The Rider of Golden Bar Part 50

Five hundred she is. It'll have to be a finger bet, because I haven't a cent with me."

"Your word's good," said Craft and went on his way.

"How about you fellers?" Billy pursued brightly. "Any chance of my turning a honest penny? I'll go you both the same as Crafty. I suppose my word's good."

"Better than gold," declared Tip, "but I don't see how you're going to check up on anybody's riding."

Billy waved a complacent hand. "That's the least of my troubles. How about it? You fellers want to bet? No? Aw right, my loss is your gain. Tippy, I wonder if you'd mind opening the door and hollering to Felix to fry me up a mess of eggs while he's at it? Tell him to let 'em lay. That's the way I like 'em. I thank you. Tip, you've made a mistake."

"How?"

"Having that hold-up fifteen miles away and then having me arrested here so close to Golden Bar. You poor flap, is it reasonable to suppose I'd hold up the Hillsville stage and then come scamperin' right home, especially when I knew my horse had been seen? You'll find the judge and jury lookin' cross-eyed at that li'l bit. Yeah, flaw in your t.i.tle, Tippy. Y'oughta be more careful."

"Bill's right," said Sam Larder unexpectedly. "I always thought fifteen miles away was too far, and I know the jury will think it's funny he came right back to Golden Bar. That don't look natural.

Nawsir."

"Blah!" snorted Tip. "You never thought anything about it till Bill pointed it out to you, and at that, he's wrong. And anyway, he ain't arrested yet. We can always rub out Bill if we feel like it. This is one county that has plenty of good places to leave a man--places where he won't be found for years and years, and not then, judging by the way the coyotes scatter a feller's bones. Have you thought of that, Bill?

You'd better. So far I've been dead against making you hard to find, but if you keep on trying to show me where I'm wrong, maybe I'll accept your view of the case."

This was plain speaking. Billy accepted it at its face value. Tip was good-hearted enough. He had proved it. But he was desperate. He had proved that, too.

Billy smiled engagingly at Tip. "Shucks, I was only talking to you for your own good," he said in an injured tone. "And here you go and get all het up. You make me more tired than a day's work."

"We may make you tireder," was the grim return.

When Felix Craft brought the eggs, he drew up at one side of the table and Billy at the other. The platter of eggs was between them. Tip looked on from his seat near the fireplace. Sam lounged comfortably in his chair.

Billy looked with a dissatisfied air upon the eggs. "Ain't there any bread, Felix? One thing I like is to sort of smush a piece of bread round my eggs till it gets all gooey and good. A li'l b.u.t.ter on the bread wouldn't hurt neither."

So Felix made another trip to the kitchen. When he returned with the bread and b.u.t.ter, Billy discovered that the pepper had been overlooked.

"For Gawd's sake use salt on 'em!" implored Felix. "I never use pepper, I don't. Salt is just as good. Healthier, too."

"But I don't like salt," protested Billy. "I've got no manner of use for it. I want pepper, I do."

"Use salt," mumbled Craft, stoking busily.

Billy pushed right back from the table and refused to be comforted. "I want some pepper! Whatsa matter with you jiggers--tryin' to starve me to death? Sam, you lazy lump of slumgullion, get me some pepper, will you?"

"No, I won't. I'm too comfortable and you're too finicky."

Bill glanced across at Tip. "You going to refuse me too, Tip, old citizen?"

"No," said Tip with a weary air, "I suppose not."

He arose and betook himself to the kitchen. Returning with a large old-fashioned tin pepper pot he thumped it down upon the table in front of the captive. "There y'are. Now, stop your squalling."

"Thank you, Tippy, I will. Yeah."

Billy sc.r.a.ped up to the table as Tip turned away. "What's the matter with this pepper pot, anyway?"

Tip turned to look. Billy picked up the pepper pot slowly and stared hard at it. Felix Craft craned his neck.

"I don't see anything the matter with it," said Craft.

"Don't you?" murmured Billy, his fingers busy with the removable top.

"Look here."

Sam Larder did not move, but both Tip and Craft obeyed. In fact, they obeyed with such good will that the handful of pepper that Billy instantly swept into their faces dusted up their nostrils as well as into their eyes.

In throwing the pepper Billy had employed his left hand. This left hand had not completed the motion before Billy was reaching for the platter of eggs with his right hand.

It was unfortunate for Sam Larder that he was a slow-going gentleman.

The platter struck him edgewise over the eye when his six-shooter had barely cleared the holster. The six-shooter thudded to the floor. Sam and his chair went over backward and lay together in a tangle amid the fragments of broken platter and the remains of several eggs. On the way down some of the eggs painted Sam's countenance and part of his shirt a bright yellow. But Sam made no attempt to rise and sc.r.a.pe himself off. He was unconscious.

Billy, arriving in Sam's immediate neighborhood a split second after Sam struck the floor, scooped up the fallen six-shooter and wheeled back to face his other two enemies. But they were too occupied with their very real misery to be an immediate menace. Felix Craft was sitting on the floor, clawing at his eyes and swearing continuously.

Tip, coughing and sneezing, was not swearing. Perhaps he had not sufficient breath. At any rate, he was on his feet, arms spread wide, feeling his way along the wall toward the door giving into the hall.

Billy cat-footed up behind Tip and s.n.a.t.c.hed away his six-shooter. Tip spun round at the touch, but Billy dodged away from the clutching hands.

Bang! a revolver bullet cut a b.u.t.ton from his vest and tucked into the wall at his elbow. Billy's sudden movement had saved his life. He leaped back another two yards to get out of the smoke and crouched, balancing his tense body on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet.

He saw beyond the table Felix Craft with a gun in each hand. The gambler's face, despite the tears that overflowed his eyes and ran down his cheeks, was fairly murderous.

"Tip! Where are you? Don't you move, Bill," Craft was saying, the barrels of his two guns weaving to and fro uncertainly. "Get away from that door, Bill. Don't you try and get away. I can see you."

Billy leaned forward, picked up a fork from his set-out on the table and flung it across the room. It fell with a clatter. Craft fired at the sound. The next instant Billy kicked him under the chin and flattened him out.

"First time I ever saw a feller shoot by ear," observed Billy, calmly divesting Craft of his gun belt and exchanging Sam's six-shooter for his own gun with the bra.s.s-trigger guard. "He did pretty good, considering. Tip, don't you try to bluff me, like Crafty, that you can see. Hey! do you want to be the third senseless man in this room?"

Tip answered the question by halting his groping way toward the speaker. He stood still, his body swaying, his muscular fingers locked in the palms of his hands. Billy stooped over the senseless Craft and whipped off his neckerchief.

"Put your hands behind you, Tip," he directed.

"Damfi will!" Tip declared.

"I don't want to whang you over the head, Tip, but I'll have to if you won't be good. Stick 'em behind you."

Tip hesitated, then suddenly he thrust his hands behind him. Billy slipped around him, laid his six-shooter on a chair seat and drew the handkerchief beneath Tip's crossed wrists. The next instant Tip had whirled about, Tip's knees were between his legs and Tip's long arms were wrapped round him in an under-hold.

Tip was essaying the wrestling chip c.u.mberland men call the swinging hype. It is a crack chip and when well done is disastrous to an opponent. But it must be well done--the right arm under, hyping with the right leg and striking outside with the left. Fortunately for Bill, Tip, although his right arm was under in a strong hold, had made the mistake of sticking his left knee between Bill's legs. He struck outside with his right leg and missed. With the right arm under, he had not the leverage he should have had.

Billy, fighting for his life, dropped his arms--back-heeled Tip and ran over him. Thump! The wrestlers, Tip underneath, landed full upon the senseless back of Felix Craft. Tip freed a hand, writhed his body sidewise and struck viciously at Billy's unprotected stomach. He struck too low and the blow glanced off Billy's hipbone. Billy, striking in turn, drove a smashing right against the point of Tip's chin. Tip merely grunted and struck again at Billy's stomach. Billy parried the blow with his left and brought up his knee with the laudable intention of kicking Tip in the abdomen.

Blinded though he was, Tip apparently sensed what was impending, for he crowded his body against Billy and struck outside with all his might.

In an instant Tip was on top and Billy underneath. The older man jammed both thumbs into Billy's windpipe and wrenched himself astride Billy's body. The strangling Billy spread wide his legs, hunched up his knees, planted both feet against Tip's ribs and straightened his legs with a jerk. Tip's hands were torn loose from Billy's throat and Tip himself crashed backward against the wall.

Billy scrambled to his feet and without the slightest hesitation clipped Tip over the head with the barrel of his six-shooter. Tip remained where he was. Billy stood over him, pistol poised, till he made sure he was senseless. Then he took pains to make fast the trio's respective arms and legs with strips torn from a nightgown belonging to Sam. He likewise removed his spurs from Craft's heels to his own.