be drifting along, Bill," smiled the judge, half-turning on his way to the door. "You don't need me any longer."

"Yes, I do too," Billy declared fretfully. "You come on back and set down. I've got something here I want to read you."

Involuntarily the judge's eyes strayed to the wastebasket. He came back and sat down.

On the table between the extra six-shooter that Billy had finished loading and the box of cartridges was a small leather-bound book. Billy picked up this book and turned to the index. He ran his finger down the page till he came to that which he sought.

"'Morality, rules of, where consonant with those of law,'" he read aloud, and turned back to page twenty-eight.

Judge Driver stared at Billy Wingo in some amazement. What on earth was the sheriff driving at. Rules of morality? Well!

"This book," said Billy, glancing across at the judge, "is a copy of the grounds and maxims of the English laws, by William Noy, of Lincoln's Inn, Attorney General, and a member of the Privy Council to King Charles the First."

"What in God's name," demanded the now thoroughly amazed judge, "has that to do with me?"

"I want to read you something," persisted Billy. "You know that our laws were practically taken from the English laws. Our grounds and maxims are the same as theirs. What's good law with them is good law with us, and vice versa. You're a judge. You know that as well as I do. Don't you?"

The judge nodded. "I suppose so."

"It says here," resumed Billy Wingo, "in section thirty-three under Moral Rules, that the 'law favoreth works of charity, right and truth, and abhorreth fraud, covin, and incertainties which obscure the truth; contrarities, delays, unnecessary circumstances, and such like. Deceit and fraud should be remedied on all occasions.' How about it? Don't you agree with Mr. William Noy?"

"He's right; but there's nothing new about it. I knew it already."

"Then you'll understand me, perhaps, when I tell you that I intend to get to the bottom of everything that has gone on here this afternoon."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that there has been more 'fraud, covin, and incertainties which obscure the truth' scattered round in this room to-day than by right there should have been. I don't mind a little. Human beings are odd numbers, anyway. You've got to take all that into consideration."

"I don't understand you."

"Then, too," pursued the unheeding Billy, "'contrarities, delays, unnecessary circumstances, and such like,' I despise. They give me a bad taste in my mouth. Don't they you?"

"They would any one," acquiesced the judge, and made to rise. "Well, now you've read me what you wanted to, I won't keep you any longer. I know you must be in a hurry to get away. We'll let the Kilroe business wait over a few days."

"Sit down, Judge," Billy Wingo murmured softly, his hand resting as if by chance on the butt of the six-shooter lying on the table. "Sit down, do."

The judge hesitated. Then with the well-known hollow laugh, he sat down. He looked at Billy Wingo. The latter looked at him in silence for a space.

"Judge," he remarked suddenly, "deceit and fraud should remedied on all occasions. Tell me why you put that letter in the fire?"

The judge continued to sit perfectly still. It might be said that he was frozen to his chair. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, his right hand began to steal upward under the tail of his coat.

"I wouldn't, Judge," continued Billy, "I just wouldn't if I were you."

The judge's hand hung straight by his side. "You're getting in pretty deep, Bill," he observed with a cold smile.

"But not as deep as you are already," said Billy Wingo, with an even colder smile. "You haven't answered my question yet—about the burning of the letter. Why, Judge, why?"

"Give it any name you like," replied the jurist carelessly. "I don't feel like answering any more questions."

"Yet a li'l while back you didn't mind answering any questions I felt like asking. Was it to gain time, Judge—to gain time till Skinny Shindle came in and did his part with the note from Miss Walton? Was it, Judge, was it? Dumb, huh? Aw right, perhaps you'd rather tell me why Simon Reelfoot acted about the same way, except Simon was special careful to make us mad besides—mad when it wasn't necessary to make us mad if Simon was playing a straight game, but necessary enough if Simon wanted to gain more time. Yeah, Simon sure beat around the bush time and again before he came to the point. I expect you were delayed getting here, huh, Judge? Simon kept looking out of the window alla time, I remember."

Billy Wingo felt silent and contemplated the judge. The latter stared back, his face impassive.

"Be advised," said the judge suddenly. "You can't buck us alone. You should know that."

"I should—maybe," returned Billy Wingo. "But I feel like taking a gamble with you. So instead of going to Kilroe's, we'll do what the letter said and go out to Walton's to-day."

The judge lifted his eyebrows. "We?"

"We," confirmed Billy calmly. "You're going with me."

"No," said the judge.

"Yes," insisted Billy Wingo. "And what's more, I'll lend you a suit of my clothes and my white hat and my red-and-white pinto. Which there ain't another paint pony colored like mine in this county; and just to make it a fair deal, I'll wear your buffalo coat and your fur cap, and I'll ride one of your horses,—that long-legged gray, I guess, will be all right."

The judge's face wore a curiously mottled pallor that gave it the hue of a dead fish's belly. "Are you insane?" he gasped.

"Not me," denied Billy Wingo. "It's like I said. I'm gambling with you. I guess we understand each other, Judge. Ain't it luck, you and I being about of a size? Dressed up in my clothes with that white hat and all, you'd have to excuse anybody for mistaking you for me. Ca-a-areful, Judge, careful. Don't do anything we would be sorry for. And don't take it so to heart; perhaps he'll miss you."

For a space he considered the judge, then he said:

"I guess we're ready for Riley, now."

Despite his professional calm the judge almost bounced out of his chair. "Riley! Where——"

"In the kitchen with the door open," explained Billy. "He didn't go with Shotgun and Reelfoot a-tall—that is, not far. Only round the house to the back door. Reelfoot wasn't completely successful in separating me from my deputies. You didn't catch me whispering in Riley's ear while he was getting ready, did you? I thought maybe you wouldn't. Your back was turned. Moral: Never turn your back when there's a mirror behind you. Riley, you'd better come in now."

Whereupon there was a noise of bootheels, and Riley entered and smiled cheerfully upon the discomfited judge.

"Howdy, your honor," said Riley Tyler.

The judge made no acknowledgment of the greeting. He continued to gaze before him with a set and stony face.

"Riley," said Billy Wingo, without, however, removing his eyes from the judge, "I guess we'll need another witness. I wonder if you could get hold of Guerilla Melody."

Riley nodded and went out.

"And that's that," said Billy Wingo, smiling.

The judge's hands gripped the arms of the chair. "You know that the man Melody is an enemy of mine," he said in a shaken voice.

"I know that he is an honest man," returned Billy Wingo.

"I won't go," the judge declared feebly.

"You said that before," said Billy Wingo, in no wise moved. "You'll go all right. Yes, indeedy. Do you wanna know why? I'll tell you. You see, Judge, I know what I'm up against. I know that the only barrier that stands between me and the graveyard is the lead in this gun. I like life. I enjoy it. Besides, I'm too young to die and too sinful and all that. Therefore it's my business to see I ain't cut off in the flower of my youth, et cetera. You're considerably older than me, Judge, considerably. The gray is in your hair like frost on a punkin, and the devil has drawn two mighty mean lines down from your nose to the corners of your mouth, and the crows have messed up your eye-corners too, for that matter, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul, you miserable sinner, because I won't—if you don't do exactly what I tell you to do. It's my life or yours, and it's not gonna be mine."

"Baby talk," said the judge, but there was no conviction in his tone.

"You think so? Aw right, let it go at that. Here's the rest of the baby talk: The first false move you start to make between now and the time I'm through with you, you get it."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I? Call me and see. No trouble to show goods."

The judge hesitated. It was obvious that he was of two minds. He chose the safer course—for the present.

"There is a law in this country—" he began.

Billy Wingo leaned forward, his chin jutting out. His eyes were unpleasantly cold. They matched his voice when he spoke.

"Don't talk to me of the law," he said. "It's you and your friends that have made the law in Crocker County a spectacle for decent men. Law! You've dragged the statutes in the mud till you can't tell 'em apart from the turnips underground. Law! You've prostituted your office for a little filthy money here, there and everywhere, till it's a wonder you're able to live with yourself. How do you do it? Don't you ever get tired of your own stink, you polecat?"

This was too much. The judge was, after all, a human being. He had his pride, such as it was, and courage of a kind. He threw himself sidewise, and at the same time his right hand flipped up under his coat tail, flipped up and flipped out.

There was a flash and a roar and a spirtle of smoke. The judge's six-shooter was wrenched from his fingers and sent spinning across the room. The judge remained upon the floor. There was no feeling in his right hand. But his right arm felt as if it had been struck with a spike-maul.

The acrid smoke rose slowly toward the ceiling.

"You can get up, Judge," Billy Wingo said calmly.

The judge rose slowly and collapsed into the chair he had so abruptly vacated. He held his right hand before his face and waggled it. Stupidly he looked at it. The flesh of the trigger finger was slightly torn. It bled a little.

"The bullet didn't touch you," said Billy. "The trigger guard did that when the gun was twiddled out of your hand. The lead hit the frame in front of the cylinder. Wait, I'll show you." He crossed the room to where the judge's six-shooter lay, picked it up and brought it to the judge for his inspection.

"See how I trust you," said Billy sardonically, holding up the judge's six-shooter within ten inches of the judge's eyes. "You could almost grab this gun out of my hand if you felt like it. I really dunno but what I hope you'll feel like it."

But the judge did not feel like it. He perceived without difficulty the gray splotch on the frame of the six-shooter that marked the spot where Billy Wingo's lead had struck, and he felt absolutely no inclination to gamble further with fate. Not he. No!

Billy tucked the judge's six-shooter into his waistband and ran a hand over and under the jurist's outer clothing.

"You might be carrying a derringer or something," he murmured in apology.

But he found no other weapon, and he returned to his seat to await the arrival of Riley Tyler and Guerilla Melody.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE TRAP

Guerilla Melody regarded the judge without expression. "Huh," he grunted. "Huh."

The judge did not look at him. He had cheated Melody in a cattle deal the previous year and had since found himself unable to look Melody in the eye. Some villains are like that. They are usually of the cheaper variety.

"It's good and dark now," observed Billy Wingo, "and the moon will rise in another hour. We don't want it to be too high when we strike the Walton ranch. Why the smile, Judge? Oh, I know. You think we'll be seen by one of your friends when we're leaving, and he'll get to the ranch ahead of us. I doubt it, Judge. You know we ain't going by way of Main Street. No, we're going out back of the corral. The cottonwoods grow right up close to the back of the corral, and if we lead our horses and hug the posts, there ain't much chance of anybody seeing us. No. Come along, Judge, lessee how my clothes fit you."

Within the quarter-hour they rode out of a belt of cottonwoods into the Hillsville trail, three wooden-faced men and the wretched judge. The latter rode in front, with head bowed on hunched shoulders.

Where the snow permitted they trotted, but most of the time they were forced to walk their horses. Four times before they reached the draw leading to the Walton ranch they floundered through drifts that powdered the horse's shoulders.

At the mouth of the draw the trail to Walton's was clotted with the tracks of a few ridden horses.

"I guess," remarked Billy Wingo, "that Skinny Shindle came this way all right when he brought that note from Walton's."

The judge shivered, but not with cold. He was very miserable and looked it.

The moon lifted an inquiring face over the rim of the neighboring ridge and threw their shadows, thin and long, across the green-white snow.

"We turn here toward Walton's, Judge," suggested Billy, when the jurist continued to ride straight ahead.

The judge pulled up.

"I'm not going to Walton's!" he cried aloud. "I'm not going, I tell you! You can't make me! You can't."

His voice broke at the last word. He threw his arms aloft in a wild gesture. The features of the face he turned toward Billy were contorted with emotion. He gibbered and mowed at them in the moon-light. He looked like an inmate of Bedlam. He was certainly in a bad way, was Judge Driver.

Suddenly he lost his head. He clapped heels to his horse's flanks in an effort to escape. But both Billy Wingo and Riley Tyler had been waiting for precisely such a move ever since leaving Golden Bar. Two ropes shot out simultaneously. One fastened on the red-and-white pinto's neck, the other settled round the Judge's shoulders. The paint pony stopped abruptly. The judge flew backward from the saddle and hit the snow on the back of his neck.

The three friends dismounted and gathered around the judge. Riley loosened his rope. The judge lay still and gasped and crowed. The wind had been considerably knocked out of him. When he sat up, he was promptly sick, very sick. The paroxysm shook him from head to heels.

It was half an hour before he was able to stand on his feet without support. The three boosted him into the saddle, mounted their own horses and proceeded along the draw.

Whenever the judge made as if to check his horse, which he did more than once, Billy Wingo would crowd his horse forward and kick the pinto. Their progress may be said to have been fairly regular.

A mile from the ranch house they climbed the shelving side of the draw and rode across the flat to where a straggling growth of pine and spruce made a black, pear-shaped blot along the smooth white slope of a saddle-backed hill. The tail of this evergreen plantation ran out across the flat from the base of the hill almost to the edge of the draw they had just quitted. A tall spruce, towering high above his fellows, formed the tip, as it were, of the stem of the pear.

Beyond and below this spruce, where the draw met lower ground and lost its identity as a draw, was the Walton ranch house. On the flat the evergreens barred the four riders from the eyes of any one watching from the house.

The four men reached the trees, rode in among them. Three of them dismounted and tied their horses. The fourth remained in the saddle. Said Billy Wingo to the fourth:

"Get down."

The judge got down. Swiftly his hands were tied behind his back, and his eyes were thoroughly blindfolded with his own silk handkerchief.

"Now, boys," said Billy, lowering his voice, "I guess we know what to do. You, Judge, won't have to say anything, but if anybody else thinks he has to say anything, he's got to do it in a whisper, and a skinny whisper at that. Let's go."

As Billy uttered the last low words Guerilla Melody seized the judge's right arm and forced him into motion. With Riley Tyler leading the judge's mount, the three men scuffled in among the trees on the back trail.

Billy Wingo stood silently in his tracks until the trio were out of earshot, then he padded to the spruce and halted behind it. He removed his overcoat. From a voluminous pocket he took what appeared to be a roll of cloth. He shook out the roll and discovered the common or garden variety of cotton nightshirt, size fifty.

"If whoever's in the house can pick me out from the snow after I'm wearing this, I'll give his eyes credit," he muttered, pulling on the garment in question over his head.

He buttoned the nightshirt with meticulous care, fished a washed flour sack from a hip pocket and pulled it over his head. A minute or two later he was joined by Riley Tyler.

"If I didn't know it was you," whispered Riley in a delighted hiss, "I'd be scared out of a year's growth. Those eyeholes are plumb gashly."

"I expect," said Billy grimly. "Get on your outfit. I guess you ain't needed, but we can't afford to take any chances."

Riley Tyler threw off his blanket capote, dragged from an inner pocket a disguise similar to the sheriff's and hurriedly put it on.

"Don't come till you see the signal," cautioned Billy, "and if you hear any shots before I give the signal, stay right here where the cover's good and drop anybody you see running away. Y'understand?"

"You bet."

"Judge swallow it all right?"

"Down to the pole. He thinks we're all three with him."

Billy nodded. "Better move along the draw about twenty yards," was his parting order. "You can't see the side the cedars are on from here."

Boldly, without any attempt at concealment, he walked straight to the edge of the draw. Below him barely fifty yards distant were the snow-covered buildings that were the Walton ranch house, the bunk house and the blacksmith shop. He could not see the corrals. They lay beyond the crowding cottonwoods growing beside the little stream that supplied the ranch house with water.

He half slid, half walked down the side of the draw and headed straight for the ranch house. He could not see lamplight shining through any of the windows. But there was a faint glow at the farthest of the windows in the side of the house. This window he knew was one of three lighting the front room, a room that ran clear across the house. This side of the house was clear of young trees and bushes. But on the other side of the house, the north side, Hazel had planted young cedars to serve as a windbreak. These cedars grew within a yard of the house.

Without any fear of being discovered, so confident was he that it would be impossible to see him against the white background, he approached the blacksmith shop, slid between it and the empty bunk house and came to the right angle end of the kitchen. His gun was out, be it known, but he held it behind his back. He wanted no touch of blackness to mar the hue of his costume.

At the corner of the kitchen he dropped on his knees and one hand. Here behind the windbreak the snow was no more than two or three inches deep, and he crawled along the side of the house toward the faintly glowing window that was his goal, at walking speed.

Crouched beneath the window he laid his ear close to the window sill and listened. For a space he heard nothing, then feet shuffled across the floor and there was the "chuck" of a log being thrown on the fire. Then the shuffle of feet again.

Silence.

Inch by inch Billy raised a slow head above the window sill. When his eyes were level with the lower crosspiece of the sash, he paused. For a long time he could see nothing within the room but the fire in the ruddy jaws of the fireplace with its attendant pile of logs, and a big chair over which had been thrown a buffalo robe. Then after a time he saw, beyond the chair, the boot soles of a man lying on the floor. The body of the man lay in the shadow cast by the big chair.

There was something about those boot soles that told Billy that the man was dead.

"I figured it would be this way," Billy told himself. "I didn't see how else it could be. Damn their souls! They don't stop at anything!"

He continued to stare unblinkingly into the room and after a time he made out the dim lines of another man's figure sitting on the table beside one of the front windows. The head of this other man was turned away from Billy. He was watching the draw through the front window. But there was no life in the draw—yet.

Billy waited. He continued to wait. His feet began to get cold. They gradually grew numb. The hand that held the six-shooter began to have a fellow feeling, or lack of it rather, with the feet. He changed hands and stuffed the chilled hand under his nightshirt into his armpit. A cramp seized his left knee. He straightened it gingerly and ironed out the cramp with the back of his gun hand.

The cold crept up both legs. When it reached his middle a cramp fell hammer-and-tongs upon his right knee, calf and sole of his foot. He straightened that leg and dealt with it like a brother.

S-s-suschloop! A section of snow several yards square slid off the roof and avalanched upon him. At the sound the figure at the window turned as if shot. Billy, by a supreme effort of will, stifled the impulse to dodge and held his body motionless. He was covered with snow. Snow was down the back of his neck as well as on the window sill in front of his mouth. To all intents and purposes and to any eye he was a pile of snow fallen from the roof.

Swiftly the figure on the table walked across the room to Billy's window and looked out. Billy remained with considerable less movement than the proverbial mouse. The snow, while it covered his head, did not completely conceal his forehead and eyes. But Billy reckoned on the reflection of the firelight on the window-pane to blind somewhat the man within. For a few seconds the man stood looking out the window over Billy's head. The pile of snow he gave but the most passing of glances.

But to the frozen nucleus of the snow pile it seemed that the few seconds were hours and that the snow pile was subjected to the most searching scrutiny.

The man returned to his post on the table by the front window, and Billy breathed again. He had been unable to distinguish the man's features. The light from the fire was not strong enough.

After another century of waiting Billy perceived that the fire was again burning low. There was a small spurt of sparks as the remnant of the log fell apart. The man slipped from the table and strode across the room to the pile of logs and sticks beside the fireplace.

This was the moment for which Billy Wingo had been waiting. He scrambled on hands and knees to the front corner of the ranch house. Whipping a box of matches from a hip pocket, he lit one in a cupped hand.

He let the match burn his fingers before flipping it down. He stood at gaze, straining his eyes down the draw toward the Hillsville trail. Even as he looked a dark object detached itself from some bushes several hundred yards distant and moved toward the house.

Billy returned to his post at the window. Slowly he raised his head to the level of the lower crosspiece of the sash. When his eyes again became accustomed to the darkness of the room he saw that the man was no longer near the fireplace. He was standing at the front window, staring down the trail.

On account of the soft snow Billy did not hear the approaching horse until it had almost reached the ranch house door. When the horse stopped the man inside the ranch house moved quietly to the door and stood at one side of it. His hand moved to his leg and came away.

The rider dismounted. Billy heard him rattle the latch of the door.

"Don't shoot!" he heard him say in an agonized whisper. "Don't shoot, for Gawd's sake!"

Billy, watching at the window, saw the man in the room fling open the door. For an instant the tall and hatless form of Judge Driver showed black against the expanse of snow framed in the doorway. Again came the plea for mercy—a whisper no longer, but a wild cry of "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! It's me! Driver!" as the judge, realizing only too well that any such outcry was tantamount to a confession of guilt, plunged into the room. Obviously his purpose was to escape the fire of the avenging rifles that he had every reason to believe were somewhere in the brush along the draw. He was acting precisely as Billy had reckoned he would act, and there was not the slightest danger of Billy or any of his men shooting him. But a very real danger lay behind the ranch house door. The judge's only chance lay in convincing the man behind the door in time.

He convinced him. The man yanked him roughly into the room and slammed the door shut.

"Thank Gawd! Thank Gawd!" babbled the judge, sinking back against the door, "I thought you'd shoot me!"

"I damn near did," remarked the man, whose voice Billy now recognized as that of a late arrival in town, named Slike. "If you hadn't jerked your hat off so's I could see your face, I would have. When will Wingo get here, and didja get him to come by himself all right? Huh? Why don't you answer? Whatsa matter? Isn't he coming or what? By Gawd, you're wearing his clothes! Where is he?"

"He's here!" gurgled the judge.

"Where?" Slike's voice was a terrible snarl.

"Here—up on the flat."

Slike promptly seized the judge by the throat. "Then you led him here. What are you trying to do—double-cross me?"

"No, no!" gulped the judge, pulling at the other's wrists. "I couldn't help it! He forced me to come!"

"Then you did lead him here, damn your soul! You white-livered cur, do you think I'm gonna hang on your account? What did you tell him? Answer me, damn you!"

To the accompaniment of a string of most ferocious oaths, Slike shook the judge as the terrier shakes the rat. The judge fought back as best he could. But he was no match for this man of violence. Tiring at last, Slike flung him on the floor and kicked him.

"I'd oughta stomp you to death!" he squalled. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing! Nothing!" cried the judge. "He must have guessed it!"

Dan Slike laughed. It was a laugh to make you flinch away. The hair at the base of Billy Wingo's neck lifted like the hackles of a fighting dog.

"Guessed it!" yelped Slike. "Guessed it! Aw right, let it go at that. How far away is he?"

But the judge had his cue by now. "He's two or three miles back," he said faintly. "If you start now you can get away."

"You know damn well there's too much snow," snapped Slike. "How many's he got with him?"

"One—two."

Slike kicked the judge in the short ribs. "How many? Tell the truth!"

"Tut-two."

"Three in all, huh? and you and me are two—say one man and a half, anyway. Two to one call it. What's fairer than that, I'd like to know? We'll finish it out in the smoke right now."

"What?" There was considerably more than pained incredulity in the judge's tone.

"We'll shoot it out with 'em here, I said. I ain't kicked all the fighting blood out of you, have I? If I have I can soon kick it in again. Here, come alive, you lousy pup! Get the gun off that feller I downed. It's on his leg yet. His Winchester is over there in the corner. It's loaded, and there's two boxes of cartridges on that shelf. Bring 'em all over here. Then you take that window and I'll take this one. We'll give 'em the surprise of their young lives. Get a wiggle on you, Judge. You've got a brush ahead of you. Fight? You can gamble you'll fight! It's you or them, remember!"

"Suppose he comes bustin' in the back way?" quavered the judge, perceiving that he had indeed fallen between two stools.

"We'll try to take care of him. But he'll come the other way, I guess."

But Slike guessed wrong, for Billy Wingo, judging that the psychological moment had arrived, shoved his gun hand through a window pane and shouted, "Hands up!"

"You dirty Judas!" yelled Slike and, firing from the hip, he whipped three shots into the judge before he himself fell with four of Billy Wingo's bullets through his shoulder and neck.

Shot through and through, Judge Driver dropped in a huddle and died.

Slike, supporting himself on an elbow, mouthed curses at the man who he believed had betrayed him. The murderer's supporting arm slid out from under and he collapsed in a dead faint, even as Billy Wingo, with window glass cascading from his head and shoulders, sprang into the room.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

OPEN AND SHUT

"Well," said the district attorney, "you can't hold this man on any such biased evidence as this."

"But you see I am holding him," pointed out Billy Wingo.

"They'll get him out on a writ of habeas corpus."

"They? Who's they?"

"His friends. I suppose the man has friends."

"Oh, yes," acquiesced Billy, "the man has friends. Too many friends."

The district attorney looked away. "You'd better let him escape—or something," he suggested brazenly. "We—we mustn't be made ridiculous, you know."

"We? We? Don't get me mixed up with you, Rale. I'm particular who I bracket with, sort of. Another thing, the last time you were in here you went out on your head, remember. Well, lemme point out that you're here, I'm here, so's the door, and history is just the same thing over again."

The close-set little eyes wavered. "I tell you, Wingo, the case looks black for you too."

Billy Wingo rolled and lit a placid cigarette before he spoke. "Black? For me?" Inquiringly.

"I'm afraid so."

"You mean you hope so. Go on."

"There are a great many strange things about the whole affair. For instance, why was Judge Driver wearing your clothes when the bodies were found? If, as you say, you saw the whole thing, why did you not prevent the murder? How do we know that you did not kill both Tom Walton and the judge and then lay the blame on this stranger?"

"You don't know," admitted Billy. "That's the worst of it. But you will know. Yeah, you will know."

"I intend to look into your side of the case very closely, Wingo," declared the district attorney. "It may be that everything has not yet been told."

"There is more in this than meets the eye," nodded Billy. "Considerable more."

"If you persist in holding this man for a hearing," said Rale impressively, "it may—will, I should say—involve you. I'd hate to see you get into trouble."

"I'll bet you would," Billy concurred warmly. "You'd hate it like you do your left eye. But I'm gonna gamble with you. I'll hold the man till the judge decides what to do."

"In that case, I'll send for Judge Clasp at once."

"Why Judge Clasp? Why bother that old gent?"

"Because Driver's dead," the district attorney explained impatiently. "We have to have a judge to hold the hearing."

"Oh, I know all about that. I've sent for one."

"Who?"

"Judge Donelson."

"But he's the Federal judge, and he lives way over in Hillsville," objected Rale. "Judge Clasp is nearer. In a case of this kind when the judge of a district is unavailable, the nearest judge takes over the district. The statutes——"

"The statutes say 'any judge,'" interrupted Billy Wingo. "On this point I am quite clear. I looked it up to make sure. 'Any judge' means 'any judge.' Nothing else. And you know that Judge Donelson is a territorial as well as Federal Judge. Technicalities can't pull your wagon out of this hole, Arthur, old settler."

"I shall send for Judge Clasp at once," bumbled Arthur, old settler.

"If you send right away, he should be here by day after to-morrow. Yep, day after to-morrow at the earliest."

"Judge Donelson can't get here till the day after that," said Rale triumphantly.

"Oh, he can't, can't he?" smiled Billy. "Unless he has an accident he'll be here to-morrow. You see, Arthur, I started Riley Tyler off to Hillsville ten minutes after I arrested Slike. That's why I'm gamblin' that Judge Donelson will get here first."

The district attorney openly lost his temper. "I don't regard the evidence as given sufficient for indictment. I shall ask the judge not to hold him."

"Don't do anything rash, Arthur. Remember the hearing will be at the Walton ranch to-morrow afternoon."

"The Walton ranch! It'll be held here in Driver's office, that's where it will be held."

"Not a-tall. I want Judge Donelson to see the layout. Then he'll be able to tell better what's what. The Walton ranch to-morrow afternoon. Don't forget."

"Your Honor, I don't see how this man can be held," protested the district attorney. "I claim that the sheriff's testimony is biased. How do we know that it wasn't the sheriff himself who murdered both men and wounded Slike?"

"You can easily see, Judge," put in the coroner smoothly, "How flimsy the evidence is against the prisoner. It is practically his word against the sheriff's The prisoner has explained everything—how he was coming to the ranch on business and was arrested by the sheriff the minute he stepped inside the doorway. Why, your Honor, it's the plainest open-and-shut case I ever saw. Absolutely nothing to it."

"The coroner's right," boomed the district attorney. "And I hereby ask that Dan Slike be released from custody and——" he paused dramatically.

"Well—" prompted Judge Donelson, his old eyes inscrutable.

"And I feel it my duty to charge the sheriff, William H. Wingo, with the murder of Thomas Walton, the murder of Judge Driver, and assault with intent to kill upon Daniel Slike."

"Didn't the coroner's jury bring in a verdict of 'at the hands of persons unknown'?" inquired Judge Donelson.

"They did," admitted the district attorney, "but it was in direct opposition to the evidence. Indeed, the coroner instructed the jurymen otherwise."

"Then he exceeded his duty. But that by the way. The jury brought in a 'persons unknown' verdict. However, I do not agree with the jury."

"I knew you would not," the district attorney cried triumphantly.

"No, I believe the person is known. Sheriff, will you tell us in your own words, how you happened to be on hand in time to be a witness of the murder of Judge Driver?"

Like so many trained seals those present turned their heads to stare at the sheriff. Some eyes were friendly, some noncommittal, but the majority were unfriendly. This was because the crowd consisted largely of county office-holders. Billy gave a straightforward and detailed account of everything that had led up to the murder of Judge Driver.

As he concluded his story Judge Donelson nodded a slow head. "Why did you not immediately enter the ranch house after you looked in the window and saw the boot soles of the dead man?"

"Judge," said Billy, with a whimsical smile, "suppose now you went out hunting and you wanted to get more than one deer and had only one cartridge, what would you do—shoot the first deer you saw or wait till you got two in line?"

"I see," nodded the Judge. "I see. Still, Sheriff, there is the word of Dan Slike. It would have been better had you had another witness."

"Another witness," said Billy. "If that's all you want I have one. Riley Tyler, stand up."

The younger deputy stood up and was duly sworn. He deposed that the sheriff's match signal to Guerilla Melody to send the judge down to the house had been also a signal to him, Riley Tyler, to come down from the flat and take position under the window directly opposite the one at which the sheriff was posted. All this had taken place according to plan. Riley Tyler had heard every word uttered by both the judge and Dan Slike and had also seen Slike shoot the judge. Furthermore he had talked with the Federal deputy marshal in Hillsville and learned that the marshal had never even thought of asking Judge Driver to approach the sheriff concerning the alleged bootlegging activities of Jake Kilroe.

Riley Tyler concluded his testimony and sat down, taking occasion as he did so to wink at the district attorney. The latter glared back with frank dislike.

"The evidence I have just heard," said Judge Donelson, "is clear. There is no shred, jot or tittle of it that throws suspicion on Sheriff Wingo. I will hold Daniel Slike for the grand jury. If Judge Driver were alive, I would hold him as accessory before and after the fact. Do you still think, Mr. Rale, that Mr. Wingo should be held?"

"Why—uh—uh——" stalled the district attorney.

"Tell me," persisted Judge Donelson, "exactly what you think?"

But the district attorney did not dare tell Judge Donelson anything like that. Instead he said, with a smile he strove to make natural and pleasant:

"Hold Mr. Wingo? Certainly not. I have misjudged him. I am sure he will not bear malice against me."

"Hold it against Mr. Rale?" said Billy, with the straightest face in the world. "Certainly not. I have misjudged him. But I am sure he will not bear malice against me."

Even the judge smiled.

Dan Slike, lying on an improvised bed of blankets in the corner of the room, raised his head. "You'll never hang me, y'understand," said Dan Slike. "And you ain't got a jail in the territory big enough to hold me after I get shut of these scratches. I'll see you later, Sheriff."

Dan Slike added a curse or two and relapsed into silence. Not a likable person, Mr. Slike. No, not at all.

"This," said Rafe Tuckleton, "is a helluva note."

"It's all your fault," the district attorney recriminated bitterly.

"You did most of it," flung back Rafe, always an enthusiastic player at the great game of passing the buck. "You know damn well——"

"Who thought of it first?" interrupted the district attorney. "Who was the bright li'l feller, I'd like to know?"

"Don't you try to ride me," snarled the genial Rafe. "Dontcha do it."

"Aw, shut up; you gimme a pain! Gawd, and I'll bet your parents thought you was just too cunnin' for anything. It's a shame they let you live. To think of all the fatal accidents that might have happened to you, and didn't, almost makes a feller lose his faith in Providence. 'Oh, yes,' says you, 'Wingo will walk into the trap with his eyes shut. It'll be just too easy.'"

"Well, the first part worked all right," protested Rafe Tuckleton. "Dan downed Walton without any trouble. How could I tell Driver would slip up on his part? I'm glad Slike downed him. Served him right for being a fool. Reelfoot did his part all right, too."

"How do we know Reelfoot did? How do we know what happened before the fraycas at Walton's? We don't. We don't know anything except that Tom Driver is dead, Dan Slike wounded in the calaboose, and Skinny Shindle has skedaddled."

"Skinny tell any one where he was goin'?"

"He did not. Soon as he heard that infernal Bill Wingo had pulled through without a hole in him, Skinny saddled his horse and went some'ers else a-whoopin'. And I don't think he expects to come back. Oh, it's a fine mix-up all round, a fine mix-up."

"Sh-sh," cautioned Rafe. "Somebody coming—oh, it's you, Tip. 'Lo."

"Yeah, it's me, Tip," said O'Gorman, closing the door carefully and sitting down on the only vacant chair. "Look here, Rafe, what did I tell you about downing Tom Walton?"

"I ain't downed Tom Walton," denied Rafe sullenly.

"You had it done," insisted O'Gorman.

"How do you know I did?" dodged Rafe.

"By the way it was gormed up."

"I suppose now if you'd planned it——"

"I wouldn't have planned it in the first place. I told you to keep your paws off, and now look at the damn thing."

"It wasn't my fault," barked back Rafe.

"Can't you say anything different?" the district attorney threw in drearily.

"You don't even seem able to obey orders any more," said Tip O'Gorman.

"I don't have to take orders from you," flared up Rafe.

"No, you don't have to. Nobody has to do anything they don't want to. But we've decided, Rafe, that hereafter you sit on the tail-board. You don't pick up the lines again, see."

"Who's we?" demanded Rafe.

"Craft, Larder and myself."

"You can't do anything!" Contemptuously.

"No? For one thing, we can keep you from shipping so much as a single cow."

"How?"

"Our ranges surround you on three sides, and where we don't fit in, the mountains do. You can't drive through the mountains, and we won't let you drive through us. That's how."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, it's root, hog, or die, feller. You gonna be good?"

"I—I suppose so."

"Good enough. One slip on your part and you know what happens, Rafe. Bear it in mind, and it'll be money in your pocket."

"You talk like a minister."

"I wish I was one, preaching the funeral sermon over your grave. Lord, what a stinking skunk you are, Rafe!"

"Look here——"

"Blah! You are a skunk. So crazy after money you had to go and hurt li'l Hazel Walton. Damn your soul, I told you not to do anything to hurt her! And you bulled right ahead! You lousy packrat, you've broken that child's heart! She thought the world and all of her uncle, she did. I tell you, Rafe, you ain't fit to drink with a Digger or eat with a dog!"

"I ain't gonna fight with you," declared Rafe Tuckleton.

"I was hoping you would," averred Tip. "There'd be one tom-fool less to worry about if you did."

"No, I can wait," said Rafe with a feline grin.

"Oh, I'll be watching you, you rattle-snake," nodded Tip.

"Go easy, you two!" snapped the district attorney, as a dog in the next room began to bark. "There's somebody comin' up the path."

The squabble went dead.

"Good thing the wind's yowlin' its head off to-night," observed Tip O'Gorman. "I forgot myself for a shake."

Rafe Tuckleton looked at the floor. There was venom in his heart and death in his thoughts.

Tip O'Gorman fingered out the makings.

He was shaking in the tobacco when Billy Wingo opened the door and strode without ceremony into the office. He was followed by Riley Tyler. The latter slammed the door behind him and set his back against it.

"Three li'l friends together," said Billy, his eyes gleaming at them beneath the peak of his fur cap. "I saw your light as I was passing, Arthur, and I thought I'd sift in and thank you for all those kind words of yours yesterday. I appreciated 'em, you bet. You too, Rafe, did about as well as could be expected. Tip is the only one I can't thank."

He smiled lazily on Tip. The latter grinned back.

"It ain't my fault you can't," returned Tip cryptically.

Billy nodded, although naturally he did not grasp the other's meaning, and said, "Got another li'l matter for you gentlemen. Finding you all together thisaway is gonna save me trouble. I'm in luck to-night."

"Aw, spit it out!" Rafe directed rudely.

Billy looked pained. "Our long-faced li'l playmate seems all fussed up over something. Well, boys will be boys, I suppose, and burned fingers now and then have got to be expected."

He paused and regarded them gravely. Rafe's answering stare was darkling, the district attorney's uncomfortable, while Tip's was impersonal.

"I hope you boys are feeling generous to-night," resumed Billy.

Rafe Tuckleton stole a glance at O'Gorman. Generous?

"The fact is," went on the calm voice, "I'm takin' up a collection—a collection for Tom Walton's niece, Hazel."

Billy thought that at the mention of the ranchman's name both the district attorney and Tuckleton stiffened their slouching bodies, but he could not be positive. The lamp on the table gave a poor, weak light.

"Her uncle's gettin' downed thisaway will be a bad blow for her. He was all she had. Y'understand now—the girl won't ever know that this is any benefit like. She mustn't ever know. It's insurance on Tom's life, see? Sam Prescott was keepin' the policy for him in his safe. Tom must have forgot to tell her about it. That's what Sam's going to tell her. How much will you boys give?"

Tip O'Gorman did not hesitate. "You can put us down for a thousand apiece."

"What!" chorused the district attorney and Rafe Tuckleton.

The sheriff cocked an eyebrow at the two men. "You think it's too little? Well, I guess maybe you're right. A thousand is enough for Tip here, but you two are rich men. Say twice that—two thousand from each of you will be about right."

The two rich men were speechless. But only for a moment.

"Two thousand!" gasped Rafe. "Not a nickel."

"Not a thin dime!" contradicted the district attorney.

"Say not so!" said Billy Wingo.

Tip O'Gorman nodded. "'Say not so,' is right."

Billy looked at the speaker approvingly. "I'm glad Tip agrees with me. I'll take the money in gold, greenbacks and silver. No drafts."

The district attorney squealed like a stuck pig. "No nothing, you mean! Whadda you think we are?"

"A couple of rascals," was the prompt reply. "And there's a tax on rascals. That li'l girl has got to be taken care of."

Billy's voice was earnest. But a sardonic devil looked out of his eyes. He yearned with a great yearning for the district attorney and Rafe Tuckleton to join battle with him. He knew that he could easily take care of both. Tip O'Gorman was the unknown quantity. One could never be quite sure what Tip was thinking. One thing, Tip was neither a murderer nor a dealer in murder. That had never been Tip's way. And something told Billy that in the present crisis Tip would keep his hands off. The issue lay strictly between Rafe, the district attorney and Billy Wingo.

The district attorney by a great effort recovered his mental balance. "You are threatening," he bumbled lamely.

"Not a-tall," returned Bill. "I only said you and Rafe are a couple of rascals. What's fairer than that, I'd like to know?"

"It's blackmail—extortion," the district attorney trotted on.

"Blackmail and extortion to subscribe money for the support of a girl whose uncle has been murdered? No, no, you don't mean it, Arthur, old settler. You mean that you and Rafe will be glad to do your parts. That's what you mean."

"No." Thus Rafe Tuckleton.

"Yes—and again yes. Three times in fact. Rafe, how about that last deal of yours with the Indian agent? Remember it? The agent, y'understand, gets drunk sometimes, and a drunk will talk. Ever thought of that?"

If Rafe had not thought of that, he thought of it now.

"And how about that last bribe you took?" pressed Billy, turning accusingly on the district attorney.

The immediate shrinkage in the form of the district attorney was plainly visible to the naked eye. He went a trifle paler too.

"Do I get the two thousand apiece for Hazel Walton, Arthur?" demanded Billy.

"Why-uh—yes, yes, of course. I'd always intended to contribute. I was just fooling. Yes."

"And you, Rafe?"

Rafe Tuckleton nodded a reluctant head. "I'll pay."

"That's fine," said Billy heartily. "I'll be around to-morrow for the money."

Rafe Tuckleton did not attempt to demur at the shortness of time as he had done with Dan Slike. He recognized the utter futility of arguing with a man like Billy Wingo.

"By the way," said Billy, staring hard at Rafe Tuckleton, "I wonder if it was any part of Dan Slike's plan to kill Miss Walton too?"

Rafe's face went wooden. "How should I know?"

Billy nodded. "I was just wonderin'. No harm in that, I suppose. Lucky she wasn't there alla same."

"It was lucky," stated Tip O'Gorman. "Do you know I've been doing a li'l wondering myself. Why wasn't she there?"

"She just happened to be visiting the Prescotts'," replied Billy Wingo, his eyes on Rafe's face.

Rafe did his best to return the stare, but his eyes would drop despite his best effort.

"You know that letter from Miss Walton Judge Driver threw in the fire—the one you heard me telling Judge Donelson about?" went on Billy. "Yeah, that one. It might have fooled me—I'm only human, you know, if——"

"You're too modest," Tip interrupted dryly.

"If it hadn't been for one or two li'l things," resumed Billy. "The handwriting was a fine imitation—you couldn't beat it. But I knew she hadn't written it." He paused, and began to roll a cigarette.

Rafe Tuckleton passed his tongue across his lips. The district attorney looked down at his locked hands. Of the three Tip O'Gorman was the only one to remain his natural self.

"G'on," urged Tip, "give it a name."

"You see," said Billy, "Skinny Shindle told me Miss Walton gave him the note about 2.30 P.M. Now on that afternoon I happened to be at the Prescott ranch. Miss Walton was there visiting Miss Prescott. I didn't leave the Prescotts' till nearly three o'clock, and Miss Walton was still there and intending to spend the night. That's how I knew she couldn't have written that note."

"Nine miles from Prescott's to Walton's," said Tip.

"Nearer ten," corrected Billy. "Skinny was sure careless. So were several other men. You've got to make things fit."

He nodded kindly to the company and abruptly departed with his companion.

"I wonder what he meant by 'making things fit,'" mused the district attorney, following five minutes' silence.

"I dunno," Rafe mumbled in accents of the deepest gloom, "but you can put down a bet he meant something."

"He did," declared Tip O'Gorman, "and I'm telling you two straight, flat and final, you ain't fit to play checkers with a blind man. It makes a feller ashamed to do business with you, you're so thumb-handed, tumble-footed foolish. At the time the note was written from Walton's the girl was at Prescott's. Oh, great! And he knew it alla time. And you two jokes wondered why your scheme fell through! You know now, don't you? Gawd! What a pair you are! Oh, I've always believed that a man makes his own li'l hell. Whatever devilishness he does on this earth he pays for on this earth. You fellers are already beginning to pay."

Thus Tip O'Gorman, the moralist. He departed wrapped in a virtuous silence. He did not dare let the others know the actual worry that rode his soul. He knew it was only a matter of time when Billy Wingo would be camping on his trail too. Lord, how he'd been fooled! He had never suspected that the sheriff possessed such capabilities. And how had the sheriff learned of that flour deal between Rafe and the Indian agent. The flour supposed to have been bought through another man. Rafe had not appeared in the affair at all, yet Billy Wingo knew all about it.

And the bribe taken by the district attorney. There was another odd chance. Besides the two principals, Rafe Tuckleton and himself, Tip had not supposed that any one knew of the matter. It was very mysterious.

Tip could have kicked himself. He alone was the individual responsible for the whole trouble. If only he had not proposed the election of Billy Wingo— But he had proposed it, and now look at the result!

"Say, Bill," said the greatly impressed Riley Tyler on the way to the office, "what's this about that deal of Rafe's with the Indian agent? You never said anything about it before."

"Good reason," grinned Billy, "it just occurred to me."

"Occurred to you?" puzzled Riley.

"Yeah, I don't actually know of any deal between Rafe and that thief of an agent; but knowing Rafe and knowing the agent, I guessed likely they had been mixed up together in a business way. Seems I guessed right. Same with the district attorney, only easier. If he's taken one bribe, he's taken forty. Wouldn't be Arthur Rale if he hadn't."

Riley Tyler chuckled. "Poker is one fine game," said Riley Tyler.

At the office they found Shotgun Shillman.

"What luck?" asked Billy.

"Plenty," was the reply. "We went to the Cayley cabin first. Nobody livin' there. Ashes in the fireplace might have been a week or a month old. But the balsam tips in the bunks were older than that. They were last summer's cutting—all stiffer than a porcupine's quills."

"As I remember that cabin," reflected Billy, "the balsam grew all around it."

"They still do. We found a quarter of beef hanging on a stub back of the house. 'There,' says Simon, 'there's proof for you.' 'Yes,' I says, 'let's see the cow it came off of.' 'Whatsa use?' says Simon.

"'Lots,' I says. 'C'mon.' He did reluctant, bellowing alla time how we'd oughta follow the tracks leading away from the house toward the Hillsville trail a mile away."

"Were those tracks made by one man?" inquired Billy.

"Looked so to me—anyway, we went along on the line of tracks leading to the dead cow. It had been shot all right enough. It oughta been shot. It had big-jaw."

"'You mean to tell me them fellers cut that quarter off a big-jaw cow?' I says to Simon. 'Sure,' he says. 'Aw right,' I says. 'Let it go at that.' I poked around to find the other cow. Simon raising objections alla time to me wastin' so much time and trying to get me off the trail. Oh, he didn't care a whoop about me finding the second cow. Wasn't one enough? Oh, sure, to hear him talk! But I found the cow. It hadn't been shot a-tall. Died of the yallers last fall. And it had just about half rotted before freezing weather set in. 'I suppose,' I says sarcastic, 'both cows were killed about the same time.' 'You've guessed it,' says Simon, bold as brass. 'Now all you gotta do is chase right along back to the cabin and take up the trail like I wanted you to do in the first place and trail 'em down.' He acted real disappointed when I left him standin' there and came away. I'd have arrested him right then only you said not to."

"Good enough," approved Billy. "Plenty of time to arrest him later. I want to give him plenty of rope. One of these days I'll get a subpoena from Judge Donelson and serve it on him. That'll give him plenty of time to think things over between now and the trial."

"Simon ain't the kind to take things easy," mused Shotgun Shillman.

"He'll fret his head off. About the time Slike is well enough to stand prosecution, Simon Reelfoot will be ready to bust."

But the well-known best-laid plans are more breakable than the equally well-known best-laid eggs.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT

"I tell you, Rafe," said Reelfoot in a panic, "they suspect me—they think I'm mixed up in this murder business."

"Accessory before and after the fact," slipped in the district attorney. A reptile himself, he relished the wrigglings of another reptile. "If they prove it on you, you'll be hanged sure as Dan Slike will hang."

"I ain't the only one they can prove it on," snarled Simon Reelfoot.

"Who have you got in mind?" Rafe Tuckleton said in a colorless voice.

"Both of you, for instance," Reelfoot informed him.

"You do us a grave injustice." Thus the district attorney solemnly.

Rafe Tuckleton shook his head at Simon. "Wrong tree. You don't know anything about us."

Simon Reelfoot gaped at both of them. "Why, we fixed it up between us. You know we did. You even wanted two cows killed so's to make it look lifelike to the deputies."

Rafe looked at the district attorney. "The man's mad."

Simon's teeth snapped together like a cornered coyote. "If you're trying to put this thing all off on me—" he began, and stopped.

"We're not trying to put anything off on you," the district attorney told him silkily. "There's nothing to put off on you anyway. Not a thing. You're nervous, that's all, Simon. Your imagination is working overtime."

"Sure is," corroborated Rafe. "You don't think we've got anything to do with the murder of Tom Walton, do you, Simon?"

The Reelfoot jaw dropped. The man stared helplessly at Rafe and the district attorney. "Whatell did— Say, what else was all that rigamarole for then?"

"What rigamarole?" Oh, so patient was the voice of Rafe Tuckleton.

Reelfoot gulped. "You had me go to Wingo's office, and rile him up, and spin him a lot of jerkwater stuff about my rustled cows, so's to get him and his deputies all ready to go away with me, when Driver was to come in with that stuff about Kilroe and keep Bill in town while the deputies went with me. Well, you know how only Shillman went. But I couldn't help that. Anyway, I suppose you thought you was foxy not to tell me the rest of the story about Skinny Shindle and the fake letter and so forth. Gents, you was foxy. Yeah, you was foxy. But I'm foxy himself. I can put two and two together and make four any day."

He paused and glared at the pair of them. "I wondered what it was all about. Yeah, I wondered, and I asked you and you said it was to keep Bill Wingo from mixing into a li'l stock deal. Stock deal!" Here Simon spat upon the floor. "Stock deal!" rushed on Simon. "You never said it was murder."

Rafe Tuckleton and the district attorney exchanged wooden looks.

"Now that you mention it," said Rafe, "I don't believe we did."

"I thought you didn't like Tom Walton," observed the district attorney.

Simon Reelfoot swore a string of oaths. "I didn't like him, not a bit. But I don't want to be hung for helping having him killed."

"That would be unfortunate," murmured the district attorney.

"I ain't sorry he was killed, of course," Simon fretted on, unheeding. "That part was all right, but I didn't want to be mixed up in it. There's no sense in doing a thing like that if you're gonna be caught. And I don't mean to be caught! You didn't have no right to get me into this deal without telling me all the circumstances first," he concluded weakly.