Tip O'Gorman sat comfortably near the red-hot stove. The wind and the
snow were blustering outdoors. It was what the people you yearn to
kill call a bracing day in January. Actually the weather was such that
the well-known brass monkey would have been frostbitten in at least one
ear.
"It's a good old world." Tip sighed luxuriously and wiggled the toes
of his roomy slippers.
Entered then one who changed the pleasing aspect of the good old world.
Judge Driver slammed the door behind him and untied the comforter that
held the hat to his head. He removed the hat and buffalo coat, hung
both on pegs behind the door, sat down and glared at Tip O'Gorman.
"You've done it now," exclaimed Judge Driver.
"What particular thing have you on your mind?" Tip queried equably.
"The sheriff you were so set on having elected! Oh, yes, says you, put
in an honest man. Give the dear people a bone to chew on. And we took
your advice and gave 'em their bone. And now look at the damn thing."
"What's happened to the sheriff?"
"Not a thing. I wish something would. It's what's happening to us
that bothers me. Your fine li'l love of a sheriff is appointing his
own deputies."
"The law gives him that privilege."
"You don't understand. I had picked two deputies for him to
appoint--good safe men. You know that part was left to me, and I fixed
on Johnson and Kenealy. This morning I mentioned their names to the
new sheriff. 'I thank you kindly for your good intentions,' says Bill,
or words to that effect, 'but I have already decided to appoint Shotgun
Shillman and Riley Tyler.'"
"What?"
"I'd say what! I'd say hell, I would! Ain't it nice, ain't it funny,
ain't it a pretty state of affairs? And what are you going to do about
it?"
"Has he appointed 'em yet?"
"They're sworn in by now. He said he was expecting 'em any minute when
I left."
"Shillman's the nearest," said Tip, glancing out of the partly frosted
window pane, "and he lives forty miles away. I wouldn't count on those
boys being appointed to-day. The storm may have kept 'em away."
"No such luck," growled the judge. "They're appointed, all right
enough."
"Think so if it makes you happy," Tip said with a grin. "You're always
such a pessimist."
"Here!" snarled the judge. "Don't you try to ride me, Tip. Say right
out what you mean."
"I did," smiled Tip. "However----"
"Huh," snorted the judge, and put his feet on the table and began to
pull at his lower lip.
"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler," murmured Tip musingly. "Hum-m-m!"
"Can't you think of anything to do but buzz like a bee?" demanded the
irritated judge.
"There's lots of things you can learn from bees," protested Tip
O'Gorman. "Maybe they do buzz some, but they gather lots of honey."
"We'll gather lots of honey, won't we?" snapped the other. "Both
Shotgun and Riley are absolutely honest."
"And sharp--infernal sharp. Don't forget that."
"You take it easy."
"Spilt milk. We've overlooked a bet, that's all."
"Oh, that's all is it? I tell you it won't be all. I've got a hunch."
"Don't be superstitious. Politics is no place to play hunches."
"Apparently it isn't even a place to play common sense," said the
judge. "If it hadn't been for you and your advice, we wouldn't be in
this fix. You got us in. Now you get us out."
"You make me sick, Tom. You're getting to be a regular old granny. I
tell you there is no rat in the hole. Suppose Bill does appoint two
honest deputies. There is still Bill, isn't there? What are two
deputies going to do against Bill's orders? And Bill will do what I
tell him. Oh, yes, he will. You needn't shake your head. I can
manage Bill Wingo."
"I wish I could be sure of that," worried the judge.
"You can be, old-timer, you can be. I'll manage Bill as per invoice,
so you just bed your mind down and give it a rest. The bottle's in
that cupboard, water's in the kettle, sugar's on the table, lemons in
that box. Help yourself, make punch and be happy. Make enough for
two, while you're about it. Your punch always did taste better than
mine. I never could mix one to taste anything like. Lord knows how
you do it. It's a gift. I hear you had a long run of luck at Crafty's
last night."
Et cetera, words with end and amen. Tip O'Gorman was a skilful
scoundrel. He knew precisely how far to go and he rarely employed a
shovel. For even the dullest have a wit flash now and then.
He soon had the jurist purring.
To Billy Wingo that evening came Tip O'Gorman; a bluff, hearty,
good-hearted Tip; a Tip that told funny stories and was a good listener
himself and laughed at the right place. You've heard it all before
doubtless and know the method: "A chair for Mr. Dugan. He owns the
stockyards. His pockets are full of greenbacks. Let him win as much
as he can and don't forget to tell Patsy to be waiting for him at the
corner with the lead pipe when he goes out."
The old, old game, you see. Shabby, moth-eaten through and through,
fairly obvious; but it works--most of the time.
"That's fine whisky, Bill," observed Tip, cupping an affectionate hand
ground his glass. "No, no, tempt me not, brother. I know when to
stop, if I am old and sinful. A pleasant fire, a comfortable room, a
hot drink, and a cold and winter's night. What more can a man want?"
"What indeed?" said Billy politely. Inwardly he thought, "What the
devil does he want?"
You will perceive that the game was not running true to form. For it
to be successful, the victim must not become a prey to low suspicion.
"Sworn in your deputies yet?" Tip made casual inquiry.
"Not yet. Storm might have kept 'em away."
Then all was not lost. Tip began to feel a mental glow. He had been
counting on the storm.
"Have you appointed 'em?" he put the dread question.
"Sure thing."
"Who are they?"
"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler."
"Oh, yes. Good men, both of 'em, but----"
Tip O'Gorman fell silent. He toyed with his glass.