The Rider of Golden Bar Part 29

"All right," smiled Billy. "I'll be good."

"That's better. Much better. Keep to that tone and we'll get along, we'll get along."

Again the district attorney cleared his throat.

"Lord, Lord," thought Billy Wingo, "what a foolish thing this man is!"

The district attorney picked up the thread of his discourse. "We can't have you upsetting our plans in any way, Wingo. We can't have it, and we won't have it. I order you to immediately cancel the appointments of Shillman and Tyler and appoint instead Johnson and Kenealy. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Billy in a weary voice, "I understand. I understand perfectly. You can go now."

"I'll go when I have your answer."

"Your mistake. You're going now."

So saying, Billy arose, lowered the hammer of his rifle to the safety notch and laid the weapon on the table. Then he raised himself on tiptoe and stretched luxuriously. His arms came down slowly. He turned a surprised gaze upon the district attorney.

"Haven't you started yet?" he said briskly. "Come, come, get a-going."

Even as he spoke he leaped with cat-like agility upon the district attorney where he sat in his chair and wrenched the right arm of that surprised gentleman around behind his back. With his left hand, despite the struggles and protesting roars of the captive, he removed a six-shooter from a shoulder holster and a derringer from a vest pocket.

"You must be scared of some one," observed Billy Wingo, as the derringer followed the six-shooter to a place on the table. "Arise, pushing your stomach ahead of you, and depart in peace."

But the district attorney was averse to departing that way. "You will regret this outrage!" he bellowed, his ripe cheeks and the veins in his neck swollen with pa.s.sion.

"So will you," said Billy, twisting the man's arm ever so slightly.

"You are in a serious position. If you'd only realize it, and be reasonable, we'd all be happier. I don't want to break your arm--unless I have to. Observe, Mr. Man, how easily I could do it."

So saying, he pushed the district attorney's arm somewhat farther up his back. The district attorney groaned. Billy eased the pressure.

The district attorney began to curse. Billy, boosting him with his knee, a.s.sisted him toward the door.

With his left hand Billy withdrew the bar from the staple, opened the door, swung his right foot and kicked the district attorney out into a snowdrift. After him Billy tossed his coat and cap. Then he closed the door and shoved the bar into place.

"And that's that," said Billy Wingo.

CHAPTER TEN

A SHORT HORSE

"You took your own time about coming," grunted Rafe Tuckleton.

Dan Slike crossed his knees and stared at Rafe and Skinny Shindle. "I always take my own time," said he, in a voice as blank and expressionless as his ice-blue eyes. "Why hurry?"

"Because you should have hurried," nagged Rafe. "Y'oughta come when I wrote you last summer. This Tom Walton has gone on living all fall, and here it is January and he ain't dead yet."

"That's tough," sympathized Mr. Slike and wagged a belying foot.

Skinny Shindle, looking somewhat worried, went to the door, opened it and looked out into the short hall. Satisfied that the breed cook was busy in the kitchen, he closed the door and returned to his chair.

"It's worse'n that. Tom ain't the only li'l job I want you to attend to. There's the sheriff, Billy Wingo."

"That will be extra."

"Extra?"

"You haven't any idea I'm gonna do two jobs for the price of one, have you?"

"Well----"

"Well, nothin'. I ain't in the business for my health, you can gamble on that. If you're looking for charity, you're roping at the wrong horse."

"No, no, nothing like that," Rafe hastened to say. "I'll do whatever's right and fair. You can trust me."

Dan Slike shook a slow head. An amused twinkle lightened those blank eyes. "Oh, yes," he said. "I'm almost sure I can trust you. Yeah.

Almost."

"What do you mean?" bl.u.s.tered Rafe Tuckleton.

"Folks I talk to don't generally need any dictionary," said Slike.

"Huh," grunted Rafe, content to let it go at that. "Anyway, you'll be well paid."

"I didn't come alla way from the Jornada just to hear you say I'd be well paid. Your 'well paid' and my 'well paid' might be two different things. Sometimes you and I don't talk the same language."

Rafe Tuckleton considered a moment. "Five hundred dollars apiece for Tom and the sheriff," said he, looking at Slike from beneath lowered eyebrows.

"We'll bargain for 'em separately," said Slike. "One thousand for Tom, payable in advance."

"No," denied Rafe. "Too much."

"Aw right," a.s.sented Slike cheerfully. "I'll be pulling my freight for New Mexico to-morrow. What you gonna have for dinner?"

"Let's talk it over. One thousand dollars is a lot of money for a li'l job like rubbing out Tom Walton."

"If it's a li'l job, why don't you attend to it yourself?"

"Oh, I can't. Impossible. Why, man, consider my position."

"Sure, I understand. You'd rather live than have Tom Walton kill you.

Don't know that I blame you, Rafe. You always were a sensible jasper."

Slike's eyes dwelt on Rafe's face with tolerant contempt. The red color of Rafe's leathery cheeks was not entirely due to the heat of the cannon-ball stove. No.

"I'm not a gunfighter," disclaimed Rafe quickly. "Never was. That's your job."