"Huh?" Surprisedly.
"Yeah. You see, we talked it over again while you were asleep a while
back, and we decided if you couldn't see our way of it and be sensible
like we want, that we'd better just put you where you won't be mislaid.
Givin' you your choice of ridin' away or bein' arrested like I said at
first would be a bad move. If you chose to hit the trail-- You're a
sport with ideas, Bill, and you might think up one to put the kybosh on
us. But if you're in jail, your ideas won't help you much. See?"
"I see I ain't gonna get a chance for my alley a-tall. Who'll arrest
me--my own deputies?"
"No, we'll do that. Here's the story: Your horse gave out and Sam
caught you trying to rustle a pony out of his corral. Sam threw down
on you, held you up and when we, Sam, Crafty and I, y'understand
searched you, we found on you a couple of pocketbooks and Jerry Fern's
watch. See?"
"I see, all right. I see you haven't been quite open with our friend
Mr. Craft."
"How do you make that out?"
Billy hunched his shoulders. He was observing the marked unease that
spread upon the countenance of Sam Larder. Tip was forced to repeat
his question.
Billy gazed at him vacantly. "Huh? How--uh--oh, you want to know how,
do you? Is that it? Yeah. Well, I'll tell you. Here you knew alla
time that Jerry Fern was going to drive the stage this trip and yet you
didn't tell Crafty. He didn't know who was the driver when I asked
him, remember? You should have told him, Tip. Skin game not to."
Tip laughed. Was the laughter forced? Billy thought it sounded as if
it were. But he couldn't be sure. Not with Tip O'Gorman. For Tip was
a good poker player. Still----
Billy wagged a forefinger at Tip. "Why didn't you tell Crafty, you
careless child?"
"Crafty knew, all right," Tip stated. "He was just joking with you, I
guess."
"I guess so too," drawled Billy Wingo. "I guess so too."
He stood up and started to walk casually toward the door.
"That will be about far enough," said Tip.
Billy's hands fell away from the latch. "If that gun goes off, it'll
make a fine mess on the floor."
"You come back and sit on the bed again," directed Tip, the six-shooter
trained unwaveringly on the captive's abdomen. "Of course," he added,
"you might try the windows. But even if I didn't drill you three times
where you live while you were doing it, you can't wiggle through those
windows. Your shoulders are too broad and the sashes are too narrow.
That's why we picked this room. Only one in the house with small
windows."
"I'd noticed that," said Billy, returning to the bed. "How about a
drink, Tip? I'm thirsty."
"Sam will get you a drink," said Tip.
Billy smiled. "Why not you? Can't you trust me with Sam? Think I'll
corrupt his morals or something?"
"There's no telling what you'll do, Bill, and as I may have told you
once or twice we can't afford to take any chances."
"When am I going to be arrested for rustling one of Sam's horses?"
"Soon after Crafty gets here."
Billy's face assumed a peevish expression. "Say, look here, Tip, I
don't just cotton to the idea of havin' Sam the one to throw down on me
and hold me up. I've got my pride, such as it is, and I'd hate for
folks to go round blatting that a slow-pulling sport like Sam Larder
held me up. Can't you make it yourself, Tip? You've got a reputation.
I dunno that I'd feel so bad about it if it was you."
"Shucks, Bill, you're too sensitive. I'm afraid we'll have to let the
scheme go through as it lays. I don't believe in changing any part of
a plan once I've started to carry it out."
"There's something in that," admitted Billy. "I'm a li'l superstitious
that way myself. Ain't Sam taking a goshawful time to that drink?
Maybe you better step out and look for him."