The Rider of Golden Bar Part 24

"Not a thing. I wish something would. It's what's happening to us that bothers me. Your fine li'l love of a sheriff is appointing his own deputies."

"The law gives him that privilege."

"You don't understand. I had picked two deputies for him to appoint--good safe men. You know that part was left to me, and I fixed on Johnson and Kenealy. This morning I mentioned their names to the new sheriff. 'I thank you kindly for your good intentions,' says Bill, or words to that effect, 'but I have already decided to appoint Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler.'"

"What?"

"I'd say what! I'd say h.e.l.l, I would! Ain't it nice, ain't it funny, ain't it a pretty state of affairs? And what are you going to do about it?"

"Has he appointed 'em yet?"

"They're sworn in by now. He said he was expecting 'em any minute when I left."

"Shillman's the nearest," said Tip, glancing out of the partly frosted window pane, "and he lives forty miles away. I wouldn't count on those boys being appointed to-day. The storm may have kept 'em away."

"No such luck," growled the judge. "They're appointed, all right enough."

"Think so if it makes you happy," Tip said with a grin. "You're always such a pessimist."

"Here!" snarled the judge. "Don't you try to ride me, Tip. Say right out what you mean."

"I did," smiled Tip. "However----"

"Huh," snorted the judge, and put his feet on the table and began to pull at his lower lip.

"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler," murmured Tip musingly. "Hum-m-m!"

"Can't you think of anything to do but buzz like a bee?" demanded the irritated judge.

"There's lots of things you can learn from bees," protested Tip O'Gorman. "Maybe they do buzz some, but they gather lots of honey."

"We'll gather lots of honey, won't we?" snapped the other. "Both Shotgun and Riley are absolutely honest."

"And sharp--infernal sharp. Don't forget that."

"You take it easy."

"Spilt milk. We've overlooked a bet, that's all."

"Oh, that's all is it? I tell you it won't be all. I've got a hunch."

"Don't be superst.i.tious. Politics is no place to play hunches."

"Apparently it isn't even a place to play common sense," said the judge. "If it hadn't been for you and your advice, we wouldn't be in this fix. You got us in. Now you get us out."

"You make me sick, Tom. You're getting to be a regular old granny. I tell you there is no rat in the hole. Suppose Bill does appoint two honest deputies. There is still Bill, isn't there? What are two deputies going to do against Bill's orders? And Bill will do what I tell him. Oh, yes, he will. You needn't shake your head. I can manage Bill Wingo."

"I wish I could be sure of that," worried the judge.

"You can be, old-timer, you can be. I'll manage Bill as per invoice, so you just bed your mind down and give it a rest. The bottle's in that cupboard, water's in the kettle, sugar's on the table, lemons in that box. Help yourself, make punch and be happy. Make enough for two, while you're about it. Your punch always did taste better than mine. I never could mix one to taste anything like. Lord knows how you do it. It's a gift. I hear you had a long run of luck at Crafty's last night."

Et cetera, words with end and amen. Tip O'Gorman was a skilful scoundrel. He knew precisely how far to go and he rarely employed a shovel. For even the dullest have a wit flash now and then.

He soon had the jurist purring.

To Billy Wingo that evening came Tip O'Gorman; a bluff, hearty, good-hearted Tip; a Tip that told funny stories and was a good listener himself and laughed at the right place. You've heard it all before doubtless and know the method: "A chair for Mr. Dugan. He owns the stockyards. His pockets are full of greenbacks. Let him win as much as he can and don't forget to tell Patsy to be waiting for him at the corner with the lead pipe when he goes out."

The old, old game, you see. Shabby, moth-eaten through and through, fairly obvious; but it works--most of the time.

"That's fine whisky, Bill," observed Tip, cupping an affectionate hand ground his gla.s.s. "No, no, tempt me not, brother. I know when to stop, if I am old and sinful. A pleasant fire, a comfortable room, a hot drink, and a cold and winter's night. What more can a man want?"

"What indeed?" said Billy politely. Inwardly he thought, "What the devil does he want?"

You will perceive that the game was not running true to form. For it to be successful, the victim must not become a prey to low suspicion.

"Sworn in your deputies yet?" Tip made casual inquiry.

"Not yet. Storm might have kept 'em away."

Then all was not lost. Tip began to feel a mental glow. He had been counting on the storm.

"Have you appointed 'em?" he put the dread question.

"Sure thing."

"Who are they?"

"Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler."

"Oh, yes. Good men, both of 'em, but----"

Tip O'Gorman fell silent. He toyed with his gla.s.s.

Billy Wingo regarded him slantwise. That "but." "Yes?"

"But," continued Tip O'Gorman, "I know of better men."

"Yeah?" Rising inflection and a c.o.c.ked eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"For instance?"

"Johnson and Kenealy."

"Why Johnson and Kenealy? Why not Shillman and Riley?"

"Shillman and Riley never have done anything for the party. Johnson and Kenealy have."