"It's funny how he keeps insisting that Bill Wingo was with Guerilla
and that Dawson man when they captured him. Why, everybody knows Bill
Wingo is far, far away." Thus Shotgun Shillman, his tongue in his
cheek.
"Damfunny," Riley assented with a wink. "Especially when Guerilla and
Dawson said they hadn't seen a sign of Bill, not a sign. You might
almost think Simon Reelfoot was mistaken."
"You might," chuckled Shotgun Shillman. "I wonder, speaking as man to
man, and not as sheriff _pro tem._ to his deputy, where Bill is anyway."
"Probably in town this minute. It would be just like him."
"Guessin' thataway is bad business," Shotgun reproved Riley. "Besides,
you're mistaken. If we thought Billy was in town, it would be our duty
to hop out and arrest him, wouldn't it? You bet it would. So we don't
think he's in town. That is certain sure. You wanna mix a li'l common
sense with your job, Riley. You're too half-baked by a jugful. You
keep on expressin' opinions so free and easy, and first thing you know
folks will think we ain't so anxious to arrest Bill."
"Some of 'em think so now," said the unimpressed Riley.
"Ain't that the public all over!" exclaimed the justly indignant
Shotgun. "Tell you, an honest officer of the law is never appreciated,
never. Is that bottle empty, Riley?"
In the meantime Billy Wingo was calmly eating his supper in the house
of Guerilla Melody. On Guerilla's bed Dawson was snoring the sleep of
exhaustion.
"What next?" asked Guerilla Melody, when Billy was lighting his
after-supper cigarette. "With Tip's murder settled and knowin' who
killed Tuckleton----"
"Certainly doesn't help us any with the stage holdup," cut in Billy.
"Before we spring the joke in the Tuckleton deal, I've got to do a li'l
more work on the hold-up. Dumping Rafe's murderer won't do me a heap
of good while I'm breaking rock for twenty years at Hillsville. Don't
look so glum, Guerilla. There's a trail out. There always is."
At the tail of the woods a convivial voice in the street broke into
boisterous song. "Who's that?" asked Billy.
"It's Jerry Fern," said Guerilla indifferently. "He's drunk again."
"Ain't it kind of new for him? He never used to drink much."
"Oh, he can't stand prosperity."
"Prosperity?"
"Yep. Aunt died, left him some money. He ain't drove for nearly a
month."
"The lucky devil. Big legacy?"
"I dunno how much. Fair size, I guess. Must have been for Crafty to
lend him money to play with."
"What?"
"Don't get so excited," cautioned Guerilla, with a nervous glance over
his shoulder. "You've no idea how your voice carries. Even if you
don't mind being dumped, I do. And I don't care three whoops about
spending two or three years in jail for giving aid and comfort to----"
"Shut up, for Gawd's sake!" begged Billy. "Do you know Crafty's been
lending money to Jerry?"
"Didn't I see him with my own eyes more than once? But----"
"Say, don't you see anything else yet?"
"I see you, but that ain't sayin' much."
"Guerilla, if you weren't so serious you'd be funny. But don't get
down-hearted. I'm as foolish as you are, every bit. Why, when they
had me corraled in Sam Larder's house, and Crafty blatted right out
loud that he didn't know Jerry Fern was driving that trip and Tip and
Sam said later that they knew Jerry was, I had the answer to the puzzle
if I had the sense to follow it up. Especially when it turned out
later that Jerry, who always gives a bandit a battle, didn't even try
to lock horns with Crafty. But I never caught the connection till you
said Crafty was lending money to Jerry. Lending him money! Do you
think you can get Jerry Fern in here and make him drunk?"
"When?" asked Guerilla, beginning to get a glimmering.
"To-night. Now. I want to get Jerry so full he'll talk. Tell us all
he knows, see?"
"I'll make him drunk," Guerilla said earnestly. "And I'll make him
talk, or there ain't a drop of virtue in Old Crow."
Guerilla flipped on his hat and departed.
Half an hour later Guerilla returned, bringing his sheaves with him.
And, oh, the sheaves were merry and, oh, the sheaves were drunk.
Guerilla himself was giving an admirable imitation of a roistering
blade.
"Meet my friend, Mister Johnny Dawson," said Guerilla, waving an
expansive hand toward the erstwhile strayman.
"Huh, h'are you, Misher Juh-johnny Duh-duh-daw-son," said Jerry Fern,
solemnly shoving out a wavering paw and missing the mark by eighteen
inches. "Washer name of other tut-tut-twin?"
For a bad moment Dawson feared that Billy Wingo had been foolish enough
to come in from the other room. Then he understood. "His name's
Eliphalet," he made reply, solemnly turning to the empty air on his
right.
Jerry Fern again pumphandled the empty air. "Pup-pup-pleased meetcha,"
he stuttered. "Cuc-cuc-cuc-can't pup-pronounce name, but thash all
ri'. All li'l friends tut-together. Wheresh bottle? You gug-got
bub-bub-bottle, Guh-guh-gil-Guerilla?"
"Sit down," urged Guerilla, steering Jerry to anchor. "Here's your
bottle."
Jerry Fern clasped the bottle to his bosom and sang a lusty stave.
"Rye whisky, rye whisky,
Rye whisky, I cry.
If I don't get rye whisky
I surely will die."
Like the boy in the story, Jerry could sing without stuttering. But
when he began again to talk, his enunciation was worse than ever.
"Buh-buh-buh-whistle for the crossing--but I ain't gug-gug-gargle gonna
die. Nun-nun-not me. I gug-got rye whuh-whisky."
He put the bottle to his lips and went through all the motions of
taking a hearty pull. "Fuf-funny," he said, holding the bottle at
arm's length. "Wuh-wuh whisky lul-lul-lost all its taste."
"Take the cork out," suggested Guerilla.
"Cuc-cuc-cork?" smiled Jerry Fern. "I'll tut-take cuc-cork out."
So saying he smashed the bottle neck against the edge of the table,
broke it short off, and drank without ceasing till the bottle was
empty. He held the bottle against the light. He pressed it to his
ear. He shook it. Then he tossed it nonchalantly over his shoulder,
laid his cheek on the table and began to snore.
This would never do. Guerilla and Dawson shook him awake.
"Mush been shleep," mumbled Jerry, knuckling his eyes. "Gimme anuzzer
dud-drink."
"Not yet," said Guerilla firmly. "Is Felix Craft a good friend of
yours, Jerry?"
"Helluva good fuf-fuf-friend," was the instant reply.
"He doesn't pay you enough," prompted the carefully drilled Dawson.
"Thash whu-what I tut-told him!" cried Jerry Fern, pounding the table
with a vehement fist. "I ought tut-tut-to have num-more."
"He's treatin' you mean," said Guerilla. "He ain't goin' to give you
any more money."
"Yesh he wuh-will," insisted Jerry.
"He told me different." Thus Dawson.
"Yesh he wuh-will. Huh-he'll have to gimme all money I want. Pup-put
him in juh-juh-jail if he don't."
Guerilla and Dawson looked toward the doorway giving into the other
room. Then they began to laugh immoderately. "That's a good one,"
cried Guerilla, wiping his eyes. "You can't put Felix Craft in jail.
He hasn't done anything wrong."
"Oh, ain't he?" flared Jerry Fern with all the drunkard's irritation at
being disbelieved. "I know more abub-bub-bout Fuf-felix Cuc-craft than
you thuh-think. I cuc-can muh-make Fuf-felix Cuc-craft lul-lie
dud-down and rur-roll over."
"Yes, you can." With derision.
"Yeah, I cuc-can!"
"What makes you think so?"
"I know all rur-right," vaguely.
This was maddening. Billy, in the other room, yearned to take Jerry
Fern by the scruff of his drunken neck and squeeze the truth out of him.
"You don't know a thing about Felix Craft," persisted Guerilla. "Not a
thing."
"Damn shame he don't pay you enough," chipped in Dawson.
"Maybe if I went to him I could get more money for you," suggested
Guerilla. He waited a moment for the meaning of this to sink in before
adding, "What will I tell him."
"Tut-tell him I'll tell if he dud-don't pup-pay."