"Then go see her now," urged Billy. "It's kind of late for an evening
call, but you can tell her some kind of a lie. If she likes you,
she'll believe it. You go see her and keep her in the kitchen for the
next thirty minutes. Then meet me here."
The district attorney, lying on the broad of his back in bed, suddenly
snored his way into a nightmare. He dreamed that he was in the woods,
that he had lain down upon an inviting bank and that a ninety-foot pine
had fallen upon his chest, to the prejudice of his breathing. He
squirmed and wriggled but the tree was immovable. It was slowly
crushing the walls of his chest. The district attorney gasped--awoke,
and discovered to his horror that his bad dream was partly true. There
was something roosting on his chest. If not a tree, it was at least
confoundedly heavy. Furthermore, adding as it were to the interest of
the occasion, a something chilly and hard was rooting into the angle of
his chin and neck.
The something on his chest spoke in a carefully restrained whisper.
"Keep very quiet."
The district attorney would have shivered had he been able to move that
much. He knew that voice. It belonged to Billy Wingo.
"You shouldn't have left your window open," pointed out Billy. "Your
insane love for fresh air will be the death of you yet."
The district attorney did nothing but gasp faintly.
"Would it be more comfortable if I sat on your stomach instead?" asked
the oppressor prodding the other man in the throat with his gun muzzle.
"I--I--cuc-can't breathe!" the district attorney choked out.
"Just a minute," said Billy, feeling beneath the pillows, but finding
no weapon, he slid from the district attorney's chest to the side of
the bed. "You didn't expect to see me so soon, did you, Arthur?"
"No," was the truthful reply, "I didn't."
"I was counting on that. I hear you arrested Miss Walton."
"I--er--I had to," explained the district attorney, beginning to feel
that, in the matter of Miss Walton, he had perhaps been a trifle hasty.
"Fool mistake. You didn't have any evidence against her a-tall."
"But--" began the district attorney.
Billy cut him short. "No evidence a-tall. Not a smidgin. No. You
were too previous, Arthur, with your duty and your oath of office.
Damn your duty, damn your oath of office. I've got a sneaking idea,
old settler, that you are cluttering up the face of the earth. Be
reasonable now, don't you think so yourself?"
But this was more than the district attorney was willing to admit.
"I'll tell you what I think," he grunted. "I think if Hazel Walton
didn't kill Rafe Tuckleton then you did."
"About _Miss_ Walton there ain't any ifs, nary an if. She didn't do
it. There is a reasonable doubt that I did, several reasonable doubts,
in fact. Anyway, Arthur, try keeping your suspicions to yourself to
oblige me, will you? Lord knows one murder and a stage hold-up are
enough crimes to be charged with at one time."
"You thought you were very clever," sneered the district attorney,
"getting that girl to pack your supplies out from town for you. Didn't
have nerve enough to do it yourself. Had to hide behind a woman's
skirts and get her in trouble, didn't you?"
"You mean about the horse and cartridges and grub that Slike took from
Walton's?"
"I mean about the horse and cartridges and grub that you took from
Walton's. Slike had nothing to do with that. Slike didn't go to
Walton's. He went north to the West Fork, where we lost his trail."
"You're sure of this?"
"Sure? Of course I'm sure. Didn't I trail him to the river myself.
Didn't-- Say, where'd you get your information?"
"A li'l bird told me. But he asked me not to mention his name. Sorry."
The district stared helplessly into the shadowy features of the man at
his bedside. The moonlight shone in at the open window through which
Billy had entered. The rays touched a corner of the bed, turning the
bedpost to shiny ebony and the counterpane to dull silver. The
district attorney could hear the murmur of his housekeeper's voice in
the kitchen. Some man then, was in the kitchen with her. Lord! if he
dared yell for help!
As though sensing what was passing in the mind of the district
attorney, Billy jabbed the gunsight up under the man's chin. "Don't
gamble with me, Arthur. Think how your friends would miss you."
But Arthur had already decided against doing any gambling. "What do
you want?" he whispered.
"I've been hoping you'd ask me that. It gives me an opening and shows
you're willing to be reasonable. Yeah. Arthur, I want you to set Miss
Walton free."
"You go to hell," was the sharp return.
"You don't understand," said Billy, in his lightsome whisper. "You're
thinking because I'm talking to you so bright and merry that I don't
mean what I say. Listen--" the whisper lost its airness and became a
ruthless, snarling growl--"listen to me. Because of what you've done
to her, it's all I can do to keep from strangling the breath out of you
here and now. If I talked to you the way I feel like talking to you,
I'd lose my temper and you'd lose your life. I'm trying to hang on to
both--for now. Don't make it any harder for me than you have to." He
paused. "About Miss Walton," he continued in his former tone. "I'll
give you your choice. Let her go, and I won't down you by Sunday
night."
"Huh?"
"Sunday night. If she isn't out of jail and the warrant against her
withdrawn by noon to-morrow, I give you my word that I'll down you on
or before midnight Sunday. And I have a habit of keeping my promises."
The district attorney knew this to be true. But he was a wriggler by
nature. "I--" he began.
"You can do it," interrupted Billy. "You have the power."
"I can't," denied the wretched man in the bed, now more than ever aware
that he had made a mistake in arresting Hazel, yet not at all clear in
his mind how to set matters right without being ridiculed into
political extinction. Yet if he didn't set matters right, he would
lose his life. Metaphorically speaking, he eased himself down between
the horns of the dilemma and considered. "I can't," he repeated after
a moment of silence. "I can't let her go after arresting her. Judge
Donelson wouldn't understand it. The Governor would remove me from
office."
"You're a liar. Judge Donelson would understand it all right if you
explained it carefully. So would the Governor. They are human beings,
even if you aren't."
"Well," bumbled the district attorney, "maybe I _could_ manage it. But
look here, what's the use of me letting her go? You couldn't run away
with her. _You'd_ be caught, sure as fate, and then where would you
be?"
"I don't intend to run away with her or without her. Only a fool runs
away. A man of sense stays comfortably in the background waiting for
the cat to jump."
"You ran away," pointed out the district attorney.
"Not at all. I'm staying comfortably in the background, waiting for
the cat to jump."
"But--" The district attorney stopped abruptly at the word.
Billy Wingo smiled. The district attorney saw his white teeth gleam in
the darkness. "But you can't understand if I stayed in the vicinity
why I haven't been caught," he completed the sentence for the other
man. "I realize your posses have been very active."
"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler are in league with you! They led the
posses astray on purpose. I'll get their hides for this!"
Billy quieted the district attorney with a gesture that drove the man's
head almost through the pillow.
"There goes your snap judgment again," complained Billy. "Shotgun and
Riley are doing their duty. They've done their damndest to catch me.
You hurt my feelings when you hint that I may be tampering with them.
You don't really think I have, do you, Arthur? Both Shotgun and Riley
are straight as strings, aren't they, Arthur?"
The gun muzzle pressed ever so gently upon Arthur's Adam's apple.
"They are," he apologized. "Both of 'em."
"And you'll free the girl to-night?"
"To-night? Why not to-morrow?"
"To-night. I don't like her having to sleep in that calaboose. You
let her out and tell Shotgun Shillman to take her to Sam Prescott's
right away--right away, to-night, y'understand?"
"All right," capitulated the district attorney. "I'll do it if I lose
my job. But you needn't go swarmin' off with any idea that you'll
cheat the gallows. You'll swing, my bold boy, for that O'Gorman
murder. There's nothing you can do to me that will fix up that
business for you--not if you were to kill me here and now. Judge
Donelson wouldn't allow me to withdraw that warrant, even I wanted to.
The evidence is too strong."
"So you really think I downed Tip?" Billy asked curiously.
"I know it."
"And held up the stage? Unofficially, Arthur, are you holding that
against me, too?"
"You held up the stage. Jerry Fern saw your horse. So did all the
passengers. Your clothes were identified, too. Jerry told the
passengers to pay particular attention to your clothes and the brass
guard on your gun and be able to describe 'em later. They did, and
everbody in town recognized 'em. Oh, we've got you."
"So clever of you--and cleverer of Jerry Fern. He told the passengers
to remember what I wore, did he?"
"Naturally," said the district attorney hastily. "It was the obvious
thing to do."
Billy nodded. "Of course it was. Bright man, Jerry. Tell you,
Arthur, suppose I bring back Dan Slike, would that help me in--my
trouble?"
"How do you mean?"
"You want Dan Slike caught, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Liar," Billy said to himself. Aloud he remarked. "You've come
around, I see. You really believe now that Dan Slike killed Tom Walton
and Judge Driver?"
"Certainly, he killed them," avowed the district attorney. "And when
he's caught we'll hang him."
"That's the proper spirit, Arthur. I have a theory that, since it
seems certain that Dan Slike didn't go to Walton's after he escaped, he
went north to the Medicine Mountains."
"Why?"
"You followed his trail north to where the West Fork swings due west
and there you lost it, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, it's certain Slike didn't follow the Fork down. That
would bring him to the country east of here, and Tom Read County is no
place for a murderer. Now, what he did was ride the rocky ground along
the Fork till it swung north again, when he'd either swing north with
it straight for the Medicine Mountains, or else ride a li'l west of
north and hit the Medicines away to the westward of Jacksboro. And in
the Medicines you might as well look for a needle in a bale of hay.
He'll lie low there for a spell, probably during spring and summer.
You may depend on it, that's what he's done."
"I believe you're right," agreed the district attorney, striving to
inject a note of excitement in his whisper. "I'll have a posse riding
that way to-morrow."
"Not a posse. Too many men in a posse. He'd be able to keep out of
their way, Slike's no ordinary murderer, Rale. Remember that. He's a
killer from Killersville, and he probable knows more about keeping out
of sight than a grizzly bear. But one man would have a chance to get
him. He wouldn't be expecting one man, do you see?"
"I don't see what you're driving at."
"I mean I'll make a bargain with you, Rale. I'll trade you Slike for
myself. You will prosecute these cases against me, if I'm caught. It
lies with you whether I get a chance for my alley or not."
"How?"
"You could fail to take advantage of points as they come up. You
could. You're clever enough, Gawd knows. Now, in the O'Gorman deal
I'd plead not guilty. I killed Tip in self-defense, see? Well, you
could let me prove I did mighty easy. Same with the hold-up. I'll get
me a clever lawyer who'd take advantage of some flaw in the indictment.
You would draw up that indictment. I don't believe we could risk flaws
in both indictments, could we?"
The district attorney could hardly believe his wicked ears. It simply
was not possible that Bill Wingo could be such a simpleton as to
believe that. "Flaws in both indictments would be a li'l too raw,"
said the district attorney, almost suffocating in the effort to
dissemble his glee.
"Yes, well, all right. In the O'Gorman murder trial, you'll let me
prove my case, and in the other you'll stick in a flaw. The Tuckleton
case you can't do a thing with. There's not enough evidence, so you'll
have to let it drop. What do you think of the proposition, Dan Slike
for Bill Wingo? You can make a record with Dan Slike too. He hasn't a
friend in the county. Another thing. That last bribe of yours I
mentioned a while ago. I'll throw in what I know about that for good
measure with Slike."
"But why stand your trial at all?" fenced the district attorney. "Why
not try to escape?"
"You forget that not ten minutes ago you told me I couldn't possibly
escape. You were wrong, naturally. But I don't want to escape. If I
did, I'd have these things hanging over me the rest of my life. No
matter where I went, I'd always be looking for a warrant waiting for me
at every bend in the trail. No, the only sensible way out is to get
this thing over with and settled as soon as possible. I don't want to
leave Crocker County. I like it here."
"Oh," murmured the district attorney, believing that he knew the reason
why Billy Wingo did not care to leave the county. It was a good and
sufficient reason, and he expected to release it from jail that very
night.
"But you'd have to get supplies from time to time," he said leadingly.
"Your description is in every town by now."
"I'll only go to Jacksboro when I have to buy anything," explained
Billy, "and as it happens, I never was there but once and that was five
years ago. If I let my beard and hair grow, who'd know me? It would
take somebody from Golden Bar to recognize my voice, and I'll take care
to keep out of the way of anybody from Golden Bar. Oh, it'll be safe
enough. I'll make my camp somewhere on Coldstream Creek and work all
through the Medicines from there. I'll get Dan and bring him back.
How about it now--willing to make it easy for me at the trial?"
The district attorney could hardly control his voice. At last the
devil had delivered his enemy into his hands. Now he could pay him
back for kicking him out into the snow. You bet he could. "I'll do as
you suggest," he said, "and drop the Tuckleton case in so far as you
and Miss Walton are concerned, and I'll let you win on the other two
counts--provided you bring back Dan Slike."
"Fair enough. In the meantime I want a free hand. You'll have to call
off the posses that are out after me. You can do that without exciting
suspicion. Look how long they've been out."
"I'll manage it," declared the district attorney. "You think the
Coldstream is a good place to camp?"
"Sure it is. I've been there before."
"Don't risk going to any other town than Jacksboro."
"I won't," said Billy. "Be sure of that. Well, I guess I'd better be
draggin' it. You'll be wanting to let Miss Walton out. By the way,
don't forget that I'm not leaving the neighborhood till I hear that
Miss Walton is safe at Prescott's and the warrant against her
withdrawn. Just bear that in mind, Arthur."
"I will," Arthur said warmly. "Shall I suggest to Miss Walton that a
letter would be sure to reach you at Jacksboro--under an assumed name,
of course?"
"It would be hardly worth while," replied Billy. "Unless I catch Dan
Slike sooner, I don't expect to be in Jacksboro under a month. Yeah, a
month, anyway."
"A month, huh? Here's wishing you luck."
Billy failed to observe the brazenly outstretched hand. "Thanks," he
drawled. "So long."
But in spite of the agreement it was noticeable that he kept the
district attorney covered till his bootsoles touched the ground beneath
the window.
"Are you crazy?" demanded Guerilla Melody when he had heard all, or
thought he had, rather. "You don't actually sure-enough trust him, do
you?"
"Certainly not," Billy replied calmly, flicking the ash from his
cigarette. "Certainly I don't trust him. That's why I told him what I
did."
Guerilla Melody screwed a forefinger into the side of his head.
"Wheels, wheels, wheels, hear 'em buzz."
"You don't understand, Guerilla. You're all right lots of ways, and
I'm your friend, and don't let anybody tell you different, but you
haven't any brains, not a brain."
"Now, look here," began indignant Guerilla, "if you----"
"Shut up and listen," Billy cut him short. "I ain't going to the
Medicine Mountains a-tall."
"Where _are_ you going?"
"South--after Dan Slike. Don't you see, this fool district attorney
won't think of skirmishing after me _south_ of Golden Bar. But I'll
bet he'll have posses combin' the Medicines within seven days. And if
I haven't read him wrong, he'll have a warrant for the Tuckleton murder
issued for me, too."
Guerilla nodded a grave head. "With Miss Walton out of it, he'll have
to cinch it on to somebody else. But I don't see yet how finding Dan
Slike, always supposin' you do find him, is going to help you any.
You'll still have to stand your own trial. And you ain't thinkin' that
Arthur Rale----"
"Oh, angels ever bright and fair! The man doesn't see it yet! I
intend to bring in the murderer of Tip O'Gorman and the man who held up
the stage, too, while I'm at it. In words of one syllable _that_ is my
plan."
The expression on the face of Guerilla Melody was one of awe diluted
with doubt. "All by your lonesome?"
"Why not?"
"Maybe I'd better go with you?" offered Guerilla.
"No," said Bill decidedly, "I'd rather you were here in Golden Bar.
Then you can tell me the news now and then. Outside of you and Shotgun
and Riley, there ain't a soul in town I can trust, and for official
reasons I can't go near the deputies. So I guess you're elected,
Guerilla."
"Aw right," said his friend. "You're the doctor. Have another drink?"
"Not to-night. Look at the time. Here we've been gassin' a solid
hour. I didn't have any business coming into your house anyway. Never
can tell who might walk in on us."
"You better wait till I find out from Riley if Rale kept his word about
Hazel Walton."
"I won't have to wait here for that. When you come back from talking
to Riley, if everything is O.K. and Hazel has started with Shotgun for
Prescott's, you set a lamp on your kitchen table and open and close
your kitchen door four times. If Rale hasn't moved, open your kitchen
door and stand in the door-way for half a minute. I'll be watchin'
from the ridge-- Huh? Sure, I've got field glasses. Borrowed a pair
from Sam Prescott same time I borrowed a horse. So long, Guerilla!"
Guerilla Melody blocked off the light of the lamp with his hat while
Billy opened the door and vanished into outer darkness.
Twenty minutes later, Billy, sitting his horse on the crest of the
aforementioned ridge, saw a rectangle of light at the tip end of town,
show and go out four distinct times. He clucked to his horse and moved
quartering down the slope in the direction of the Hillsville trail.
His goal was Prescott's, his intention to obtain from Hazel a detailed
account of what had happened at the ranch the night of the Tuckleton
murder.