The Rider of Golden Bar Part 61

"You know yourself there was a li'l freeze last night and the ground stiffened up some, and I guess the district attorney and the three others who found Rafe were so fl.u.s.tered they walked all over the ground round Rafe and wiped out every sign there was."

"Who was with the district attorney?"

Guerilla told him and resumed the thread of his discourse. "When the district attorney and the other witnesses examined the Walton premises, they found plenty of evidence that there'd been a fight, and they found a lot of supplies gone, cartridges, grub and such, Hazel had bought in town the morning before."

"Is that all?" asked Billy when Guerilla paused.

"Lemme get my breath," Guerilla begged indignantly. "The whole business is so tangled and mixed up it's hard to tell it straight. No, it ain't all. The district attorney says those supplies were bought for you and they were taken by you. Hazel's ridin' horse, the one used to be her uncle's, that's gone too--with you."

"If Rale thinks I was at Hazel's, it's reasonable to a.s.sume I might have had a hand in killin' Rafe my own self. That goes double for Dan Slike, seeing he had the knife last."

"It's reasonable all right enough, but then you and Dan Slike ain't noways available, and Hazel is right handy. Rale admits you might have done it, and he keeps yawpin' the evidence is strong against Hazel, and he would be false to his oath of office if he didn't put her in jail."

"False to his oath of office! Rale!"

"Yeah, ain't it a joke?" contemptuously.

"But how did Slike get hold of the butcher knife, that's what I want to know? He didn't have it on him when I arrested him last January."

"That's the d.a.m.ndest part of the whole deal, Bill. Hazel says Dan Slike came to her place before Rafe did, and it was him took the supplies and her horse and her hat and that very same butcher knife which gave Rafe his come-uppance. Slike beat her almost senseless too, she said."

Billy Wingo looked up at the stars. His lips moved. But no sound issued. After a moment he said, in an oddly dead tone of voice, "How did Slike escape?"

"Far as anybody can tell, he made him a key somehow and unlocked the jail door and walked out. Anyway, Riley Tyler found the door open yesterday afternoon and Dan's cell empty. And the district attorney lost a horse and saddle."

"The district attorney, huh?"

"The district attorney."

"It was to some people's interests to have Dan Slike escape," Billy said musingly.

"You bet it was, and I'm gamblin' somebody let him out all right, but--well, I dunno. Anyway, Rale, he led the posse that trailed Slike, him and Felix Craft. n.o.body could have been more energetic than those two."

"If they were so energetic and there was any kind of a trail, which there should have been, because it was a warm afternoon, it's queer they didn't run up on Slike at Hazel's."

"That's the funny part of it. The trail led in the opposite direction toward Jacksboro. The posse followed it clear to the West Fork of the Wagonjack, where they lost it on the rocky ground on the other side."

"Slike might have doubled back."

Guerilla Melody shook his head. "Not without gettin' caught--if he rode to the West Fork first. Besides, Hazel says he came to her house a li'l after sunset, and he escaped, near as we can figure out, between three and four. So you see he'd never have had time to make it to Walton's from the West Fork by sunset."

"Did Hazel say how long he stayed?"

"About an hour."

"An hour! Then Slike knew he wasn't being followed. He never went to the West Fork a-tall."

Guerilla nodded a grave head. "I never was sure he did, especially after Shotgun Shillman told me when he got back that the tracks they followed to the West Fork looked a damsight older than they had a right to, always supposin' they were made that afternoon. Oh, you can't blame Shotgun, Bill, or Riley either. The district attorney was in charge of the posse, and him and Felix and the rest of his friends said it was the wind a-blowing so hard made the tracks look old. And there was a tearin' breeze, worse luck."

"Do you know somethin', Guerilla? It wouldn't surprise me a whole lot to find out the district attorney his own self made that trail to the Wagonjack."

"It would surprise me if you _found it out_. You ain't catchin' him so easy. Not that feller."

"Leave it to me. And he provided Slike with the horse too. You'll see."

"I'm sure hoping I do. I'd like nothing better than to see Art Rale stretching the kinks out of a new rope."

"Stranger things have happened. I guess I'd better go see the district attorney."

Guerilla Melody chuckled as one does at a pleasantry.

"I mean it," p.r.o.nounced Billy. "He needs a li'l straight talk, and he's going to get it prompt and soon. Luckily he likes fresh air."

"Fresh air?" puzzled Guerilla.

"Leaves his window partly open at night," explained Billy. "Which being so, I'll be out of luck if I can't creep in and give him the surprise of his life."

"He may not have gone to sleep yet. I'll find out."

Before Billy could stay him, Guerilla was gone. Fifteen minutes later he returned.

"He's abed, snoring like a circular saw working on a knotty log,"

Guerilla informed him. "But there's a light in the kitchen."

"That means his housekeeper's up--probably settin' bread for to-morrow.

Ain't she quite a friend of yours, Guerilla?"

The darkness veiled Guerilla's blush. "I see her now and then."

"Then go see her now," urged Billy. "It's kind of late for an evening call, but you can tell her some kind of a lie. If she likes you, she'll believe it. You go see her and keep her in the kitchen for the next thirty minutes. Then meet me here."

The district attorney, lying on the broad of his back in bed, suddenly snored his way into a nightmare. He dreamed that he was in the woods, that he had lain down upon an inviting bank and that a ninety-foot pine had fallen upon his chest, to the prejudice of his breathing. He squirmed and wriggled but the tree was immovable. It was slowly crushing the walls of his chest. The district attorney gasped--awoke, and discovered to his horror that his bad dream was partly true. There was something roosting on his chest. If not a tree, it was at least confoundedly heavy. Furthermore, adding as it were to the interest of the occasion, a something chilly and hard was rooting into the angle of his chin and neck.

The something on his chest spoke in a carefully restrained whisper.

"Keep very quiet."

The district attorney would have shivered had he been able to move that much. He knew that voice. It belonged to Billy Wingo.

"You shouldn't have left your window open," pointed out Billy. "Your insane love for fresh air will be the death of you yet."

The district attorney did nothing but gasp faintly.

"Would it be more comfortable if I sat on your stomach instead?" asked the oppressor prodding the other man in the throat with his gun muzzle.

"I--I--cuc-can't breathe!" the district attorney choked out.

"Just a minute," said Billy, feeling beneath the pillows, but finding no weapon, he slid from the district attorney's chest to the side of the bed. "You didn't expect to see me so soon, did you, Arthur?"