"How?" Thus Tip.
"There are ways," snarled Rafe.
"Of course, but it doesn't pay to be too rough. Tom has a great many
friends. We can't afford to stir up a whole kettleful of discontent.
A little care, Rafe, is all that's necessary. I think I'd impress my
men, if I were you, with the absolute necessity of being careful."
"I did tell 'em," said Rafe sullenly.
"Your telling seems to have left them cold. At least it left Ben
Shanklin. Damn his soul! I almost wish Tom Walton had got him, the
coyote! He deserves to be got, gorming up our plans thisaway."
"Well, everything turned out all right," Felix Craft tucked in hastily.
"So why worry? I'm sure Rafe's men will be more careful after this."
"I wish I was sure," grunted Tip O'Gorman. "They're a wild bunch,
every last one of 'em. I believe they just try to stir up trouble.
They're eternally getting drunk and shooting up saloons and other
places of business. People don't like it."
"Oh, boys will be boys," deprecated Rafe.
"Your boys will be dead boys if they don't watch out. Anyway, you put
the hobbles on that Ben boy, Rafe. We can't afford to have him spoil
things."
"How about having him spoil Walton?"
"And antagonize all of Walton's friends, huh? Bright, oh, very!"
"If the feller who spoiled Walton was a stranger, it would be all
right. You couldn't connect an absolute stranger with us, could you?"
"Let's hear your li'l plan," said Tip O'Gorman.
Every man of them listened intently to the Tuckletonian plan.
As plans go it was a good plan. Procuring an assassin to do the dirty
work is always a good plan. Rafe knew a gunman, named Slike, in a
neighboring territory. For two hundred and fifty dollars, according to
Rafe, Dan Slike would murder almost any one. For five hundred it was
any one, without the almost.
"Can he do it?" doubted Tom Driver.
"We all know how slow Tom Walton is on the draw," sneered Rafe. "Which
he's slower than Sam Prescott. If Slike don't plug Walton three times
before he can draw, I'll eat my shirt."
"That sounds well," said Tip O'Gorman, eyeing Rafe with frank disgust.
"But, somehow, I don't like the idea of having Walton killed."
"Whatsa matter with you?" demanded the originator of the idea. "Losing
your nerve?"
Tip O'Gorman's expression did not alter in the slightest. He gazed
upon his questioner as if the latter were a new and interesting
specimen of insect life.
"No," he said, "I don't think I'm losing my nerve. Do you think I'm
losing my nerve, Rafe?"
Rafe looked upon Tip. Tip looked upon Rafe. The others held their
respective breaths. In the room was dead silence.
"Do you, Rafe?" persisted Tip, his voice velvety smooth.
Rafe found his tongue. "No, I don't," he declared frankly. "But, I
don't see why you don't like my scheme."
"Don't you? I'll explain. Tom Walton's niece, Hazel, is the drawback.
Rubbin' out Tom would most likely put a crimp in her, sort of. She
lost her ma and pa only five years ago."
"Aw, the devil!" exclaimed Rafe Tuckleton. "We can't stop to think of
all those li'l things. We're here to make money, no matter how. Good
Gawd, Tip! We ain't----"
"Good Gawd, Rafe!" interrupted Tip. "We ain't hiring any gunman to
wipe out Tom Walton. I'm no he-angel--none of us are, I guess; but
I've known Hazel since she was a li'l squaller, and I won't sit still
and see her hurt. And that _goes_!"
Tip nodded with finality at Rafe Tuckleton. Rafe sat back on the
middle of his spine and gnawed his lower lip. His eyes were sulky.
"I don't want to see Hazel hurt either," said Skinny Shindle with an
indescribable leer, "but when it comes to a question of li'l Hazel or
us, I'm for us every time."
"You look here, Skinny," said Tip O'Gorman in a low dispassionate
voice, "what I said to Rafe, I say to you: Hands off Tom Walton."
"Oh, all right," said Skinny Shindle, "but if anything happens out of
this, don't say I didn't tell you."
"I won't say so, Skinny," Tip said good-naturedly. "I won't say a
word."
"Gentlemen," Felix Craft put in hurriedly, "let's go slow about now.
No use saying anything hasty, not a bit of use. Tip's right. None of
us want to hurt Hazel, and----"
"And we want to be damn sure we don't want to hurt Hazel," interrupted
Tip O'Gorman, his eyes fixed on Rafe Tuckleton's sullen face.
"'T'sall right, 't'sall right," said Rafe, forcing a smile. "Have it
your own way, Tip. Tom Walton's safe for all of me."
"Good enough," Tip said heartily, shooting at Rafe a glance that was
not completely trustful.
Entered then Jack Murray, wearing a set smile across his scratched
face. He nodded to the assemblage, sat down jauntily on the edge of
the table and brought out the makings.
"Well!" he said, his eyes on Rafe Tuckleton, rolling the while a
meticulous cigarette. "Well, I suppose you've got the ticket all made
up."
"Just about," nodded Rafe.
"What prize did I draw?"
"A large, round goose-egg," Skinny Shindle answered for Rafe with
malice.
"Huh!" Thus Mr. Murray, the hand he had reached upward to his hatband
coming down without the match. "You serious, Skinny?"
"I wish I thought I wasn't," was the reply.
Jack Murray turned a slow head back toward Rafe Tuckleton. "You told
me the sheriff's job was mine," he said bluntly.
"I thought it was," admitted Rafe, looking straight into his eyes.
"But we've heard some bad news, unexpected news. It seems you ain't as
popular with our citizens as you might be. We understand that you're
so little liked you wouldn't be elected in a million years."
"Who told you that?" Jack's tone was sharp.
"I did." Thus Tip O'Gorman in a tone no less sharp. "And I know what
I'm talking about, you can gamble on that."
"Tip's had his ear to the ground pretty steady," said Rafe Tuckleton.
"He knows what's on every voter's mind, and if we nominate you for
sheriff it means the defeat of the party. Listen, and I'll explain the
whole thing."
Jack Murray listened in silence. When Rafe said his last word, Jack
Murray laid his unlighted cigarette across the end of his left index
finger and teetered it slowly.
"Who you figurin' on running in my place," he drawled, his dark gaze on
the cigarette.
"Bill Wingo."
The teetering stopped. The cigarette slipped into the fork of two
fingers. The man slid to his feet.
"Bill Wingo," he repeated. "Bill Wingo, huh? Well, this is a
surprise."
Without another word he left the room, closing the door behind him very
gently.
When he had gone Tip O'Gorman threw a whimsical glance at Rafe
Tuckleton.
"I'd feel better if he'd slammed that door," said Tip O'Gorman.