The Rider of Golden Bar Part 44

Huh? No 'maybe' about it. I know. Tip's an old woman, I tell you.

He's gettin' too big for his boots. He needs a lesson."

"Who'll give him one?"

"We will."

"No. Not for a minute. I know Tip. I ain't locking horns with that gent."

"Whatcha afraid of? He can't do anything."

"Can't, huh? Aw right, let it go at that. Not any for me, thanks."

Again Rafe's persuasive forefinger came into action. "Say, Tip ain't any grizzly bear, feller. He's only a two-legged man like you and me.

He can be put where he belongs."

The district attorney remained unconvinced. "I hear you say it."

"Ain't you got any nerve a-tall?"

"Where Tip is concerned, not much," was the frank reply. "I've seen that man in action."

"Action nothin'. That's just what's the matter with that man--not enough action. He'll go so far and no farther. He don't want anybody wiped out if he can help it. You saw what a fuss he made over Tom Walton's killing. Lord! He made me sick! You might 'a' thought Tom was a good friend of his. I tell you, Arthur, that sort of squeamishness don't get you anywhere. Nawsir. You gotta go the whole hog or you'll wind up in the calaboose. You bet I ain't for any of them half-way plans. It's kill a bull every time, or I don't shoot.

Tip O'Gorman must go."

"Lessee what Sam Larder and Crafty say," the district attorney offered uneasily.

"No, not them, either of 'em," Rafe declared firmly. "They're friends of Tip's."

"You tell 'em just like you told me," suggested the other. "Maybe you could persuade 'em."

Rafe shook a decided head. "Not a chance. I know them. They're soft and bull-headed where Tip's concerned. They think he's h.e.l.l on the Wabash, you know that. Those three stand together always. No, Arthur, if we shove this deal through, we gotta do it alone."

But the district attorney remained dubious. "It's too big an order."

"Not by a jugful it ain't. Gimme the bottle."

Rafe poured out a stiff four fingers. He drank it slowly. Then he had another. His eyes began to gleam redly. Suddenly he stood up and struck the table with his fist.

"I'll show 'em," he exclaimed. "Tip needn't think he can gimme orders!

Won't let you s.h.i.+p cows if you get your leg over the pole again, says O'Gorman, Larder and Craft. Just as if I'd done something out of the way instead of tryin' to put one more polecat out of the world. I'll show 'em! Say, Arthur, whatsa matter with buckin' Larder and Craft after we put Tip out of business?"

"Wait till we do," replied the district attorney, who foresaw many difficulties in the proposed operation. "And if you ask me, I don't know how we're going to do it."

Rafe Tuckleton scratched a tousled head. "Jonesy might shoot him cleaning' his gun," he proffered.

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

Rafe showed the requisite amount of contempt for such a foolish question. "It's more'n possible Tip might start cleanin' his own gun about that time. And I _could_ spare Jonesy if I had to."

"Jonesy might not want to take the chance. You haven't thought of that, have you?"

Rafe, by way of reply, took another drink. When he set the bottle down, the district attorney picked it up, held it against the daylight, then looked reproachfully at his friend and put the bottle away in the cupboard.

"Tell you what we can do," said Rafe. "We can have Simon do it."

"Simon Reelfoot?"

"Who else. Sure. Why not?"

"You're crazy. Simon may be a fool, but he has more sense than that."

"Simon drinks a skinful sometimes. Ever see him when he gets that way?

He acts very rowdy. Yeah. I'm almost certain if, when Simon was under the influence thataway, he was told that Tip had found out about his share in the Walton killing and was making threats against him, that Friend Simon would just naturally hop out and fill Tip full of holes."

"But I thought you were saving Simon for Wingo? The sheriff's more important than Tip just now."

It was evident that the district attorney was becoming more and more worried at the prospect of giving Tip his quietus.

"We'll have to figure out something else for Wingo," said Rafe. Then he brought his open palm down on his knee with a crack like a pistol shot. The district attorney jumped in his chair. "I got it!" cried Rafe. "I got it! It just came to me when you said 'Wingo.' We'll get the three of 'em at one lick."

"I knew I didn't put that bottle away soon enough."

"Rats. My head's clear as a bell--two bells, by Gawd! Listen. We'll get Simon and that foreman of his drunk. We'll sick the pair of 'em on Tip O'Gorman. They'll put the kibosh on Tip, and the word will be pa.s.sed for the sheriff. He will go to make the arrest and they'll plug him. Being drunk, they'll be desperate and won't care what they do."

"Suppose the deputies go with Bill?"

"We'll have to fix it so they won't. Oh, it'll be natural this time.

We'll wait till they're taking somebody over to Hillsville, or gone to make an arrest or something."

"But the sheriff may swear in a posse to help chase 'em."

"There won't be any chase. For a chase you gotta have horses, and we'll take away their horses first thing. No, it's a cinch Bill Wingo will go to arrest 'em by his lonesome. He's that kind."

"And we took him for a mark," was the district attorney's bitter remark.

"I didn't," lied Rafe. "I always knowed what he was."

The district attorney did not contradict this statement. Nothing was to be gained by a fight with Rafe Tuckleton.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE BEST-LAID PLANS

March had come in a-roaring. Almanac-wise it was pa.s.sing out a-bleating. Except in the high places the snow was going fast. The frost was coming out of the ground, making it necessary for the Hillsville stage to employ eight horses instead of six. The gray geese were flying northward. Here and there on the southern flanks of the lean hills the gra.s.s showed bravely green. That uncomfortable person, Dan Slike, was well enough to stand his trial. Spring was in the air, but winter still held sway in the heart of Billy Wingo. He had not been able to make up his difference with Hazel Walton, or rather she had not made up her difference with him. Manlike, or mulelike, whichever you prefer, Billy Wingo was stubbornly determined that the girl should make the first move. True, he had seen her. It was also true that he had gone out of his way to see her. Always his reception had been friendly, but not the least cordial. Obviously she had not forgiven him his outburst.

Whenever he thought on what he was pleased to consider his ill-treatment at her hands, he was p.r.o.ne to rail at the foolishness of women. He did not stop to reflect that there was another side to the s.h.i.+eld. Certainly not. The woman was clearly and wholly in the wrong.