"I don't know yet," was the reply, delivered with still smiling lips
but accompanied by a look as chilling as the day. "You been at
Walton's?"
"Yep, I have. Not that it's any of your business."
"Maybe you're right. Let's go back and make sure."
Rafe's blazing rage was so augmented by this naive suggestion that his
native prudence was almost overcome by the sharp impulse to argue the
matter. But almost is not quite. His coat was buttoned, and his
six-shooter was under his coat. Bill Wingo's six-shooter was likewise
under its owner's coat, but the coat was unbuttoned and--Rafe recalled
another day, a day when he had held his hands above his head while the
muzzle of Wingo's gun gaped at his abdomen. That had been a quick draw
on the part of Billy Wingo. Uncommonly quick. What happened once may
happen again. This is logic.
The logician spat upon the ground. "Because you're elected sheriff
now, you needn't think that you can boss everybody in the county."
"But I ain't trying to boss anybody," denied Bill. "I'm only askin' a
favor of you, only a li'l favor. And I'm hoping you'll see it that
way. I don't _want_ any trouble with you, Rafe," he added, "or with
anybody else."
Rafe hesitated. He stared into Bill's eyes. Bill stared back. Rafe
did his best to hold his eyes steady. But there was something about
that gray gaze, something that seemed to bore deep down into that place
where his sinful soul lived and had its being. The Tuckleton eyes
wavered, veered, came back, clung an instant, then looked away over the
landscape.
"Turn your horse, Rafe," said Billy Wingo in a soft voice.
Rafe Tuckleton turned his horse. They rode back to the Walton ranch in
silent company. Dismounting at the door, Billy was careful to keep his
horse between Rafe and himself.
Billy looked across the saddle at Rafe. "You better knock at the door,
feller."
With extremely bad grace, Rafe obeyed. Following the knock, a window
curtain was pulled aside and Hazel looked out. She nodded and smiled
at Billy. The curtain dropped. Billy heard the grating of the bar as
it was withdrawn from the iron staples. The door had been barred,
then. Why? Was Rafe indeed the qualified polecat Billy had half-way
suspected him of being when he meet him hurrying away from the Walton
ranch? But Hazel's smile had been natural as ever. Bill took comfort
in that fact.
The door opened. Hazel stood wiping her damp hands on her apron.
"'Lo, Hazel," said Bill. "Everything all right?"
Hazel smiled again. She _did_ have beautiful teeth. There was the
fetching dimple too.
"Why, of course everything's all right," she told him. "Why wouldn't
it be?"
Bill noticed that she did not look at Rafe Tuckleton.
"Here's Mr. Tuckleton," said he.
"I see him," shortly.
"And--you're--sure--everything's--all--right?" Bill drawled in a
lifeless voice.
"Of course I'm sure."
"And--you're--sure everything--has--been--all--right--all day?"
Hazel nodded. "Of course it has. Won't you come in, Billy--before the
kitchen gets all cold?"
"I'll put the li'l horse under the shed first. He's kinda warm. Rafe,
don't lemme detain you. You seemed all in a rush when I met you."
Rafe Tuckleton lingered not.
Billy Wingo led his mount under the shed and returned to the house.
Hazel was pouring off the washing water when he entered the kitchen.
"What made you bring Tuckleton back?" she asked pouring fresh water
over the butter.
"I met him coming away from here, and I didn't like the way he looked.
I thought maybe--" He let it go at that.
"He was here for a while," said Hazel, bringing her bowl to the table
and beginning again to knead the yellow mass of butter. "I don't like
that man."