Simon's teeth snapped together like a cornered coyote. "If you're
trying to put this thing all off on me--" he began, and stopped.
"We're not trying to put anything off on you," the district attorney
told him silkily. "There's nothing to put off on you anyway. Not a
thing. You're nervous, that's all, Simon. Your imagination is working
overtime."
"Sure is," corroborated Rafe. "You don't think we've got anything to
do with the murder of Tom Walton, do you, Simon?"
The Reelfoot jaw dropped. The man stared helplessly at Rafe and the
district attorney. "Whatell did-- Say, what else was all that
rigamarole for then?"
"What rigamarole?" Oh, so patient was the voice of Rafe Tuckleton.
Reelfoot gulped. "You had me go to Wingo's office, and rile him up,
and spin him a lot of jerkwater stuff about my rustled cows, so's to
get him and his deputies all ready to go away with me, when Driver was
to come in with that stuff about Kilroe and keep Bill in town while the
deputies went with me. Well, you know how only Shillman went. But I
couldn't help that. Anyway, I suppose you thought you was foxy not to
tell me the rest of the story about Skinny Shindle and the fake letter
and so forth. Gents, you was foxy. Yeah, you was foxy. But I'm foxy
himself. I can put two and two together and make four any day."
He paused and glared at the pair of them. "I wondered what it was all
about. Yeah, I wondered, and I asked you and you said it was to keep
Bill Wingo from mixing into a li'l stock deal. Stock deal!" Here
Simon spat upon the floor. "Stock deal!" rushed on Simon. "You never
said it was murder."
Rafe Tuckleton and the district attorney exchanged wooden looks.
"Now that you mention it," said Rafe, "I don't believe we did."
"I thought you didn't like Tom Walton," observed the district attorney.
Simon Reelfoot swore a string of oaths. "I didn't like him, not a bit.
But I don't want to be hung for helping having him killed."
"That would be unfortunate," murmured the district attorney.
"I ain't sorry he was killed, of course," Simon fretted on, unheeding.
"That part was all right, but I didn't want to be mixed up in it.
There's no sense in doing a thing like that if you're gonna be caught.
And I don't mean to be caught! You didn't have no right to get me into
this deal without telling me all the circumstances first," he concluded
weakly.
"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?"