The Rider of Golden Bar Part 28

In Riley's hand was a thin block of paper. A pencil stuck up behind his ear.

"Did you get it all?" queried Billy, sitting down in his chair and hunching it close to the table.

"Most of it," Riley replied. "All the important part, especially where he tried to buy you up. Gee, you've got him now. Send him over the road any time."

"But it's only Tip," said Billy, taking the block of paper from Riley and riffling through the scribbled leaves.

"Arresting him would sure throw a heap scare into the others," Riley grinned.

"And that is what I want to avoid," said Billy. "There's no use in scaring off the flock by downing one bird. We'll just file away Tip O'Gorman's remarks for future reference. We can afford to wait.

Where's that Bible? I'll swear you boys in right away."

CHAPTER NINE

THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY

It was the next day that Arthur Rale, the district attorney, called on the new sheriff. He was a heavy-jowled, heavy-handed, heavy-bodied individual, with black hair, close-set eyes, and, what was curiously at variance with those heavy jowls, a long and pointed nose.

Billy Wingo was expecting the district attorney to pay him a visit.

For Shotgun s.h.i.+llman had been told that Tip O'Gorman, Rafe Tuckleton and Judge Driver had spent the morning closeted with that gentleman.

Billy Wingo was cleaning a Winchester when the district attorney knocked and entered.

"Si'down, Arthur," invited Bill, indicating a chair with the barrel of the rifle.

The district attorney returned the salutation gruffly. Billy smiled sweetly down at the rifle stock he was hand-rubbing. Mr. Rale stamped his feet, hung up his hat and coat and sat down heavily in the chair.

Resting both fists on his knees, he fixed Billy with a hard eye.

"What's this I hear?" he wished to hear.

"I dunno," said truthful William.

"I hear you've appointed s.h.i.+llman and Tyler deputies," Rale said accusingly.

"Seems to me I _have_ done something like that," admitted Billy.

"You've got to cancel their appointments."

"Got to?"

"Got to."

"I must be gettin' deaf," drawled Billy. "Seems like I heard you say got to."

"You heard me right," declared Rale, with a vicious snap of strong, white teeth. "You cancel those appointments and put in Johnson and Kenealy instead."

"Everybody seems to want those two fellers," said Billy, wagging a puzzled head. "I don't understand it."

The district attorney leaned forward. His broad, flat face was venomous in its expression.

"Look here," he said harshly, "you like Hazel Walton, don't you?"

Whang! In that confined s.p.a.ce the crash of the gun was deafening. The district attorney, coughing in the smoke, picked up himself and his chair from the ground. He had fallen over backward at the shot, struck the back of his head and now his actions were purely mechanical.

"Dazed you like, didn't it?" Billy queried in a soft voice. "You did hit pretty hard. Luck is with you to-day. I'll bet if you went down to Crafty's, you'd bust the bank and Crafty's heart."

Rale did not take the palpable hint. He sat down again and looked uncertainly at Billy Wingo. He had courage, this district attorney, the species of courage, you understand, that to function properly must have a shade the better of the break, that bets always on a sure thing and never on an uncertainty.

Rale had been knocked off balance mentally and physically. He did the wrong thing.

"You tried to murder me," he blurted out.

Billy shook a solemn head. "You're mistaken. If I'd tried to murder you, I'd have done it. Accidents will happen, though, even to the most careful fellers. Yeah. You were speaking of the Waltons, Arthur. I didn't quite catch what you said."

He gazed expectantly at the district attorney. It seemed to the latter that the barrel of the rifle was in a line with the third b.u.t.ton of his vest. Certainly the muzzle looked as large as a mine opening. Was the rifle c.o.c.ked? Billy Wingo's large hand covered the breech. Billy moved the large hand a trifle. Yes, the rifle was c.o.c.ked. The district attorney's eyes strayed downward. At Billy's feet was a spent sh.e.l.l.

"Look here," said Rale, "if that shot was an accident, why did you flip in a fresh cartridge?"

"How do you know I worked the lever?" demanded Billy.

"Because the spent sh.e.l.l's on the floor between your feet."

"You've been reading those detective stories again. Arthur. It would look mighty bad for me if you were to pa.s.s out in here to-night.

You're a big man and a heavy man. And the ground is frozen harder than rock. Bet I'd have to use a pick. I hope, Arthur, you're not thinking of doing anything to make me use a pick."

Billy had uttered these sinister words in a mild and plaintive tone.

The expression of his countenance was even milder and more plaintive.

The district attorney found it difficult to believe that he had heard aright. Yet he had heard the report of the rifle aright. There could be no mistake about that.

The district attorney sat rigidly erect. He cleared his throat. He wished his heart would stop pounding so hard. Odd, too, that it should seem to have moved out of its usual position to another that was already occupied by his windpipe. Breathing and speaking were rendered difficult. Quite so.

He cleared his throat again. "Wingo," he said, "are you threatening me?"

"Threatening you?" Billy said in a shocked tone. "Certainly not.

Wouldn't think of such a thing."

The district attorney tried again. "Wingo, I don't know what to do with you. I----"

"Don't do anything," suggested Billy. "I'd feel better about it, too."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, I would. I've got a new job here, Arthur, and I guess it will keep me busy--busy enough, anyway. And how am I going to swing it and do justice to the taxpayers, if well-meaning fellers like you are alla time experimentin' with me?"

"Wingo," said the district attorney sternly, "stop this tomfoolery!

Instantly! You have played the buffoon long enough."