The Rider of Golden Bar Part 32

"You make me sick, you fellers. Talk! Talk! Talk! That's all you do. Talk alla time. All right, I will see if you're able to do anything besides talk. Two of my cows have been shot and there's two or three strangers baching it in that old shack of Cayler's on Mule Creek. Cows are worth thirty dollars per right now, and I want you to find out if them fellers beefed my cattle."

"Been over there yourself?"

"Sure I have. They wouldn't lemme get inside the door. Threw down on me. Bad actors, them two lads."

"I thought you said there were three," said Billy Wingo.

"Two or three," snappily.

"Suspicions don't count for much," said Billy. "You know that, Reelfoot. Have you any evidence against these men?"

"Sure I have," was the reply. "The bodies of my two cows and a plain track of blood and moccasins to within a mile of the cabin."

"Did the trail stop there--within a mile?"

"Feller had a horse tied. He packed on the beef and rode himself. I trailed the horse to the corral back of the cabin."

"Were you alone?"

"My friend Jack Faber was with me. He can back up everything I say."

"And you mean to tell me, Reelfoot, that you trailed this beef to the Cayler cabin and then allowed the men inside to get the drop on you and run you off?"

"They threw down first," Reelfoot insisted sullenly. "They got the drop. What could we do?"

"I don't know," replied Billy Wingo dryly. "I wasn't there."

"Perhaps," put in the irrepressible Riley Tyler, "the parties of the second part forgot their guns."

"A gun ain't much good when the other feller's got the drop," Simon said sourly.

"The trick is," observed Billy, his manner that of one stating a newly discovered fact, "the trick is, Reelfoot, to get the drop first."

Reelfoot gaped at him. Then his jaws closed with a click. But they reopened immediately in violent speech. "What about my cows?" he squalled. "What you gonna do about them cattle?"

"We can't unscramble any eggs for you, Reelfoot, not being magicians, but maybe we can dump the rustlers for you. How will you have them--shot or half-shot? Now, son, you shut up, close your trap, swallow your tongue or something. Riley Tyler is the only one allowed to swear around me. Where do you want to cool off--in here or out in a snowdrift?"

Simon Reelfoot subsided into a chair. He produced a plug of tobacco from one capacious bootleg, a clasp-knife from the other, snicked open the claspknife and haggled off a generous chew.

Billy nodded approvingly. "That's better. Shotgun and I will be with you in two minutes."

Simon Reelfoot glared out of the window. Billy Wingo, whose eyes, for all their casualness, had not strayed from Simon for a minute, had not overlooked the pucker of worry that had appeared between Simon's chin and straggly eyebrows at the mention of the two minutes. With folk like Simon it is always well to proceed with caution, to learn the real reason, not the apparent one at the bottom of every move. Quite so.

Why was Simon worried?

Simon's gaze returned from the world without. It skimmed across Billy Wingo, dodged around both Shillman and Tyler, and dropped to the floor, where it fastened upon and clung to the n.o.bbly tips of the Reelfoot boots.

"I don't guess there's any tearing rush," he mumbled.

Strangely enough or rather naturally enough, Billy experienced no surprise at the remark. "No hurry, huh?" he observed. "A minute ago you were in a hot sweat to have us do something right away quick. And now you ain't. What has changed you, Mr. Reelfoot? I ask to know."

"I want the job done right," was the lame explanation. "If you hustle off too sudden you might forget something."

"What do you think we're liable to forget?" queried Billy.

"How do I know what? But I know it don't pay to go off half-c.o.c.ked."

Again Simon Reelfoot's eyes strayed to the window. When the eyes swiveled back to meet those of Billy Wingo, the pucker of worry had been wiped from Reelfoot's eyebrows.

"No," he resumed, in a tone that was unmistakably relieved, "it don't pay to go off half-c.o.c.ked."

"No, it don't," concurred Billy, wondering greatly, both at the change in Simon's expression and the relief in his tone. Why? He desired to know why. And he made up his mind to know why. For among his other vices, Simon was friendly with Rafe Tuckleton and his precious gang.

Billy Wingo, shoving cartridges through the loading-gate of a Winchester, slouched casually past the window through which Simon was looking. He perceived, kicking his way through the snow, Mr. Tom Driver, the local Justice of the Peace. There was no one else in sight.

"Lordy, how the snow dazzles your eyes," remarked Billy, stepping back and squinting. "Is that Tom Driver coming here?"

"Where?" inquired Simon Reelfoot, and looked through the wrong window.

Yet when Simon had glanced through the other window a moment before, he must have seen the judge. Hum-m! Billy Wingo continued thoughtfully to shove cartridges through the loading-gate.

Entered the judge. "Good morning, gentlemen!" was the judicial greeting. The judicial eyes absorbed the sheriff's preparations.

"You're not going anywhere, are you, Bill?" he inquired, hooking a chair up to the table and sitting down after he had hung up his hat and coat behind the door.

"Reelfoot's had two cows shot," explained Billy. "He thinks he knows who did it. Shotgun and I are going to see about it."

"Only two cows," said the judge. "Then your presence isn't absolutely necessary. You can send Riley Tyler instead. I have a little business to go over with you, Bill--a county matter. And----"

"Is it important?"

"I think it is."

"All right. I'll stay. Riley, I guess you'd better go with Shotgun."

It was pure chance that enabled Billy to catch the gleam of satisfaction in Reelfoot's eyes. He had just happened to be looking at the man. Satisfaction, yes. Why? Why was Simon glad chat he, Billy Wingo, was not going with him on the trail of the beef-killers?

When Shotgun and Riley were gone away with Reelfoot, Billy looked across at the judge and nodded.

"Fly at it," said he.

Without haste the judge fished some papers from his pocket and opened them on the table. He did it awkwardly. His fingers might have been all thumbs. He seemed to have difficulty in finding the paper he wanted.

Billy Wingo, his eyes drowsy-looking, watched silently. "What's it all about?" he asked curiously.

"Jake Kilroe," replied Judge Driver. "He's been selling liquor to the Indians."

"He always has."

"I know he has. And it's a disgrace to the community. It's got to stop."

Billy stared at the judge even more curiously. For this high and moral tone he did not understand at all. It was not like the judge. It was not in the least like the judge. No, not at all.