"Well," said Felix Craft, attempting a pleasantry, "how do I look?"
"You look," said Billy, following a meticulous survey of his
questioner's attire, "you look like Mr. Felix Craft, our genial gambler
and non-resident ranch owner."
"Shucks, I was hoping I'd look like you. I'd sure enjoy making a good
appearance. Maybe the mask will make a difference."
"Mask won't disguise your voice any."
"I'll talk like I had a cold. Oh, I won't have any trouble making
folks think it's you."
Felix Craft spoke with tremendous confidence. More than the occasion
warranted, thought Billy Wingo.
"Why don't you wear my star?" suggested Bill. "Then folks would sure
think it was me."
"Too raw, and you know it. Even you wouldn't do a fool thing like
that."
"Thanks for the compliment," Billy said humbly. "Suppose now you get
plugged, Felix?"
"I won't get plugged. Not me," declared Craft, pulling the six-shooter
with the brass trigger guard and making sure that the hammer rested on
an empty chamber.
"What makes you think you won't be plugged?" persisted Billy.
Craft darted a quick look at his questioner. "Because I know I won't.
I'll have the drop on 'em, don't you see? Nobody will dare cut down on
me."
"How do you know they won't?"
"I'm sure, that's all."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because I am, that's why!" was the snappish reply. Then in a
pleasanter tone Craft continued, "Because, Bill, I've figured out my
chances carefully. Not once in a thousand times do stage passengers
resist a road agent."
"How about the Wells-Fargo guard?"
"He ain't riding this trip."
"How do you know he ain't?"
"Now don't you worry how we know, Bill. We know, and you can bet on
that. It's like I told you, we've figured this thing out to the last
li'l detail. We----"
"You bet we have," cut in Tip quickly. "For the last time, Bill,
hadn't you better change your mind?"
"I couldn't change it for the last time till I'd changed it at least
two other times, Tip," Billy drawled, one-half his brain busy trying to
fathom why Tip should have interrupted Craft so brusquely. Tip never
did anything without reason. Never. And why was Craft so unnaturally
sure that he could hold up the stage without being shot? Unnaturally,
exactly. Because Felix Craft was one not given to explaining anything
he did. Yet in this instance he had taken the trouble to explain at
some length. Why?
Billy tilted back on the rear legs of his chair, cocked his heels up on
the table and stared at the ceiling.
"Well, how about it?" Tip demanded impatiently. "You going to be
sensible?"
Billy waved a hand for silence and then sang in a whining bobtail bass:
"Barney Bodkin broke his nose:
Want of money makes us sad;
Without feet we can't have toes;
Crazy folks are always mad;
A nickel candle's very small;
Many fiddlers can't play jigs;
One that's dumb can never bawl;
Pickled pork is made of pigs.
"Ain't that a nice song?" Billy broke off, glancing round him for
praise. "Lot of truth in that song, too. Especially that part about
crazy folks. They always are mad--like you and Felix, Tip, and our fat
friend, Mr. Samuel Larder. Why all the delay, Felix? If you really
are gonna to be a bold bad man, go'n and be one. Don't dally round
here any longer. Suppose you miss the stage? You'd be disappointed.
So would I. Because I don't want anything to prevent you from having a
fair crack at it. I'd like you to have every chance--but I forgot, you
ain't taking any chances, are you? This is a sure thing."
Billy, through half-shut eyes, was watching the men he was talking to.
He was watching Sam Larder especially. For Sam was not a good poker
player. Never had been. His plump features were too expressive. And
now the open-faced Sam was looking at Billy with a slightly worried
expression. Furthermore, the worry was tinged with some astonishment.
At least, so it seemed to Billy. Again why?
Here were three men, each of whom within five minutes had done that
which was not wholly warranted by the apparent facts. He again had
cropped up and out those unnatural circumstances so ably dwelt upon by
Mr. William Noy. As has been said, the law abhors such things and
seeks a remedy. There is always a remedy; and investigation, patient
and thorough, will always find it. Billy rather prided himself on
being a patient and thorough investigator.
Nevertheless he did not fail to realize that he was in a tight hole.
He felt the pinch already. So he smiled at the three men his sunniest
smile.
"Looks like a wild night on the canal," he said calmly. "I expect the
mules are pinning back their ears. Yeah. Going, Crafty? Well, be
good and--oh, say, Crafty, ain't Jerry Fern the stage driver this trip?"
"I don't know," was the short reply.
"But you knew everything else," complained Billy, making a mental note
of another unnatural circumstance. "Seems like you'd oughta know this,
too."
"Well, I don't," Craft tossed back over his shoulder, as he flung out
of the house.
The door slammed. Billy looked at Sam Larder and grinned. "If this is
Jerry Fern's trip, and I'm most sure it is, Felix will be out of luck.
Jerry is one stage driver who will always give a bandit a battle."
"Oh, I guess Crafty will get the drop on him all right," Sam Larder
averred easily,--too easily by half.
"I can see," said Billy with strange placidity, "I can see that I've
got to get out of here."
Both Sam and Tip laughed,--Tip heartily, Sam with a false note.
"Well, anyway," resumed Billy, "I've got my choice of hitting the trail
or being arrested."