Introductory material (continued 4)

"Then you think you've been badly treated?" purred the district attorney.

"I know it," declared Simon.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't come here for sympathy."

"What did you come for?"

"Protection. What do you s'pose? You've gotta protect me."

"Listen to him, Rafe. Says we gotta protect him. That new brand of whisky at George's Place is certainly awful stuff. If you'll take my advice, Simon, you'll go a li'l easy on it till your system gets used to it."

"Yeah, sosh up by degrees like," offered Rafe.

"Look here," said the exasperated Reelfoot, "either you fellers pull suspicion off o' me, or I go to Wingo with the whole story."

"What'll that get you?" demanded Rafe. "Nothin', just nothin'. Wild tales of dead cows and separatin' Bill from his deputies and all ain't evidence. Nawsir. Think again, brother, think again."

"And, anyway," tucked in the district attorney, "what was wrong with the wild tale? It came straight enough. There were the tracks and there were the cows. Who can say your story wasn't the truth?"

"I tell you, they know it ain't the truth."

"How do they know?"

Simon did not make immediate reply. It was the worst thing he could have done.

"Well?" prompted Rafe.

"They—uh—uh—they know it."

"How, I asked you?"

"They didn't—Shillman got suspicious over the cows."

"Why did he get suspicious over the cows?"

Simon Reelfoot wriggled in his chair. "Well—uh—I—he did, that's all."

Rafe leaned forward. His face was sharp with suspicion. "Why did he?"

"I—I——" Simon stammered, and bogged down right there.

"C'mon," directed Rafe inexorably. "Spit it out."

"One of the cows had big-jaw," admitted Reelfoot.

Rafe sucked in his breath.

"What did the other one have?" almost whispered the district attorney.

"The other one died of the yallers last fall," said Reelfoot in a voice that matched the district attorney's. "But," he added hastily, "it come on to freeze soon after. I—I sort o' hated to kill two good cows."

"Seeing that two good cows were all you were putting up in return for the benefits you would derive from the—uh—political situation, you could have afforded to lose them." Thus the district attorney, staring at Reelfoot.

The latter looked with sullen foreboding at Rafe. The Tuckleton face was bloated with rage.

"So that's how it is!" he choked out. "You had your orders and you muddled them out of rank meanness! Too stingy to kill a couple of healthy cows, you hadda risk everything with one that died last year and another with big-jaw! And then, after you've got 'em suspectin' you good and strong through what's first, last, and only your own fault, you come to us for help!"

"Where else could I go?" queried Reelfoot sulkily.

"To hell for all I care, you half-witted fool! A big-jaw steer! And the other one half rotten, I'll bet!"

"I didn't think he'd notice it," defended Simon.

"You didn't think! No, I'll gamble you didn't! You never have! You couldn't! My Gawd, you deserve to be hung! I hope you are!"

"You forget, Rafe," said the district attorney, "that you and I don't know what all Mr. Reelfoot is driving at."

But Rafe Tuckleton was too angry to keep up the farce any longer. "I hope the fool's hung!" he panted.

"I'll take care not to go alone," said Reelfoot, pressing his advantage. "You fellers will have to see that I'm protected or I'll tell what I know."

"Blah!" blared the district attorney. "You wouldn't dare snitch!"

"I'll dare more than that to save my skin," Reelfoot declared hardily.

Rafe Tuckleton returned to the charge. "What in so-and-so and such-and-such did you do such a fool trick for? Don't you know—couldn't you—oh, whatsa use?"

"You oughta told me all the circumstances," persisted Reelfoot. "That was your fault. If I'd knowed, I could have managed better."

"I expect—you couldn't," said Rafe Tuckleton, with an appreciable pause after each word.

"What you gonna do about it?" Reelfoot wanted to know, fidgeting in his chair.

"You'll be taken care of now, you needn't to worry."

"Oh, fine, fi-ine. That helps a lot, that does, with either Bill Wingo or one of his deputies over to my place about every other day, snoopin' round and talking to my men."

"They do that, do they?"

"Yes, they do that."

"What of it?" demanded Rafe. "They can't find out anything, can they? You weren't fool enough to let on to your men—your foreman or anybody, were you?"

"Sure not. But——"

"But what?"

"I don't like 'em slouchin' round this way. You dunno what'll happen. They might find out somethin' you can't tell."

"If you didn't tell any of your men, you're safe," soothed the district attorney, "so long as you keep your upper lip stiff. You're just a li'l nervous, that's all, Simon. Nothing to worry you a-tall. Here, have another drink. Rafe, shove the bottle over, will you?"

Rafe Tuckleton pettishly obeyed, muttering under his breath. It was only too painfully obvious that Reelfoot's remarks had upset him, and he didn't care who knew it.

"Look here, Simon," he said suddenly. "You wanna leave right here your notion that you'll snitch if it comes to the squeak."

"I'll think about it," said Simon, setting down his glass deliberately.

"Because," Rafe continued, as though there had been no interruption, "you wanna remember it's almost as easy to kill two men as it is one."

"I'd thought of that," said Simon, "and I brought two of my men with me to-night. They're down at the saloon waiting for me now."

"A lot of good they are down there," sneered Rafe.

"But they can do you and Arthur here a lot of harm later—if anything happens."

"Don't you trust us?"

"Not so far as I can throw a calf by the tail," was the candid reply. "I'm goin' now. You fellers scratch your heads over what I've said. I ain't gonna go to the pen for anybody, and you can stick a pin in that."

When Simon was gone, the district attorney and Rafe sat in silence while a man, had one been so inclined, might have counted three hundred. Neither looked at the other. Rafe fiddled with his glass on the tabletop. The district attorney rolled a slow cigarette.

The district attorney was the first to break the silence with, "Simon's got a bad case of nerves."

"We oughtn't to have used him," said Rafe. "First thing you know the tom fool will say or do something we'll all be sorry for. I didn't think he was like that."

"Maybe we'd ought to have told him all of it from the beginning."

"Not that. No, he'd never have gone in it then. He ain't got nerve enough. I'm afraid Reelfoot's days of usefulness to us are over."

"He's done good work in the past."

"The past ain't now. And I tell you, Arthur, if Simon gets any more jumpy than he is now, he'll kick the kettle over. You hear me, he'll do it, the pup!"

Rafe allowed the district attorney two full minutes to mull over this, then he continued:

"We gotta get rid of him."

The district attorney looked over at Rafe, his upper lip lifting. "I suppose we gotta."

"We'll work the old game over again."

"Not on your life! We turned it once! And that was one too many."

"We had bad luck, that's all. Just a li'l hard luck. Look here, didn't Simon say either Bill or one of his deputies were always snooping round his ranch? All right, what more do we want? We can fix it so's to get rid of two birds at a clip. And it'll work this trip. We'll do it all right."

"We'll have to." The district attorney smiled grimly.

Rafe Tuckleton gazed speculatively upon his friend. "How about Tip O'Gorman?"

"Well?"

Rafe came flatly to the point. "How about gettin' rid of him, too?"

But this was going too fast for the district attorney. He shook his head. "No. Too dangerous."

"Now look here," said Rafe, leaning forward and tapping the district attorney's knee with a persuasive forefinger, "you're forgetting that all this trouble we're having is due to Tip O'Gorman. If it hadn't been for him wanting a 'safe' man, Jack Murray would have been elected, and everything about now would be fine as frawg's hair in January."

"Well, we had to give 'em one honest man," said the district attorney cynically. "The voters were getting ideas."

"Rats," snorted Rafe. "What if they were? I don't give a damn what Tip or anybody says, we were strong enough to elect our whole ticket. Huh? No 'maybe' about it. I know. Tip's an old woman, I tell you. He's gettin' too big for his boots. He needs a lesson."

"Who'll give him one?"

"We will."

"No. Not for a minute. I know Tip. I ain't locking horns with that gent."

"Whatcha afraid of? He can't do anything."

"Can't, huh? Aw right, let it go at that. Not any for me, thanks."

Again Rafe's persuasive forefinger came into action. "Say, Tip ain't any grizzly bear, feller. He's only a two-legged man like you and me. He can be put where he belongs."

The district attorney remained unconvinced. "I hear you say it."

"Ain't you got any nerve a-tall?"

"Where Tip is concerned, not much," was the frank reply. "I've seen that man in action."

"Action nothin'. That's just what's the matter with that man—not enough action. He'll go so far and no farther. He don't want anybody wiped out if he can help it. You saw what a fuss he made over Tom Walton's killing. Lord! He made me sick! You might 'a' thought Tom was a good friend of his. I tell you, Arthur, that sort of squeamishness don't get you anywhere. Nawsir. You gotta go the whole hog or you'll wind up in the calaboose. You bet I ain't for any of them half-way plans. It's kill a bull every time, or I don't shoot. Tip O'Gorman must go."

"Lessee what Sam Larder and Crafty say," the district attorney offered uneasily.

"No, not them, either of 'em," Rafe declared firmly. "They're friends of Tip's."

"You tell 'em just like you told me," suggested the other. "Maybe you could persuade 'em."

Rafe shook a decided head. "Not a chance. I know them. They're soft and bull-headed where Tip's concerned. They think he's hell on the Wabash, you know that. Those three stand together always. No, Arthur, if we shove this deal through, we gotta do it alone."

But the district attorney remained dubious. "It's too big an order."

"Not by a jugful it ain't. Gimme the bottle."

Rafe poured out a stiff four fingers. He drank it slowly. Then he had another. His eyes began to gleam redly. Suddenly he stood up and struck the table with his fist.

"I'll show 'em," he exclaimed. "Tip needn't think he can gimme orders! Won't let you ship cows if you get your leg over the pole again, says O'Gorman, Larder and Craft. Just as if I'd done something out of the way instead of tryin' to put one more polecat out of the world. I'll show 'em! Say, Arthur, whatsa matter with buckin' Larder and Craft after we put Tip out of business?"

"Wait till we do," replied the district attorney, who foresaw many difficulties in the proposed operation. "And if you ask me, I don't know how we're going to do it."

Rafe Tuckleton scratched a tousled head. "Jonesy might shoot him cleaning' his gun," he proffered.

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

Rafe showed the requisite amount of contempt for such a foolish question. "It's more'n possible Tip might start cleanin' his own gun about that time. And I could spare Jonesy if I had to."

"Jonesy might not want to take the chance. You haven't thought of that, have you?"

Rafe, by way of reply, took another drink. When he set the bottle down, the district attorney picked it up, held it against the daylight, then looked reproachfully at his friend and put the bottle away in the cupboard.

"Tell you what we can do," said Rafe. "We can have Simon do it."

"Simon Reelfoot?"

"Who else. Sure. Why not?"

"You're crazy. Simon may be a fool, but he has more sense than that."

"Simon drinks a skinful sometimes. Ever see him when he gets that way? He acts very rowdy. Yeah. I'm almost certain if, when Simon was under the influence thataway, he was told that Tip had found out about his share in the Walton killing and was making threats against him, that Friend Simon would just naturally hop out and fill Tip full of holes."

"But I thought you were saving Simon for Wingo? The sheriff's more important than Tip just now."

It was evident that the district attorney was becoming more and more worried at the prospect of giving Tip his quietus.

"We'll have to figure out something else for Wingo," said Rafe. Then he brought his open palm down on his knee with a crack like a pistol shot. The district attorney jumped in his chair. "I got it!" cried Rafe. "I got it! It just came to me when you said 'Wingo.' We'll get the three of 'em at one lick."

"I knew I didn't put that bottle away soon enough."

"Rats. My head's clear as a bell—two bells, by Gawd! Listen. We'll get Simon and that foreman of his drunk. We'll sick the pair of 'em on Tip O'Gorman. They'll put the kibosh on Tip, and the word will be passed for the sheriff. He will go to make the arrest and they'll plug him. Being drunk, they'll be desperate and won't care what they do."

"Suppose the deputies go with Bill?"

"We'll have to fix it so they won't. Oh, it'll be natural this time. We'll wait till they're taking somebody over to Hillsville, or gone to make an arrest or something."

"But the sheriff may swear in a posse to help chase 'em."

"There won't be any chase. For a chase you gotta have horses, and we'll take away their horses first thing. No, it's a cinch Bill Wingo will go to arrest 'em by his lonesome. He's that kind."

"And we took him for a mark," was the district attorney's bitter remark.

"I didn't," lied Rafe. "I always knowed what he was."

The district attorney did not contradict this statement. Nothing was to be gained by a fight with Rafe Tuckleton.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE BEST-LAID PLANS

March had come in a-roaring. Almanac-wise it was passing out a-bleating. Except in the high places the snow was going fast. The frost was coming out of the ground, making it necessary for the Hillsville stage to employ eight horses instead of six. The gray geese were flying northward. Here and there on the southern flanks of the lean hills the grass showed bravely green. That uncomfortable person, Dan Slike, was well enough to stand his trial. Spring was in the air, but winter still held sway in the heart of Billy Wingo. He had not been able to make up his difference with Hazel Walton, or rather she had not made up her difference with him. Manlike, or mulelike, whichever you prefer, Billy Wingo was stubbornly determined that the girl should make the first move. True, he had seen her. It was also true that he had gone out of his way to see her. Always his reception had been friendly, but not the least cordial. Obviously she had not forgiven him his outburst.

Whenever he thought on what he was pleased to consider his ill-treatment at her hands, he was prone to rail at the foolishness of women. He did not stop to reflect that there was another side to the shield. Certainly not. The woman was clearly and wholly in the wrong. Adam, I believe, was the first man to express this opinion. His sons have been following in his footsteps ever since.

Came a night of heavy rain and wind. Billy Wingo, a lamp on the table at his elbow, was reading a Denver newspaper. A sudden gust drove a spatter of rain across the windows. There was a soft thump followed by a sliding sound against the outside door. Some one uttered in a woman's voice a muffled wail.

Billy went at once to the door and lifted the latch. The wind pushed it back against him and flung a spray of wet into his face. There was something lying on the doorstep and sill, something that moved a little. Billy let the door fly open. The something was apparently a woman in distress. Billy bent down, endeavoring to slip his hands under her shoulders. But the woman was heavy and her clothing was very wet and slippery. Billy bent a little lower and—Smash!

"He's coming out of it," a voice was saying. "I saw his eyelids flicker."

"You hit him a mite too hard," declared another voice. "Y'oughta used a club instead of that wagon wrench."

"I didn't know how hard his head was," offered a third voice, "and we can't afford to take chances. You know that. Anybody, he's coming along all right, so what's the odds?"

"He's ruined that pillow," complained the first voice. "And I know he's bled on through the sheets into the mattress. Spoil the mattress, that will. Cake the feathers all up. Make 'em nubbly."

"Don't be so dainty, Sam," laughed the second voice. "You're so all-fired fat what's a rough mattress to you? Sleep on the floor, and you wouldn't know the difference."

Billy kept his eyes shut, although he was now completely conscious. His head ached like forty. Seemed as if the whole top had come off and dozens of little devils were inside hammering like mad. He believed he knew the owners of those three voices. Sam Larder, Felix Craft and Tip O'Gorman. He opened his eyes. Yes, he was right. There they were, the three of them. But it was daylight, and a day of sunshine too. And the last thing he remembered was a night of wind and rain.

Tip gave back his look with a smile. Sam Larder and Felix Craft did not smile. Their faces were serious.

"Glad to see you're coming round," said Tip O'Gorman. "Here, let me fix that bandage. Looks as if it might be slipping. How you feel—pretty good?"

"Pretty good—considering," replied Bill.

"That's fine, fine. Want a li'l something to eat?"

"Rather have a drink."

The cool water revived him like wine. He lay back on the pillows greatly refreshed. He thought his head ached a little less, perhaps.

"Where am I and how did I get here?"

"You're in my house," said Sam Larder. "You were—uh—brought here."

"After the roof feel on me?" said Billy, fingering the bandage round his head.

"Well, you see," said Tip, in some embarrassment, "we knew you wouldn't have accepted our invitation unless you were knocked silly first. But I—I planned the whole thing, Bill—I didn't intend to keep you senseless as long as this. It's a matter of ten hours since you were hit. I didn't know but what maybe we were due to lose you, after all."

"That would have been a pity," said Billy.

"Wouldn't it? Yeah. Don't blame me for that crack, though. I told Crafty not to use anything made of iron. But I'm afraid he used his own judgment."

"I always do," said Felix Craft.

"Who was the woman?" inquired Billy.

"I was the woman," replied Craft demurely.

"That was one on me. But I'm still wonderin'. You fellers went to a lot of trouble to carry me clear out here. I suppose it's too much to hope you were seen doing it."

"I don't guess we were seen," said Tip. "We kind of took care not to be.

"How long do you count on boardin' me, Sam?"

"Just a li'l while," was the reply.

"No longer than is necessary," slipped in Tip, with emphasis on the last word.

"Necessary, huh. Necessary. I suppose you fellers think you'll be able to get Dan Slike off by kidnappin' me. You forget there's Riley Tyler."

"We know there's Riley Tyler," said Tip, "like we know Riley and Shotgun went to Hillsville yesterday and won't be back for three-four days. And about Dan Slike we don't care three whoops in hell. To tell you the truth, Bill, I'm surprised you don't know us better than that. We three didn't have any hand in that Walton business."

"I didn't really think you did," said Billy frankly, "but knowing how you and Tuckleton——"

"No, no, Bill," interrupted Tip hastily, "don't go fussin' about Rafe. That's a cat with another tail entirely. Your business right now this minute is with us. Our business is with you. Here we are. Here's you."

But Billy was apparently paying no further attention to Tip's words. He was looking at the ceiling. He was smiling. He chuckled.

"Do you know," he said, glancing sidewise at Tip, "when I was a kid, I often wondered how it would feel to be kidnapped. I had a idea it would be romantic sort of. But it ain't, not a mite. I feel like I'd been on a tear—head, y'understand, and mouth all furry and thirsty! Where's that pitcher? Oh, I can sit up all right."

He swung up to a sitting position with a lurch. "Here's how," he said, reaching for the pitcher.

He drank his fill and again lay down, supporting his head on a bent elbow.

"Crafty," he said severely, "why for are you monkeying with that gun?"

"I thought I had it hidden behind the table," replied Craft, shamefacedly depositing a six-shooter on the table in front of him.

He folded his arms behind the gun, but Billy noticed that the fingers of his right hand were touching the wood of the butt.

"The truth is," said Tip, "that we intend to watch you pretty closely. But you haven't any kick coming. You ain't gagged or hogtied even."

"Seeing that Sam's house is a mile out of town and a good eight hundred yards west of the Hillsville trail, gaggin' me and tying me up are hardly necessary. Sam, that water sure gave me a appetite. I feel considerable better. Suppose now you send along the chambermaid with several eggs, more or less, let 'em lay, and two-three-four slices of nice ham, and some fried potatoes, and bread and butter, and a li'l jam if you have it—if not, I'll take what you've got handy and some coffee, black, with sugar. Better have her bring a full pot of coffee. And Samuel, my own dear boyhood friend, will you send along the golden-haired chambermaid?"

"That's the way," approved Tip, smiling, as Sam Larder slumped kitchenward. "Make a joke of it. No sense in taking it to heart."

"Tip," said Bill, "I always knew you were an old scoundrel."

Tip looked hurt. "The scoundrel perhaps, and only perhaps, mind you, but I deny the age. I'm only a short fifty."

"Plenty of time for you to be hung yet," admitted Bill. "Felix, old settler, that gun of yours is pointing right at me. Is it easy on the trigger?"

"Mighty easy," said Felix Craft, altering slightly the angle of the weapon's barrel.

Billy hitched himself up to a sitting position. By means of the bed's two pillows he made himself comfortable against the wall.

"You spoke of some business," he said. "Le's hear it."

Tip cleared his throat. "It ain't much. All we want is for you to leave us alone."

"Seems to me you asked me something like that before," mused Billy.

"And your answer was unsatisfactory."

"What kind of an answer did you expect?"

"We expected you'd be a sensible man, the sort of feller who wouldn't throw down his friends."

"You said that before, too."

Tip nodded. "We still think maybe you can be brought to see our side of it."

"We don't want to do anything we'd all be sorry for," Felix Craft nipped in significantly.

"Hear the clanking chains," said Billy. "The man's threatening me, I do believe."

Craft returned his stare woodenly.

"You see," Tip remarked, "we expect to do a li'l business this year."

"Do you think this will be a good year for business?" Billy cocked a questioning eyebrow.

"We hope so, we hope so," pronounced Tip. "I'll be open with you, Bill. If you keep on nosing into our affairs the way you've started in, we'll lose money. Couldn't help but lose it. You didn't take office till the first of January and business won't be done in any volume till well into the year——"

"When the ground is hard," interrupted Billy, "and the volume of business won't be apt to leave telltale tracks. I get the innards of your meaning."

"Exactly. So you see how absolutely necessary it is for us to be sure that you won't horn into any of our li'l deals."

"We intend to be sure," declared Craft.

"Tip," said Billy, "that man is threatening me again. You stop him. He makes me nervous. Sometimes I almost think he means it."

"I'm afraid he does mean it," said Tip. "I—we don't want to do you any harm, Bill, physically or otherwise. You understand, that, don't you?"

"Seein' that you keep on tellin' me so over and over, I'll try and believe it. But what I want to know is if you decide finally to do me harm, physically or otherwise, what kind of harm you'll do. Will you drop me over the cliff on a dark and moonlight night and dash my quiverin' body to death on the cruel rocks below, or will you slip a li'l wolf poison into my morning coffee, or will you just cut my throat or what? I'd like to know. Honest, I would. My curiosity is standin' on its hind legs."

"It's no joke," Tip told him seriously.

"Of course it ain't. Who said it was. Not me. I'm serious as lead in your lung. Likewise I'm scared to death. If I was standin' up you'd hear my knees clacking together. Not to disappoint you I'll shake the bed. There! How's that?"

He grinned at them disarmingly. They did not return the grin.

"Might as well tell him now," suggested Craft.

Tip nodded. "I was going to. Bill, you left your office in Golden Bar last night." He paused, looking up at the ceiling.

"You needn't try to make me think you're making it up as you go along," Billy fleered with a wink. "I know better. Flap along, flap along."

"You took your rifle with you and both your guns," resumed Tip. "You went to the stable and saddled your red-and-white pinto and rode out of town."

"Right down Main Street, I suppose, where everybody could see me?"

"Nothing so coarse as that. You were careful to strike the shelter of the cottonwoods that grow so close to the rear of your corral."

Bill's eyes widened with well-feigned enjoyment. He was reasonably sure he knew what was coming. "I'll bet somebody saw me, alla same."

"Several people saw you, saw you so plainly that they could swear to your identity on the witness stand."

Billy leaned forward interestedly. "They could, but would they?"

"All five of 'em would."

"Five, huh? Don't you think that's a good many folks to have on hand so providentially, a night like last night? Raining and blowing for Gawd's sake, remember? You don't want to override this thing—whatever it is."

Felix Craft laughed sardonically. "We won't. Don't you worry any about that, Bill. We've thought it out pretty average careful."

"That's good. I'd be sorry to see you fellers make any mistakes. Go'n, Tippy, old settler. You've got to where me and my gallant steed are a-skulking in the underbrush with half the town watching us like lynxes. What did I do next?"

"You haven't done it yet. And whether you do it or not all depends on yourself. If you stay stubborn, then this afternoon you'll hold up the Hillsville stage."

"Don't lemme forget myself too much. Will I wear a mask?"

"Naturally—and your horse will be seen, your red-and-white pinto that everybody knows. It's something like the trick you worked on Driver and Slike. We listened very careful to your testimony at the hearing. We're grateful to you for the idea, Bill."

Bill tossed away all credit with a wave of his hand. "Oh, you clever fellers would have thought of something just as good. Trust you. Next."

"Everybody on the stage will be able to swear to your clothes and your horse and your guns. One of your guns has a brass guard. That gun especially will be remembered."

"You do think of everything," Bill said in admiration. "But does it sound natural that I'd be using my horse, especially such a conspicuous-lookin' horse as that red-and-white pinto, right where everybody in the stage could see him? Even if I am crazy enough to hold up the stage, you've gotta give me credit for a li'l sense."

"I said there wouldn't be any coarse work," averred Tip. "Your horse will be tied in a li'l patch of woods put of sight of the stage, but just about the time you're lining the passengers up on the trail, your horse will bust out of the li'l patch of woods and show himself plain for everybody to take a look at."

"Somebody will have to drive him out. Suppose he's seen, too?"

Tip shook a lazy head. "Not him. He won't be seen. It will all look mighty natural like an accident. Somethin' scared the horse, that's all."

"After I've robbed the stage what do I do?"

"There you have me," confessed Tip. "I don't know what you'll do. You might ride away and keep going for several weeks. That would be the sensible thing to do."

"Or I can ride back to Golden Bar and be arrested by my own deputies for stage robbery. I don't suppose anybody would believe it if I said I was kidnapped."

Tip smiled slightly. "They might. You never can tell what people would believe."

Billy drew his knees up to the level of his chin and hugged them.

"No," he drawled, "too fishy. Folks don't kidnap folks nowadays—only in books. Shucks, I'll bet you fellers were counting on just that particular snag in human nature. Looks like you've got me, don't it?"

Tip nodded his head. "Looks like it."

"You've only got yourself to blame," said Felix Craft, studying the gun on the table so handy to his fingers.

"True," acquiesced Billy. "I've only got myself to blame. So what care I for poverty or precious stones? Look here, fellow citizens, who is going to take my part in this stage hold-up?"

"I will," said Craft modestly. "I rode your pinto out of town last night, and I think I made a good impression. Yeah, I'm sure I did. And I have more than a sneaking idea I can get away with the hold-up."

"Don't doubt it," said Billy. "Don't doubt it for a minute. You've got nerve enough, I know that, and we're about of a size. I—uh—I thought there was something familiar about that vest you're wearing. And are those my other pants you have on? The table hides 'em so I can't tell for sure."

"They are your other pants, and your coat and hat are hanging on a hook in the kitchen. I had to put your spurs on my boots though. Yours were too small."

"Oh, I'm sorry," mourned Billy, genuine concern in his tone. "If I'd only known— However, suppose some one in the stage puts a hole in your face right over the eye, Felix. Have you thought of that?"

Craft nodded. "We have to take some chances."

"That's so. You've got a sporting spirit after all, Crafty. You'd think running a gambling house so long would have taken it out of you, sort of. Might be your ranch has saved you. And suppose I don't feel like having you risk your valuable life, Crafty, what then?"

"Then the deal can be arranged," Tip answered for Craft. "Give us your word Bill, and you can walk out that door and ride back to Golden Bar right after breakfast. Right now, if you don't want to wait."

Billy looked incredulous. "You mean to tell me, Tip, that you'd take my bare word?"

"You're whistling we would," Tip declared heartily. "Everybody knows your word is good."

"I've never broken it yet, but don't you see, once broken, what good is it?"

"But if you give it, you wouldn't break it. We know you."

"But if I give my word to you to do this thing, I will have broken it—to the territory. When I took office I made oath to obey and uphold the laws. I guess maybe you forgot that."

Tip looked a trifle dashed. "Well—" he began.

"You see," interrupted Billy, "If I broke my word to the territory, I'd break it to you likely. Anyway, what guarantee have you that I wouldn't?"

"Looks like there was only one trail out," Craft said briefly.

"Gimme something to eat first," Billy implored, rubbing his empty stomach.

"We'll do that much for you," said Tip. "And while you're eatin' you think it over. There's a lot to be said for what we want you to do. Think how easy it is, Bill. Just go a li'l slow is all we want. And think what you get by it—complete freedom otherwise and that ten thousand a year easy money we spoke of a while back. Ten thousand ain't to be sneezed at these days. I dunno where you'd make it any easier."

"Neither do I," Billy admitted frankly.

"You don't want to go to jail now, do you, Bill?" wheedled Tip.

"Sure not," was the prompt answer.

"Of course you don't. And if you decide to accept our offer, Bill, the secret will be left behind right in this room. No one will ever know anything about it. To your friends you will be one of the straightest sheriffs Crocker County ever had. Oh, I know what you're thinking of. You're afraid of what Hazel Walton might think. But——"

"Let's leave her out of this," Bill struck in sharply.

"All right," acquiesced Tip, with a slight cough, "we will. Alla same, Bill, who's to ever know what you did?"

"I'd know for one," Billy observed simply. "And suppose I tell somebody? You know I never could keep a secret."

"I told you how it would be, Tip," remarked Craft. "He's too damn honest for any use."

Billy nodded his gratitude. "Felix, I thank you. At least you are a friend of mine."

"You forget me," said the disappointed Tip. "If it hadn't been for the ground-and-lofty talking done by yours truly, you, William, would have already gone where the good Indians go. I can tell you, Felix and Sam are downright disgruntled with you."

"Felix, I take it all back," grieved Billy. "At the first convenient opportunity I shall drop a li'l arsenic in your coffee or a li'l lead pill in your system. I dunno which yet. And that goes for you too, Sam."

"What's that?" queried Sam, entering with a large platter of ham, eggs and potatoes and setting it down on the table. When Bill had explained, he smiled grimly. "Yep," said Sam Larder. "You've been a thorn in our well-known side for some time. Trimming you off the parent stem would do you—and us—a heap of good."

"I see," remarked Billy, sliding from the bed and hooking up a chair to the table, "I see that the patient is not yet out of danger. But the doctors have not completely despaired of his life. How about it, Tip? You haven't given me up yet, have you?"

"Bill," said Tip irritably, "you're a fool."

"But not a damn fool," returned Bill with his mouth full. "You'll have to admit there is a method in my madness."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

OBSCURING THE ISSUE

"Well," said Felix Craft, attempting a pleasantry, "how do I look?"

"You look," said Billy, following a meticulous survey of his questioner's attire, "you look like Mr. Felix Craft, our genial gambler and non-resident ranch owner."

"Shucks, I was hoping I'd look like you. I'd sure enjoy making a good appearance. Maybe the mask will make a difference."

"Mask won't disguise your voice any."

"I'll talk like I had a cold. Oh, I won't have any trouble making folks think it's you."

Felix Craft spoke with tremendous confidence. More than the occasion warranted, thought Billy Wingo.

"Why don't you wear my star?" suggested Bill. "Then folks would sure think it was me."

"Too raw, and you know it. Even you wouldn't do a fool thing like that."

"Thanks for the compliment," Billy said humbly. "Suppose now you get plugged, Felix?"

"I won't get plugged. Not me," declared Craft, pulling the six-shooter with the brass trigger guard and making sure that the hammer rested on an empty chamber.

"What makes you think you won't be plugged?" persisted Billy.

Craft darted a quick look at his questioner. "Because I know I won't. I'll have the drop on 'em, don't you see? Nobody will dare cut down on me."

"How do you know they won't?"

"I'm sure, that's all."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I am, that's why!" was the snappish reply. Then in a pleasanter tone Craft continued, "Because, Bill, I've figured out my chances carefully. Not once in a thousand times do stage passengers resist a road agent."

"How about the Wells-Fargo guard?"

"He ain't riding this trip."

"How do you know he ain't?"

"Now don't you worry how we know, Bill. We know, and you can bet on that. It's like I told you, we've figured this thing out to the last li'l detail. We——"

"You bet we have," cut in Tip quickly. "For the last time, Bill, hadn't you better change your mind?"

"I couldn't change it for the last time till I'd changed it at least two other times, Tip," Billy drawled, one-half his brain busy trying to fathom why Tip should have interrupted Craft so brusquely. Tip never did anything without reason. Never. And why was Craft so unnaturally sure that he could hold up the stage without being shot? Unnaturally, exactly. Because Felix Craft was one not given to explaining anything he did. Yet in this instance he had taken the trouble to explain at some length. Why?

Billy tilted back on the rear legs of his chair, cocked his heels up on the table and stared at the ceiling.

"Well, how about it?" Tip demanded impatiently. "You going to be sensible?"

Billy waved a hand for silence and then sang in a whining bobtail bass:

"Ain't that a nice song?" Billy broke off, glancing round him for praise. "Lot of truth in that song, too. Especially that part about crazy folks. They always are mad—like you and Felix, Tip, and our fat friend, Mr. Samuel Larder. Why all the delay, Felix? If you really are gonna to be a bold bad man, go'n and be one. Don't dally round here any longer. Suppose you miss the stage? You'd be disappointed. So would I. Because I don't want anything to prevent you from having a fair crack at it. I'd like you to have every chance—but I forgot, you ain't taking any chances, are you? This is a sure thing."

Billy, through half-shut eyes, was watching the men he was talking to. He was watching Sam Larder especially. For Sam was not a good poker player. Never had been. His plump features were too expressive. And now the open-faced Sam was looking at Billy with a slightly worried expression. Furthermore, the worry was tinged with some astonishment. At least, so it seemed to Billy. Again why?

Here were three men, each of whom within five minutes had done that which was not wholly warranted by the apparent facts. He again had cropped up and out those unnatural circumstances so ably dwelt upon by Mr. William Noy. As has been said, the law abhors such things and seeks a remedy. There is always a remedy; and investigation, patient and thorough, will always find it. Billy rather prided himself on being a patient and thorough investigator.

Nevertheless he did not fail to realize that he was in a tight hole. He felt the pinch already. So he smiled at the three men his sunniest smile.

"Looks like a wild night on the canal," he said calmly. "I expect the mules are pinning back their ears. Yeah. Going, Crafty? Well, be good and—oh, say, Crafty, ain't Jerry Fern the stage driver this trip?"

"I don't know," was the short reply.

"But you knew everything else," complained Billy, making a mental note of another unnatural circumstance. "Seems like you'd oughta know this, too."

"Well, I don't," Craft tossed back over his shoulder, as he flung out of the house.

The door slammed. Billy looked at Sam Larder and grinned. "If this is Jerry Fern's trip, and I'm most sure it is, Felix will be out of luck. Jerry is one stage driver who will always give a bandit a battle."

"Oh, I guess Crafty will get the drop on him all right," Sam Larder averred easily,—too easily by half.

"I can see," said Billy with strange placidity, "I can see that I've got to get out of here."

Both Sam and Tip laughed,—Tip heartily, Sam with a false note.

"Well, anyway," resumed Billy, "I've got my choice of hitting the trail or being arrested."

Tip shook his head. "You haven't any choice—none."

"Huh?" Surprisedly.

"Yeah. You see, we talked it over again while you were asleep a while back, and we decided if you couldn't see our way of it and be sensible like we want, that we'd better just put you where you won't be mislaid. Givin' you your choice of ridin' away or bein' arrested like I said at first would be a bad move. If you chose to hit the trail— You're a sport with ideas, Bill, and you might think up one to put the kybosh on us. But if you're in jail, your ideas won't help you much. See?"

"I see I ain't gonna get a chance for my alley a-tall. Who'll arrest me—my own deputies?"

"No, we'll do that. Here's the story: Your horse gave out and Sam caught you trying to rustle a pony out of his corral. Sam threw down on you, held you up and when we, Sam, Crafty and I, y'understand searched you, we found on you a couple of pocketbooks and Jerry Fern's watch. See?"

"I see, all right. I see you haven't been quite open with our friend Mr. Craft."

"How do you make that out?"

Billy hunched his shoulders. He was observing the marked unease that spread upon the countenance of Sam Larder. Tip was forced to repeat his question.

Billy gazed at him vacantly. "Huh? How—uh—oh, you want to know how, do you? Is that it? Yeah. Well, I'll tell you. Here you knew alla time that Jerry Fern was going to drive the stage this trip and yet you didn't tell Crafty. He didn't know who was the driver when I asked him, remember? You should have told him, Tip. Skin game not to."

Tip laughed. Was the laughter forced? Billy thought it sounded as if it were. But he couldn't be sure. Not with Tip O'Gorman. For Tip was a good poker player. Still——

Billy wagged a forefinger at Tip. "Why didn't you tell Crafty, you careless child?"

"Crafty knew, all right," Tip stated. "He was just joking with you, I guess."

"I guess so too," drawled Billy Wingo. "I guess so too."

He stood up and started to walk casually toward the door.

"That will be about far enough," said Tip.

Billy's hands fell away from the latch. "If that gun goes off, it'll make a fine mess on the floor."

"You come back and sit on the bed again," directed Tip, the six-shooter trained unwaveringly on the captive's abdomen. "Of course," he added, "you might try the windows. But even if I didn't drill you three times where you live while you were doing it, you can't wiggle through those windows. Your shoulders are too broad and the sashes are too narrow. That's why we picked this room. Only one in the house with small windows."

"I'd noticed that," said Billy, returning to the bed. "How about a drink, Tip? I'm thirsty."

"Sam will get you a drink," said Tip.

Billy smiled. "Why not you? Can't you trust me with Sam? Think I'll corrupt his morals or something?"

"There's no telling what you'll do, Bill, and as I may have told you once or twice we can't afford to take any chances."

"When am I going to be arrested for rustling one of Sam's horses?"

"Soon after Crafty gets here."

Billy's face assumed a peevish expression. "Say, look here, Tip, I don't just cotton to the idea of havin' Sam the one to throw down on me and hold me up. I've got my pride, such as it is, and I'd hate for folks to go round blatting that a slow-pulling sport like Sam Larder held me up. Can't you make it yourself, Tip? You've got a reputation. I dunno that I'd feel so bad about it if it was you."

"Shucks, Bill, you're too sensitive. I'm afraid we'll have to let the scheme go through as it lays. I don't believe in changing any part of a plan once I've started to carry it out."

"There's something in that," admitted Billy. "I'm a li'l superstitious that way myself. Ain't Sam taking a goshawful time to that drink? Maybe you better step out and look for him."

Tip grinned. "I hear him comin' now."

"Sam," said Billy, when the owner of the house appeared with the drink, "Sam, how about a li'l hot something to eat? I know it's only the shank of the afternoon, but I'm hungry and I probably have a long hard night ahead of me."

"You have, all right," concurred Sam. "All your own fault, too. But I expect you know what's best."

Sam eased his fat self into a chair and began to construct a cigarette.

Billy elevated his eyebrows. "Say. I thought I asked you for something to eat?"

Sam ran his tongue along the side of the cigarette. "I heard you, but I don't cook a thing till supper. That's flat. I been in and out of that kitchen all day, and I've got enough, you bet you."

"You don't have to cook anythin' yourself. Let your cook do it."

"I let him go to town for the day."

"I don't s'pose you could persuade one of your boys to throw a li'l bite together for me, now, could you?"

Sam shook a decided head. "I couldn't, Bill. There ain't a boy on the place. I sent them all down on the Wagonjack to fence off a quicksand."

Billy closed his eyes to conceal the satisfaction in their depths. Not a man on the place! Which was just what he had been working to find out. But the odds were still two to one, and an armed two to a weaponless one at that. When Craft returned, they would be three to one, provided Billy still was a prisoner.

He surveyed his captors through drop-lidded eyes. Sam Larder was looking out of the window. But Tip was on the alert, even as he had been from the beginning. And Billy knew well that Tip would not hesitate to shoot. Most decidedly the future did not look bright and shining. But Billy's was a confident nature.

"What's that?" queried Tip.

"What do—oh, that! Simon says 'thumbs up,' you mean? It doesn't mean anythin' serious, Tip. Just another way of saying, 'Faint heart never won a bet in its life' and 'It's always darkest 'round midnight.' Don't mind if I take a snooze, do you, Tippy, old boy?"

Billy rolled over on his stomach, rammed his head into the pillow and completely relaxed his body, but, although his breathing soon became deceptively regular, he was far from being asleep. He was thinking as purposefully as ever he had in his life. He had to escape. He had to! To permit his enemies to do this thing was intolerable. There was a way out. Every strait, no matter how close and awkward it may be, has its way out.

He built many plans while he lay there. But there was a flaw in each and every one of them. His brain was still feverishly busy when Felix Craft returned about the middle of the afternoon.

As the door opened and Craft entered, Billy sat up. "Have a nice time?" he drawled.

"Went through like clockwork," replied Craft, slumping into a chair beside the table.

"Not even a li'l teeny-weeny hole in you anywhere?" Billy demanded hopefully. "Hell, I shore had a better opinion of Jerry Fern than that."

"Jerry didn't do any fightin' to-day," said Felix. "Handed over his watch like a major."

"Yeah, Tip said you'd take his watch. Funny you didn't know Jerry Fern was driving this trip when I asked you. Tip knew."

"Oh, I knew all right," Craft said carelessly. "Lord A'mighty, I'm hungry. My stomach is sticking to my backbone closer than a postage stamp to a letter. I ain't had a thing to eat since breakfast. Got any more eggs and ham, Sam?"

"If you want anything to eat, you can cook it yourself," said Sam. "It's like I told Bill here, I ain't goin' into that kitchen till suppertime."

"That's always the way," grumbled Craft, kicking his chair back. "Here I ride from hell to breakfast and back—and I wanna say again that having that hold-up fifteen miles from here was too much of a good thing. Just as well have had it two or three miles away. It wouldn't have made a bit of difference, not a smidgin, by Gawd."

"You know, Felix," defended Tip, "that we had it fifteen miles away so the give-out horse of Bill's would look more natural."

"Damn his give-out horse," snarled Craft, moving stiffly toward the hall leading to the kitchen. "I wish it had give out before I was born."

"So you found out how rough-gaited the pinto was, did you, Felix?" Billy observed sweetly. "Do you know, I had an idea you would. Yeah. You don't ride enough, that's whatsa matter. Stick too close behind your faro box, you do. Y'oughta try the open air and the range more. Tell you, Felix, I'll gamble you'll do more ridin' and less card playin' in the next sixty days than you ever did in any two months of your life before. In round numbers I'll bet you ride more than six hundred miles in the next two months. Go you a hundred even. The bet payable in Golden Bar sixty days—say any time after the first day of June."

"Humor him, Crafty," suggested Tip, glad of the diversion. "Sometimes they turn real violent."

"Make it five hundred even," said Craft, who was nothing if not commercial.

Billy smiled pityingly. "You poor feller! But you've asked for it. Five hundred she is. It'll have to be a finger bet, because I haven't a cent with me."

"Your word's good," said Craft and went on his way.

"How about you fellers?" Billy pursued brightly. "Any chance of my turning a honest penny? I'll go you both the same as Crafty. I suppose my word's good."

"Better than gold," declared Tip, "but I don't see how you're going to check up on anybody's riding."

Billy waved a complacent hand. "That's the least of my troubles. How about it? You fellers want to bet? No? Aw right, my loss is your gain. Tippy, I wonder if you'd mind opening the door and hollering to Felix to fry me up a mess of eggs while he's at it? Tell him to let 'em lay. That's the way I like 'em. I thank you. Tip, you've made a mistake."

"How?"

"Having that hold-up fifteen miles away and then having me arrested here so close to Golden Bar. You poor flap, is it reasonable to suppose I'd hold up the Hillsville stage and then come scamperin' right home, especially when I knew my horse had been seen? You'll find the judge and jury lookin' cross-eyed at that li'l bit. Yeah, flaw in your title, Tippy. Y'oughta be more careful."

"Bill's right," said Sam Larder unexpectedly. "I always thought fifteen miles away was too far, and I know the jury will think it's funny he came right back to Golden Bar. That don't look natural. Nawsir."

"Blah!" snorted Tip. "You never thought anything about it till Bill pointed it out to you, and at that, he's wrong. And anyway, he ain't arrested yet. We can always rub out Bill if we feel like it. This is one county that has plenty of good places to leave a man—places where he won't be found for years and years, and not then, judging by the way the coyotes scatter a feller's bones. Have you thought of that, Bill? You'd better. So far I've been dead against making you hard to find, but if you keep on trying to show me where I'm wrong, maybe I'll accept your view of the case."

This was plain speaking. Billy accepted it at its face value. Tip was good-hearted enough. He had proved it. But he was desperate. He had proved that, too.

Billy smiled engagingly at Tip. "Shucks, I was only talking to you for your own good," he said in an injured tone. "And here you go and get all het up. You make me more tired than a day's work."

"We may make you tireder," was the grim return.

When Felix Craft brought the eggs, he drew up at one side of the table and Billy at the other. The platter of eggs was between them. Tip looked on from his seat near the fireplace. Sam lounged comfortably in his chair.

Billy looked with a dissatisfied air upon the eggs. "Ain't there any bread, Felix? One thing I like is to sort of smush a piece of bread round my eggs till it gets all gooey and good. A li'l butter on the bread wouldn't hurt neither."

So Felix made another trip to the kitchen. When he returned with the bread and butter, Billy discovered that the pepper had been overlooked.

"For Gawd's sake use salt on 'em!" implored Felix. "I never use pepper, I don't. Salt is just as good. Healthier, too."

"But I don't like salt," protested Billy. "I've got no manner of use for it. I want pepper, I do."

"Use salt," mumbled Craft, stoking busily.

Billy pushed right back from the table and refused to be comforted. "I want some pepper! Whatsa matter with you jiggers—tryin' to starve me to death? Sam, you lazy lump of slumgullion, get me some pepper, will you?"

"No, I won't. I'm too comfortable and you're too finicky."

Bill glanced across at Tip. "You going to refuse me too, Tip, old citizen?"

"No," said Tip with a weary air, "I suppose not."

He arose and betook himself to the kitchen. Returning with a large old-fashioned tin pepper pot he thumped it down upon the table in front of the captive. "There y'are. Now, stop your squalling."

"Thank you, Tippy, I will. Yeah."

Billy scraped up to the table as Tip turned away. "What's the matter with this pepper pot, anyway?"

Tip turned to look. Billy picked up the pepper pot slowly and stared hard at it. Felix Craft craned his neck.

"I don't see anything the matter with it," said Craft.

"Don't you?" murmured Billy, his fingers busy with the removable top. "Look here."

Sam Larder did not move, but both Tip and Craft obeyed. In fact, they obeyed with such good will that the handful of pepper that Billy instantly swept into their faces dusted up their nostrils as well as into their eyes.

In throwing the pepper Billy had employed his left hand. This left hand had not completed the motion before Billy was reaching for the platter of eggs with his right hand.

It was unfortunate for Sam Larder that he was a slow-going gentleman. The platter struck him edgewise over the eye when his six-shooter had barely cleared the holster. The six-shooter thudded to the floor. Sam and his chair went over backward and lay together in a tangle amid the fragments of broken platter and the remains of several eggs. On the way down some of the eggs painted Sam's countenance and part of his shirt a bright yellow. But Sam made no attempt to rise and scrape himself off. He was unconscious.

Billy, arriving in Sam's immediate neighborhood a split second after Sam struck the floor, scooped up the fallen six-shooter and wheeled back to face his other two enemies. But they were too occupied with their very real misery to be an immediate menace. Felix Craft was sitting on the floor, clawing at his eyes and swearing continuously. Tip, coughing and sneezing, was not swearing. Perhaps he had not sufficient breath. At any rate, he was on his feet, arms spread wide, feeling his way along the wall toward the door giving into the hall.

Billy cat-footed up behind Tip and snatched away his six-shooter. Tip spun round at the touch, but Billy dodged away from the clutching hands.

Bang! a revolver bullet cut a button from his vest and tucked into the wall at his elbow. Billy's sudden movement had saved his life. He leaped back another two yards to get out of the smoke and crouched, balancing his tense body on the balls of his feet.

He saw beyond the table Felix Craft with a gun in each hand. The gambler's face, despite the tears that overflowed his eyes and ran down his cheeks, was fairly murderous.

"Tip! Where are you? Don't you move, Bill," Craft was saying, the barrels of his two guns weaving to and fro uncertainly. "Get away from that door, Bill. Don't you try and get away. I can see you."

Billy leaned forward, picked up a fork from his set-out on the table and flung it across the room. It fell with a clatter. Craft fired at the sound. The next instant Billy kicked him under the chin and flattened him out.

"First time I ever saw a feller shoot by ear," observed Billy, calmly divesting Craft of his gun belt and exchanging Sam's six-shooter for his own gun with the brass-trigger guard. "He did pretty good, considering. Tip, don't you try to bluff me, like Crafty, that you can see. Hey! do you want to be the third senseless man in this room?"

Tip answered the question by halting his groping way toward the speaker. He stood still, his body swaying, his muscular fingers locked in the palms of his hands. Billy stooped over the senseless Craft and whipped off his neckerchief.

"Put your hands behind you, Tip," he directed.

"Damfi will!" Tip declared.

"I don't want to whang you over the head, Tip, but I'll have to if you won't be good. Stick 'em behind you."

Tip hesitated, then suddenly he thrust his hands behind him. Billy slipped around him, laid his six-shooter on a chair seat and drew the handkerchief beneath Tip's crossed wrists. The next instant Tip had whirled about, Tip's knees were between his legs and Tip's long arms were wrapped round him in an under-hold.

Tip was essaying the wrestling chip Cumberland men call the swinging hype. It is a crack chip and when well done is disastrous to an opponent. But it must be well done—the right arm under, hyping with the right leg and striking outside with the left. Fortunately for Bill, Tip, although his right arm was under in a strong hold, had made the mistake of sticking his left knee between Bill's legs. He struck outside with his right leg and missed. With the right arm under, he had not the leverage he should have had.

Billy, fighting for his life, dropped his arms—back-heeled Tip and ran over him. Thump! The wrestlers, Tip underneath, landed full upon the senseless back of Felix Craft. Tip freed a hand, writhed his body sidewise and struck viciously at Billy's unprotected stomach. He struck too low and the blow glanced off Billy's hipbone. Billy, striking in turn, drove a smashing right against the point of Tip's chin. Tip merely grunted and struck again at Billy's stomach. Billy parried the blow with his left and brought up his knee with the laudable intention of kicking Tip in the abdomen.

Blinded though he was, Tip apparently sensed what was impending, for he crowded his body against Billy and struck outside with all his might. In an instant Tip was on top and Billy underneath. The older man jammed both thumbs into Billy's windpipe and wrenched himself astride Billy's body. The strangling Billy spread wide his legs, hunched up his knees, planted both feet against Tip's ribs and straightened his legs with a jerk. Tip's hands were torn loose from Billy's throat and Tip himself crashed backward against the wall.

Billy scrambled to his feet and without the slightest hesitation clipped Tip over the head with the barrel of his six-shooter. Tip remained where he was. Billy stood over him, pistol poised, till he made sure he was senseless. Then he took pains to make fast the trio's respective arms and legs with strips torn from a nightgown belonging to Sam. He likewise removed his spurs from Craft's heels to his own.

This being done, he stripped Tip and Sam of their gun belts, gathered up all the guns and ran out into the kitchen. Here, on the floor, Craft had thrown his saddle, bridle and saddle blanket. Bill added the lot to his burden and sped out to the corral. The pinto was there, looking very tired. Bill hastily unstrapped his rope and dropped the loop over a rangy-bodied chestnut with good legs and a mule stripe. This animal he bridled and saddled, left it standing and ran back to Sam's storeroom for another set of horse equipment. It was his laudable intention to pack the unconscious Felix into town and jail him for the stage-coach robbery. It was a bold plan, but Billy always rather favored the bold plan. The plan had not occurred to him till almost the instant of throwing the pepper so he had had no time to thoroughly mature it, but it seemed to contain more elements of success than any other because it would forestall his enemies' scheme so neatly. With Craft in jail and wearing the clothing worn by the robber, to which clothing the complaisant Jerry Fern and his passengers would undoubtedly be prepared to swear, it would be hard indeed, if Bill could not fasten the robbery on him, Craft.

He swore bitterly as he pulled taut the cinch strap of the second horse. Fastening the robbery on Craft was one thing, obtaining his indictment and conviction were decidedly two others. What though Judge Donelson would do his best to see justice done, the doing of said justice would rest in the laps of twelve men, each and every one of them the opposite of good and true. But at least he, Billy Wingo, would not be the victim of an outrageous conspiracy. There was that much gained.

He led the two horses to the kitchen door and went within to fetch out Felix Craft.

It must have been his good angel who caused him to look through the front window. He looked and saw a cloud of horsemen scouring toward the ranch house. Sam's field glasses were on the shelf above the window. He opened the window, snatched up the glasses and focussed them on the approaching riders. He immediately recognized, to his great disgust, half a dozen of Sam Larder's punchers. Obviously they had completed the fencing-off of the quicksand sooner than expected.

"This," said Billy, dropping the glasses and leaving the room at speed, "is no place for me."

At the first sight of the riders he had abandoned the plan of taking Felix Craft to town. He would be hard put to escape himself. A burdened led horse was an impossibility, even if he had had time to carry out Craft and tie him to the saddle. The punchers would be at the ranch house in another sixty seconds, and if they should discover him with their bound and unconscious employer and two of his friends, they would shoot first and ask questions later. Any one would,—under the circumstances.

Billy topped his mount, struck in the spurs and fled. The other horse he perforce left standing.

As he flashed past the corner of the building, one of Larder's punchers raised a yell. Some well-meaning fool fired. Zung-g! the bullet buzzed overhead. Smack! Zung-g! Smack! Several bits of lead either ripped past his ears or tucked into the posts of the corral he was skirting. It was borne in upon him that the Larder employees were mistaking him for a horse thief, or some one worse.

He leaned over his saddle horn and began to ride. From the Larder corral to a clump of trees on the edge of a draw was a long hundred yards. As Billy galloped in among the trees he glanced over his shoulder. The corral concealed the horsemen. He pulled up at the edge of the draw, slid down the bank in a shower of stones and dirt, turned sharp to the left at the bottom and tore ahead. A mile farther on he looked back. No one was in sight yet.

"Ropin' themselves fresh horses," was his muttered verdict. "Damitall, running away was about the worst thing I could have done, after all! But what else was there to do, I'd like to know? If I'd stayed I'd have been plugged for a holdup and now I'm a heap likely to be lynched for a horse thief and a hold-up both."

He knew what he might expect from the brisk Larder outfit after Sam had given it his careful version of the stage robbery.

"And that goes double for the rest of the county," he said to himself, staring ahead over the flattened ears of his racing horse. "It looks like a cold day for Billy Wingo. I'll have to do some almighty tall hustling, that's a cinch."

Two miles and a half from the clump of trees at the back of Larder's corral he turned his horse and scuffled up the right-hand bank of the draw. At the top he looked back. He could see the clump of trees quite plainly and below it, in the bottom of the draw, were several black beads. He counted four beads. No doubt the remaining beads were spreading out to right and left to head him off.

"Thank Gawd for the mule stripe," he muttered piously, trotting onward. "We'll diddle 'em yet, old-timer."

Old-timer cocked an ear. His muscles were moving rhythmically, his long free stride was steady and collected. His breathing, while audible, showed no catchiness or other sign of distress. He was good for many miles yet, this chestnut with the mule stripe.

"Alla same, I've got to have another horse," Billy decided. "The quicker this feller gets back on the Larder range the better."

He didn't quite know how to get another horse. When he came in town to assume the duties of his office he brought with him from his ranch two horses besides the red-and-white pinto. His remaining horses he had turned out into the hills, upon whose tops, when the snow flew, they could grub up a living without too much difficulty. These hills lay sixty miles away beyond the Tuckleton range, and every horse on them would be carrying a grass belly.

"Not one of 'em fit for hard riding right off the reel," he told himself, and cursed a little. "Looks like Sam Prescott was my one best bet."

He came to a stream and rode in it till almost sunset when he left it, dismounted beside a tall cottonwood and shinned to the top. To his earnest satisfaction he saw, hopelessly distant and following utterly wrong lines, the tiny black beads that were his pursuers.

"And that's that," said Billy Wingo, rustling groundward rapidly.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WHAT HAZEL THOUGHT

Nate Samson, weighing sugar for Hazel Walton, looked at her sidewise. "Heard the news, Hazel?"

She removed her gaze from the flyspecked window and stared abstractedly at Nate. "What news?"

Nate swelled his chest with satisfaction. Some people enjoy being the bearers of evil tidings. Besides, Nate had stopped going to see Hazel. Somehow he had been made to feel that his visits were not the bright spots in her drab existence that he had considered them to be. There was more than a little malice in Nate's make-up. And the news——

"Somebody killed Tip O'Gorman in his own house last night."

Nate's hand pushed the sliding weight several notches along the scale beam. Red Herring, the town marshal, slouching with seeming aimlessness against a showcase at the other end of the counter, covertly watched the girl.

"Somebody killed Tip O'Gorman in his own house last night," said Nate.

Hazel wondered why Nate's eyes never left her face. "Tip O'Gorman! He was one of Uncle Tom's friends. Who did it?"

Nate's eyes were fairly devouring her. The man looked positively pleased. "They don't know yet. But—" He paused.

She waited. What was he goggling and boggling at? "Well?"

"They found Bill Wingo's quirt on the floor beside the body and right inside the door a snakeskin hat-band the whole town knows belongs to Bill."

Hazel's cheeks began to glow. "That doesn't prove anything," she declared in a level voice. "Bill owns three quirts to my knowledge, and he hasn't worn that snake hatband since last July. It began to stretch then and was always working up off the crown, and he couldn't tighten it without ruining the skin, so he stopped wearing it."

"It worked off the crown once too often last night," offered Nate.

Hazel's black eyes were glittering through slitted eyelids. Really, Nate Samson should have been warned.

"You think Bill did it?" asked Hazel Walton.

Nate nodded. "So does everybody else."

This was not strictly true. Billy Wingo had several warm friends.

"At any rate," Nate pursued with relish, "there's a warrant out for Bill."

"Another warrant!" Hazel's hand moved imperceptibly nearer a broad-bladed cheese-knife that lay on the counter.

"Another warrant. You bet another warrant. That makes three counts he's wanted on—stage robbery, rustling that chestnut horse of Sam Larder's and now this murder. I always said Bill Wingo was too good to be true."

Hazel Walton made no further remark. She reached for the cheese-knife. Nate Samson ducked under the counter. The cheese-knife whirred within an inch of his prickling scalp and stuck quivering in the edge of a shelf.

"Liar!" announced Hazel in a loud, unsympathetic tone. "I'm only sorry I haven't a gun with me. Talking like that about a man you're not fit to say hello to. Here, I don't want any of this stuff! You can keep it."

So saying, she toppled over her whole pile of wrapped purchases and marched out of the store. The marshal followed her to the door. He returned to his post at the counter a minute later.

"It's all right, Nate," he said. "She's gone over to the other store."

Nate Samson emerged slowly. His pouchy cheeks were pale with fear. There was a dew of perspiration on his forehead.

"She—she threw a knife at me," said Nate Samson.

"It's stuck in the shelf behind you." Thus the marshal with indifference.

"That's assault with a deadly weapon," averred Nate, freeing the deadly weapon and putting it carefully out of reach of other possibly petulant customers. "Why didn't you arrest her, Red?"

"She missed you, Nate. She'd have had to cut you some before I could arrest her. 'Threaten or Inflict a wound,' the statutes say, and she didn't do either. No."

"But she might have," grumbled the discomforted Nate. "If I hadn't dodged, she'd have split my head open."

"That's so," the marshal assented with relish. "Do you know, Nate, I'm glad it happened. I dunno that I'd have thought of it if I hadn't seen her buzz that knife at you."

"Thought of what?" fretted Nate, stopping to gather up the parcels that had cascaded over his head to the floor. "What you talking about, anyway?"

The marshal settled himself to elucidate. "I know that Bill had cut you out with Hazel and——"

"No such thing," Nate contradicted sharply, with a reddening cheek. "No such thing. You got it all wrong, Red. I stopped going to see Hazel because it was so far and all. I—uh—I got tired ridin' all that distance."

"All right," the marshal gave in pacifically, "you stopped goin' to see her because it was so far from town. Bill started going to see her, and he went to see her right smart for a spell."

"He didn't go any more than that good-for-nothing flibberty-gibbet of a Riley Tyler or any other of half a dozen chaps," declared Nate.

"Aw right, aw right, have it your own way for Gawd's sake! If you don't shut up, I won't tell you what I think!"

"I'll tell you what I think! I think I'm a idjit to let you stop around my store alla time and fill your fat stomach to the neck with my prunes and dried peaches and sweet crackers, It would be bad enough if you took the salt fellers, but not you. Oh, no, not a-tall. Mr. Herring has to have sweet ones!"

"I like them best," Mr. Herring said matter-of-factly. "Lessee, where was I? Oh, yeah, you had gotten wore to a frazzle by the distance to the Walton ranch, and Bill had started goin' in that direction, himself. Then this winter sometime he stopped goin' to see Hazel, didn't he?"

"She got tired of him—naturally."

"You dunno what happened. Neither do I know. But that they had a fight is as good a guess as any, and Love's young dream went bust. We all thought so, didn't we, and while we were trailin' Bill we didn't take Hazel into consideration a-tall. But what happens to-day when you run down Bill to her face. She slings a knife at you so prompt and free you almost lost four fifths of your looks. She said things too, and all going to show that they've made it up and she's in love again with Bill. Well then, if she's in love with Bill, he's either coming to see her off and on or else she knows where he is."

"Not necessarily. It don't follow a-tall."

"You've soured on the girl, that's all the matter with you. I tell you, Nate, if a girl as pretty as Hazel Walton is in love with a feller, do you think for a minute he wouldn't come to see her sometimes, or anyway let her know where he is? Why, you poor flap, he'd be a wooden man if he didn't do one or both of those things. And Bill Wingo ain't anybody's wooden man. Not that boy. He's an upstandin' citizen with all his brains and legs and arms and fingers and feet, and that's the kind of hairpin he is."

"All that's a heap interesting, but let's hear the point of the joke—if there is one."

"The point is that if a gent was to watch Hazel Walton and her traipsings to and fro, by and by he'd get news of Bill Wingo. And I'm a great li'l watcher myself—especially when there's two thousand dollars reward, like there is for Bill. It's worth some trouble. Tell you, Nate, I'm glad I dropped in here this morning."

"You're marshal," pointed out Nate. "You can't leave town."

"I ain't supposed to work all night—only day-times and part of the evening. It's a cinch Bill won't make any social calls in daylight and it's a cinch the distance from town to Walton's won't tire me out like it has you."

"Putting it that way," said Nate, suddenly perceiving an opportunity to make a little easy money, "putting it that way, maybe I'll go too."

"It ain't necessary," protested the marshal, alarmed at the bare thought of dividing a profit. "I can manage it myself."

"I'll help you, though."

"Look here, whose scheme is this, huh?"

"You may have thought of it," conceded Nate, "but she was my girl first, and I got as much right to go out there again and see her as you have, and I got as much right to that two thousand dollars as you have."

The marshal swore frankly. "I'll never tell you anything again. Taking advantage of a feller this way. I thought you were my friend."

"I am. We'll go out together, huh?"

"We will not," contradicted the marshal. "So you can just as well stop stretching your mouth about it."

"Is that so? Is that so?"

"Yes, that's so. This is my private party, and you wanna keep paws off."

"Aw, go sit on yourself!"

"Remember what I told you," the marshal said in part and took his departure.

Arrived home, Hazel unhitched and unharnessed, turned the team into the corral and carried her purchases into the kitchen and dumped them on the table. She hung up her man's hat on one of the hooks that held the Winchester, and fluffed the hair about her temples by the aid of the mirror that hung below the Terry clock her uncle had brought West with him. She had always liked the Terry clock,—from the cheerful painted pumpkins and grapes that graced the patterned top to the peculiar throbbing ring it gave on striking the hour, she liked it.

And on a day the old clock was destined to repay that liking full measure, pressed down and running over.

While she was fixing her hair, the clock struck three.

Silently she unwrapped her bundles and stored away the contents in crock and box and drawer. A tidy person, Hazel. Then, because she was still in a temper with Nate Samson, she changed her dress, donned a pair of overalls and began to scrub the kitchen floor.

"Liar!" she said aloud, scraping a vigorous brush under the dresser. "Liar! I hope your old store burns up!"

So occupied was she with her thoughts and her work that she failed to hear the approach of a rider.

"'Lo, Hazel," was the rider's greeting delivered across the doorsill.

Hazel's brush stopped swishing to and fro.

"Hello, Sally Jane," she said smilingly, supporting herself on one arm and pushing back the hair that had fallen over her hot face. "Put your horse in the corral and come on in."

"I tied him to the wagon," said Sally Jane.

Out of respect for the wet floor she jigged on her heels across to a chair and seated herself, hooking her heels in a rung. Sally Jane looked at Hazel with speculation in her eyes.

"You look mad, dear," Sally Jane said.

"I am," declared Hazel, and began to sizzle anew. "Just listen," she continued, hopping up to seat herself on the table, "to what I heard in town this morning. Nate told me—"

"——there now," she concluded. "What do you think of that for a put-up job? Why, it's not even clever."

"No," agreed Sally Jane. "Too many articles belonging to Bill. Either the quirt or the hatband, but not both. I'd like to know how they got hold of them."

"They?"

"Or he. It may have been one man, and it may have been more than one. You can't tell. Tip had enemies—several. But I'm afraid the gang won't take that into consideration,—much. All they'll be able to see is the quirt and the hatband. And on top of what's happened already! Confound it, Bill shouldn't have disappeared this way. All his friends know he didn't—couldn't have either held up the stage or really rustled Sam Larder's precious horse, which, by the way, was found mud to the ears near Sam's corral this morning. Fact, Dad told me. But why didn't Bill stay and face the music? That's what I'd like to know. He should have known he'd only hurt himself by running off this way. That's where he made one big mistake."

At which Hazel jumped right off the table. Her black eyes snapped. "He didn't make any mistake!" she cried. "He did just right! I know he did. If he ran—went away—he had a good reason and you can't tell me different, Sally Jane Prescott!"

The older girl threw out a hand in mock alarm. "There, there, honey, calm down. I didn't mean anything against your precious Bill. Not a thing."

"He's not my precious Bill," denied Hazel with vigor. "He's just a good fuf-friend."

Sally Jane looked at her shrewdly. "What makes you think your—friend didn't make a mistake in going away?"

"Because he couldn't make a mistake if he tried. That's why." Oh, the defiance in the voice of Hazel.

"Heavens above, child! Men are only human beings and human beings make mistakes. Bill's a man, and he's liable to make mistakes like any other one of them."

"Not Bill," Hazel contradicted flatly. "He—he's different. He——"

Alarums and excursions without—the gallop of several horses, shouts of men, the jingle and stamp of riders dismounting at the door. Entered then Felix Craft and Sam Larder with drawn guns, in their rear the district attorney, likewise with weapon displayed.

"Whose horse is that?" Craft demanded, fixing Hazel with a baleful eye.

"If you mean the one tied to the wagon," replied Hazel, "it belongs to Sally Jane Prescott."

"What of it?" demanded Sally Jane, appraising the trio with a cool glance.

"Visitors in my kitchen take off their hats," reminded Hazel severely.

The three men sheepishly removed their hats and sheathed their firearms.

"That's better," said Hazel. "You don't know how silly you looked, rushing in here brandishing your guns that way. I was quite frightened for a minute." Here she giggled and winked at Sally Jane.

"We thought maybe Bill Wingo was here," said Craft.

"And what made you think Bill Wingo was here?" asked Hazel.

"That horse outside," he replied, watching her shrewdly. "Do you mind if I search the house?"

"I certain do mind!" cried Hazel. "You dare search this house! Just you try it!"

"I'll bet the man's here," struck in the district attorney, pushing to the front. "Good thing we surrounded the house first. If you've got Bill Wingo hidden anywhere, you give him up, do you hear, Hazel?"

"Miss Walton to you, do you hear, Rale?"

He eyed her a moment venomously.

"Gettin' particular, ain't you?" he sneered. "Any one would think—" His tongue ceased suddenly to wag as she dipped the floor brush in the dirty water of the bucket and drew back her arm.

"Yes?" prompted Hazel, her eyes beginning to glitter with a dangerous light.

"Nothing," capitulated the district attorney and tried to smile. "I was thinking of a joke I heard last night, Miss Walton."

"That's better," approved Hazel.

"Look here," said the district attorney, "if Bill Wingo ain't here, what did you go to town for to-day and buy all those supplies?"

Genuine astonishment showed on Hazel's countenance. "Those supplies were my regular supplies. Don't you suppose I buy something to eat once in a while?"

"Queer you should have come in and got that stuff the day after Tip O'Gorman was murdered."

"We figure," said Sam Larder, "that Bill Wingo will have to eat right along, and that unless he's left the country, it's natural he'll get his supplies from his friends, and we know that you drove in town and bought supplies this morning."

"Well, I've told you who I bought 'em for," snapped Hazel. "Anything else?"

"There is," said the district attorney smoothly. "We're going to search the house."

"You won't take my word that Bill Wingo isn't here?" demanded Hazel.

"In a matter like this we can't," replied the district attorney.

"One moment," murmured Hazel, stepping back.

The next instant she had jerked her Winchester off the hooks and cocked the hammer. "Now," she resumed, holding the weapon level with her belt, "now go ahead and search the house."

The district attorney, with a haste that was ludicrous, slid behind the fat bulk of Sam Larder. Even Felix Craft smiled.

"She's bluffing," declared the district attorney. "I'll go out and get the marshal."

He departed hurriedly, to return almost immediately with Red Herring. The latter, sheepish as to the face and with shambling legs, advanced into the room. The district attorney pointed dramatically at Hazel.

"Arrest her," he directed.

"Huh?" remarked the marshal, eyeing Hazel's artillery.

"Arrest her, I said. To threaten with a deadly weapon is a statutory offense."

"Well, I dunno," balked the marshal.

"Go on and arrest her. I'll back you up."

"Will you?" Absolutely no enthusiasm on the part of the marshal.

"G'on! What are you waiting for?" barked the exasperated district attorney.

"I'm waiting for her to put up her gun," was the truthful reply.

"What you afraid of? She won't shoot. She's only bluffing, I tell you."

"You arrest her then. I ain't none sure I got a right to. I'm only supposed to make arrests in town. You better get one of the deputies to arrest her, Arthur, I—I'd rather you would."

The marshal oozed outdoors. The district attorney said something.

"No more of that," Sam Larder enjoined him. "You stop your cussin', you hear. There's ladies present."

"Where?" the district attorney demanded, staring about him insolently.

"My father will ask you what you mean by that," said Sally Jane.

"I didn't mean you," mumbled the angry man, perceiving that he had gone a little too far. "I—I was a li'l hasty, I guess. No offense, ladies, I hope."

He achieved a clumsy bow and again faced Hazel. "Now, look here, you can't go on acting this way, you know. You're only hurting your own case. Be reasonable, be reasonable."

"And let you poke all through my house!" she snapped him up. "Not much. I don't want any trouble, but I'll have to shoot the first man that goes beyond this room."

"Told you you'd get her all stirred up," said Sam Larder.

"We didn't want you to come along anyway, Rale," contributed Felix Craft. "You're too buffle-headed for any human use. Y'oughta take things more easy with the girl. If you'd left it to us, everything would have been all right."

"I suppose busting in with your guns pulled is one way of taking it easy."

"I notice you had yours out," supplied Felix.

"I thought the man might be here, same as you," defended the district attorney.

"Which is why you let us go first," sneered Sam.

"When you're quite through bickering among yourselves—" drawled Hazel.

"I wish you'd point that rifle somewhere else," the district attorney remarked uneasily.

"It's all right where it is," was the instant return.

"I could arrest you, you know, if I wanted to," he pointed out.

"I heard you say something like that to the marshal," nodded Hazel.

The district attorney stared a moment.

"Huh!" he muttered finally and strode to the door. "Hey, Red!" he called. "Come here a minute, will you?"

"Now I ain't gonna arrest her for you and that's flat!" announced a sulky voice without.

"Nobody's asking you to. Come in, man, come in."

The marshal sidled in, stumbling in his efforts to keep one eye on the district attorney and the other on Hazel's Winchester.

"You were in Nate Samson's store this morning, weren't you, Red?" It was more of a statement than a question.

The marshal immediately gave the district attorney the full benefit of both eyes. "Huh?"

"You were there when this girl, Miss Walton, made some purchases, weren't you?"

"Yeah," admitted the marshal.

"When Nate told her of the murder and the warrant sworn out again Bill Wingo, what did she do?"

"Why—" stuttered the marshal.

"She flew into a rage, didn't she? She threw a knife at Nate, didn't she?"

"Who told you all this?" the marshal wished to know.

"Nate told me."

"Damn Nate, that's all I got to say," pronounced the marshal, disgusted at the duplicity of a former friend. "I was wonderin' where you got the notion so sudden of coming out here. Damn that— Excuse me, Miss, for cussin'. What's that you want to know, Rale? Yes, I was there and she slung a knife at Nate. With any luck she'd had hit him and serve him right, the flat-tongued snitch."

"There now," exclaimed the triumphant district attorney, "you hear that, Miss Walton? You drove into town the morning after the murder. When you are told of the murder and the warrant, you fly into a passion and try to kill the inoffensive storekeeper who told you the news. Not content with this, you throw what you've already bought at the storekeeper and make your purchases at the other store. I have learned that among the purchases were twelve boxes of .45-90 rifle cartridges and six boxes of .45 caliber Colt cartridges. I have reason to believe that these cartridges are not intended for your personal use. In fact, I am positive you bought them for the murderer, William H. Wingo."

The marshal glanced quickly at the district attorney. He himself had not been aware of the ammunition item. The marshal inwardly cursed the district attorney and Nate Samson.

"Well," boomed the district attorney, when Hazel did not instantly speak, "what have you to say?"

"Plenty," said she then. "I bought those cartridges for my personal use. This Winchester is a .45-90 and my six-shooter is a .45. I guess I've got a right to buy ammunition now and then if I like."

"Rats!" snarled the district attorney, stiff in his conceit. "What does a girl want with two hundred and forty rifle cartridges and three hundred revolver cartridges? Those revolver cartridges especially? You won't have use for 'em in ten years. You bought them for Bill Wingo. You can't fool me! You know where he is, you know you do, and I know you do, and I intend to put you in jail as a suspicious character until you tell us where he is."

"What a filthy animal you are, anyway, Rale! I didn't know such things as you lived!" Thus Sally Jane, her upper lip fairly, curling with disgust.

"When I get back to Golden Bar, Miss Walton," fumed the district attorney, unmoved by the insult, "I intend to swear out a warrant for your arrest, and have it served by deputy sheriffs. If necessary, I shall swear in deputies other than the two men, Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler, for the purpose of serving this warrant. I intend to have the law obeyed."

"She ain't busted any law that I can see," struck in Sam Larder gruffly.

Neither he nor Felix Craft had intended to go as far as an actual arrest of the girl. They were bad enough, in all conscience, but they drew the line somewhere.

Felix Craft shook his head. "No arrest, Arthur. That don't go."

"I can arrest her, I tell you," insisted the district attorney.

"No," said Craft firmly. "Miss Walton," he went on, turning to the girl, "we were a li'l excited when we came in here. Seeing that horse outside and all, we got the idea that maybe Bill was here. Will you give us your word he isn't?"

"Why, certainly," she said. "Bill isn't here, I give you my word."

"Fair enough," said Craft. "We'll be going. Come along, Arthur, move."

He and Sam hustled the district attorney out between them. Craft called in the cordon of horsemen that had surrounded the ranch-house.

"Crawl your horse, Arthur," ordered Craft. "What you waiting for?"

Arthur, swearing heartily, did as directed. "I don't see why you don't want me to have her arrested," he said in part as they rode townward. "A few days in the cooler——"

"No sense in it," declared Craft. "A lot of folks in the county wouldn't like it either, she being a woman and a good-lookin' one besides. You leave her alone."

"Yeah," slipped in Sam, "wait till you get some real evidence against her. Suspicion ain't anything."

"It would be enough for me to arrest her all right," persisted the district attorney.

"Blah! You couldn't hold her a week," averred Craft, "and you know it. And lemme tell you, I don't believe she knows any more about Bill Wingo than I do. You know they busted up this winter some time."

"Changed your tune mighty sudden," sneered the district attorney. "On the way out you were as sure as the rest of us we'd get some kind of a clue at Walton's. Those cartridges——"

"Dry up about those cartridges!" exclaimed Felix. "You got cartridges on the brain."

Then the wrangle became general.

Hazel, standing in the doorway, watched the cavalcade disappear around the bend in the draw.

"I guess," she said, taking a box of cartridges from the top shelf and snicking open the sealing with a finger nail, "I guess I'd better load this rifle."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE BARE-HEADED MAN

"But I rode over here especially to bring you back with me to stay a while, a long while, as long as you like and longer." Thus Sally Jane, looking injured.

Hazel shook her head. "Can't, dear. Honestly, I'd like nothing better than to go a-visiting, but I've just got to look after the ranch."

Sally Jane gazed at her friend a moment in silence, then: "You don't really have to stay here, Hazel. You only think you do. You'd much better come over and stay with us. You know I'd love to have you, and this is no place for you all alone by yourself this way. Suppose——"

"Who'd hurt me?" interrupted Hazel. "Anyway, I'm not going to be driven off my own ranch by anybody. I'm going to stay here until I find a buyer for the place."

"But that may be a year," objected Sally Jane.

"It may be several years. Money's awfully tight just now, the Hillsville cashier said, the last time I was over."

"I don't care, somebody—some man ought to be here. Can't you get Ray back earlier than usual?"

Hazel shook her head. "I don't want to, Sally Jane. He went east to Missouri to visit his folks, and I'm not going to spoil his good time. He'll be back in time for the spring round-up, though."

"That won't be till next month," objected Sally Jane. "Anything might happen in the meantime. Land alive, just look at this afternoon!"