It was the next day that Arthur Rale, the district attorney, called on
the new sheriff. He was a heavy-jowled, heavy-handed, heavy-bodied
individual, with black hair, close-set eyes, and, what was curiously at
variance with those heavy jowls, a long and pointed nose.
Billy Wingo was expecting the district attorney to pay him a visit.
For Shotgun Shillman had been told that Tip O'Gorman, Rafe Tuckleton
and Judge Driver had spent the morning closeted with that gentleman.
Billy Wingo was cleaning a Winchester when the district attorney
knocked and entered.
"Si'down, Arthur," invited Bill, indicating a chair with the barrel of
the rifle.
The district attorney returned the salutation gruffly. Billy smiled
sweetly down at the rifle stock he was hand-rubbing. Mr. Rale stamped
his feet, hung up his hat and coat and sat down heavily in the chair.
Resting both fists on his knees, he fixed Billy with a hard eye.
"What's this I hear?" he wished to hear.
"I dunno," said truthful William.
"I hear you've appointed Shillman and Tyler deputies," Rale said
accusingly.
"Seems to me I _have_ done something like that," admitted Billy.
"You've got to cancel their appointments."
"Got to?"
"Got to."
"I must be gettin' deaf," drawled Billy. "Seems like I heard you say
got to."
"You heard me right," declared Rale, with a vicious snap of strong,
white teeth. "You cancel those appointments and put in Johnson and
Kenealy instead."
"Everybody seems to want those two fellers," said Billy, wagging a
puzzled head. "I don't understand it."
The district attorney leaned forward. His broad, flat face was
venomous in its expression.
"Look here," he said harshly, "you like Hazel Walton, don't you?"
Whang! In that confined space the crash of the gun was deafening. The
district attorney, coughing in the smoke, picked up himself and his
chair from the ground. He had fallen over backward at the shot, struck
the back of his head and now his actions were purely mechanical.
"Dazed you like, didn't it?" Billy queried in a soft voice. "You did
hit pretty hard. Luck is with you to-day. I'll bet if you went down
to Crafty's, you'd bust the bank and Crafty's heart."
Rale did not take the palpable hint. He sat down again and looked
uncertainly at Billy Wingo. He had courage, this district attorney,
the species of courage, you understand, that to function properly must
have a shade the better of the break, that bets always on a sure thing
and never on an uncertainty.
Rale had been knocked off balance mentally and physically. He did the
wrong thing.
"You tried to murder me," he blurted out.
Billy shook a solemn head. "You're mistaken. If I'd tried to murder
you, I'd have done it. Accidents will happen, though, even to the most
careful fellers. Yeah. You were speaking of the Waltons, Arthur. I
didn't quite catch what you said."
He gazed expectantly at the district attorney. It seemed to the latter
that the barrel of the rifle was in a line with the third button of his
vest. Certainly the muzzle looked as large as a mine opening. Was the
rifle cocked? Billy Wingo's large hand covered the breech. Billy
moved the large hand a trifle. Yes, the rifle was cocked. The
district attorney's eyes strayed downward. At Billy's feet was a spent
shell.
"Look here," said Rale, "if that shot was an accident, why did you flip
in a fresh cartridge?"
"How do you know I worked the lever?" demanded Billy.
"Because the spent shell's on the floor between your feet."
"You've been reading those detective stories again. Arthur. It would
look mighty bad for me if you were to pass out in here to-night.
You're a big man and a heavy man. And the ground is frozen harder than
rock. Bet I'd have to use a pick. I hope, Arthur, you're not thinking
of doing anything to make me use a pick."
Billy had uttered these sinister words in a mild and plaintive tone.
The expression of his countenance was even milder and more plaintive.
The district attorney found it difficult to believe that he had heard
aright. Yet he had heard the report of the rifle aright. There could
be no mistake about that.
The district attorney sat rigidly erect. He cleared his throat. He
wished his heart would stop pounding so hard. Odd, too, that it should
seem to have moved out of its usual position to another that was
already occupied by his windpipe. Breathing and speaking were rendered
difficult. Quite so.
He cleared his throat again. "Wingo," he said, "are you threatening
me?"
"Threatening you?" Billy said in a shocked tone. "Certainly not.
Wouldn't think of such a thing."
The district attorney tried again. "Wingo, I don't know what to do
with you. I----"
"Don't do anything," suggested Billy. "I'd feel better about it, too."
"Huh?"
"Yeah, I would. I've got a new job here, Arthur, and I guess it will
keep me busy--busy enough, anyway. And how am I going to swing it and
do justice to the taxpayers, if well-meaning fellers like you are alla
time experimentin' with me?"
"Wingo," said the district attorney sternly, "stop this tomfoolery!
Instantly! You have played the buffoon long enough."
"All right," smiled Billy. "I'll be good."
"That's better. Much better. Keep to that tone and we'll get along,
we'll get along."
Again the district attorney cleared his throat.
"Lord, Lord," thought Billy Wingo, "what a foolish thing this man is!"
The district attorney picked up the thread of his discourse. "We can't
have you upsetting our plans in any way, Wingo. We can't have it, and
we won't have it. I order you to immediately cancel the appointments
of Shillman and Tyler and appoint instead Johnson and Kenealy. Do you
understand?"
"Yes," said Billy in a weary voice, "I understand. I understand
perfectly. You can go now."
"I'll go when I have your answer."
"Your mistake. You're going now."
So saying, Billy arose, lowered the hammer of his rifle to the safety
notch and laid the weapon on the table. Then he raised himself on
tiptoe and stretched luxuriously. His arms came down slowly. He
turned a surprised gaze upon the district attorney.
"Haven't you started yet?" he said briskly. "Come, come, get a-going."
Even as he spoke he leaped with cat-like agility upon the district
attorney where he sat in his chair and wrenched the right arm of that
surprised gentleman around behind his back. With his left hand,
despite the struggles and protesting roars of the captive, he removed a
six-shooter from a shoulder holster and a derringer from a vest pocket.
"You must be scared of some one," observed Billy Wingo, as the
derringer followed the six-shooter to a place on the table. "Arise,
pushing your stomach ahead of you, and depart in peace."
But the district attorney was averse to departing that way. "You will
regret this outrage!" he bellowed, his ripe cheeks and the veins in his
neck swollen with passion.
"So will you," said Billy, twisting the man's arm ever so slightly.
"You are in a serious position. If you'd only realize it, and be
reasonable, we'd all be happier. I don't want to break your
arm--unless I have to. Observe, Mr. Man, how easily I could do it."
So saying, he pushed the district attorney's arm somewhat farther up
his back. The district attorney groaned. Billy eased the pressure.
The district attorney began to curse. Billy, boosting him with his
knee, assisted him toward the door.
With his left hand Billy withdrew the bar from the staple, opened the
door, swung his right foot and kicked the district attorney out into a
snowdrift. After him Billy tossed his coat and cap. Then he closed
the door and shoved the bar into place.
"And that's that," said Billy Wingo.