The Rider of Golden Bar

by William Patterson White

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE NEW BROOM

Tip O'Gorman sat comfortably near the red-hot stove. The wind and the snow were blustering outdoors. It was what the people you yearn to kill call a bracing day in January. Actually the weather was such that the well-known brass monkey would have been frostbitten in at least one ear.

"It's a good old world." Tip sighed luxuriously and wiggled the toes of his roomy slippers.

Entered then one who changed the pleasing aspect of the good old world.

Judge Driver slammed the door behind him and untied the comforter that held the hat to his head. He removed the hat and buffalo coat, hung both on pegs behind the door, sat down and glared at Tip O'Gorman.

"You've done it now," exclaimed Judge Driver.

"What particular thing have you on your mind?" Tip queried equably.

"The sheriff you were so set on having elected! Oh, yes, says you, put in an honest man. Give the dear people a bone to chew on. And we took your advice and gave 'em their bone. And now look at the damn thing."

"What's happened to the sheriff?"

"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 hell, 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 superstitious. 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 glass. "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 glass.

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

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

"Yeah?" Rising inflection and a cocked 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."

"What have Johnson and Kenealy done for the party?"

"For one thing, they have always voted right."

"That is one thing, but not a large thing. Other men have voted right too—frequently. Some too frequently; if you know what I mean."

"Politics, my dear fellow, is not child's play. We do what we must to win. But it doesn't pay to look a gift horse in the mouth too closely. He may bite." Tip O'Gorman stared at the new sheriff.

The latter smiled a long, slow smile. "There are muzzles," said Bill Wingo.

Tip dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Too big a horse and too many teeth," said he.

"Ah!" murmured Billy Wingo.

"Come, come, Bill, you're no fool. You know what I'm after. You know what you owe the party. Johnson and Kenealy must be taken care of."

"Must," observed Billy, "is the hardest word in the dictionary."

"Sometimes it means the most," declared Tip O'Gorman. "This is one of those times."

"Ah!"

There it was again, that irritating monosyllable. For the first time Tip O'Gorman began to experience a doubt.

"We expect you to appoint Johnson and Kenealy," he said bluntly.

"And if I don't?"

"Oh, you will—after you've thought it over."

"I thought it over after Judge Driver came to me. And I decided not to. I prefer my own men."

"Johnson and Kenealy will be your own men."

"That is a question." Billy sat back in his chair and made a church roof and a steeple with the fingers of his two hands. He raised lazy gray eyes to Tip's face. "That is a question," he repeated. "They may be my men and then again—" He ceased speaking, leaving the sentence unfinished. The church steeple became a gallows. "You see, I can't risk it," drawled Billy.

Tip O'Gorman carefully set his glass down on the table. "You must," he remarked softly.

"As I said before," murmured Billy, his drawl drawlier than ever, "must is a hard, hard word. But I'll tell you what I'll do, Tip," he continued in a louder, more cheerful tone. "You show me what 'musts' in the statutes apply to the sheriff's office, and I'll obey every last one of 'em. When I took office, I made oath to obey and support the laws, you know."

He smiled at Tip. The latter smiled back. "Lookit here, Bill," he said in his best and most fatherly fashion, "I like you——"

"I suppose that was why I was elected," interrupted Billy.

"Partly," was the brazen reply. "But there were other reasons, of course. We needed a good man to win, a man that was on the level, an honest man, a——"

"Not a crooked man, or a dishonest man, or a pink man, or even a man with purple spots. So you elected me. I'll take it as a compliment. Go on."

"A straight man doesn't throw down his friends," said Tip O'Gorman.

"Sure not," declared Billy warmly. "He'd be a pup if he did. I agree with you, Tip. We won't fight over that."

"You're throwing us down," insisted Tip.

"Now, we're getting down to carpet tacks," said Billy. "But who are 'us'?"

"The party."

"The party?"

"The party."

"But the party and my friends are not necessarily the same thing."

"We elected you."

"That doesn't make you my friends. Understand me, Tip, there are a lot of folks in the party I like and admire—a lot of 'em. But the folks I like and admire don't come to me and give me orders, and my friends don't either. Not that you've been giving me any orders, Tip. You wouldn't do such a thing."

"It's all right to ride me," said Tip, without losing for a minute his amiable smile, "but you might better leave off the spurs."

"I ain't riding anything to-day," averred Billy. "There's the bowl. Dip you out another glassful."

Tip O'Gorman did not accept the invitation. "I wish I could make you understand," he said slowly, crossing his legs and clasping both hands around a plump knee. "This is a serious matter, Bill."

"Sure it is," asserted Billy. "You're serious. I'm serious. He, she or it is serious. Outside of that, it's a fine, large evening."

"Lookit here, Bill, what's your game?"

"Game? What game are you talking about?"

"What do you want? What are you after, anyway?"

Billy made swimming motions with his arms and hands. "Paddle out, paddle out. You're over my head and getting deeper."

"Are you trying to give me the double-cross?" inquired Tip.

"Now why should I do a fool thing like that?"

"I don't know. I'm asking."

"What makes you think I'm giving you the double-cross?"

"The first favor I ever asked of you—the appointment of these two men."

"When I was elected, then, it wasn't intended I should have a free hand?"

"Free hand? Of course, of course." Tip was beginning to find the atmosphere oppressive. He passed a handkerchief across his beaded brow.

Observing which, Billy said affectionately, "It is hot in here. Shall I open a window?"

"Nemmine a window," Tip said. "Think a shake, Bill. Is it wise?"

"Wise?"

"You know what I mean."

"Not I," denied the cheerful Bill.

"You can't buck the party."

"There ain't no such word, but just for the sake of argument, why can't I?"

"It has been done, but——"

"Where are the snows of yesteryear, huh?"

Tip nodded. "Something like that."

"If I don't appoint your men and do appoint mine, what particular form of devilment would the party feel called upon to put on me?"

"Devilment," grinned Tip. "You don't know us."

"Backward and forward, sideways and from the bottom up. Don't you fool yourself I don't know you. I been looking over the situation a long time. It's been a liberal education."

"So that's it," murmured Tip. "Driver told me, but I didn't believe him."

"The judge sometimes tells the truth."

Tip O'Gorman sighed. He thought he saw what he would have to do. And he didn't want to do it. It meant one more mouth to feed, and one more finger in the pie.

"You understand, Bill," said he, "that it was always intended you should have your share."

"Nothing was ever said to me about any share," said Billy truthfully.

"We occasionally prefer to leave something to the imagination."

"It beats leaving it to the taxpayer," smiled Billy.

"Sure, sure."

"But my share you were speaking of, Tip," prompted Bill. "What is this share—large, small or indifferent?"

"That depends," replied O'Gorman cadgily.

"On the weather, or some one's generosity?"

Was there mirth or something sinister in the gray eyes? Tip O'Gorman couldn't be sure. But Lord, there was no cause for apprehension. He'd been making himself unnecessary worry. Bill Wingo was too easy-going and good-natured to hold out on the boys. He was just making a play for his legitimate share. That was only right. Not that Tip had intended in the beginning that Bill should have his legitimate share. These politicians!

"You see, Bill, it's thisaway," said Tip. "Some years the party makes more than other years, and——"

"And the years it makes the most," insisted Bill, "are the years I make the most. Is that it?"

"You get the general idea."

"But not the general idea of what I get," persisted the strangely obtuse sheriff. "What is the minimum I can expect?"

Tip did not relish being pinned down to cases in this fashion. He preferred generalities.

"The minimum," repeated Tip.

"And the maximum," suggested Bill. "I might as well know all the horrible details."

"From three to five thousand dollars," said Tip, watching his vis-à-vis closely.

Said vis-à-vis looked disappointed. "Small change," he remarked coldly. "Who gets the other nickle?"

"Your salary is two thousand," Tip told him reproachfully, "and three to five thousand above that makes five to seven thousand. What more do you want?"

"Whatever's right," declared the amazing Mr. Wingo.

"That's right—what I told you."

"What did the last sheriff get?"

"I told you it varied."

"I know you told me. Tell me again."

Tip O'Gorman shifted his position in the chair. He was being baited. He realized it now. A slow anger rose in his breast. But an admixture of dismay in the anger kept it from boiling over.

He continued to temporize. "Your slice will be worth while, well worth while. Leave it to us. You can trust me."

"Can I? I wonder."

"Meaning?" O'Gorman's face was cold as his heart was hot.

"I wonder. I do it now and then. Habit, I suppose. No harm in it, is there?"

"Lookit here, you don't doubt me, do you?"

"Unhand me, Jack Dalton! I may be poor—I may starve to death, but I will never be an old man's plaything. Better death than dishonor-rur-rur. Don't be so melodramatic, Tip. Who am I to doubt you? You? What a question!"

The fingers with which Billy Wingo then proceeded to make a cigarette were steady and sure in every movement. Billy licked the length of the white roll, smoothed it down and twisted one end. Tip O'Gorman did not know what to make of him. Or rather he thought he knew too well, which frequently amounts to the same thing.

"You'd better trust me," rumbled Tip.

"Be reasonable, Tip. You ask for trust and you give me a stone."

"A stone?"

"What else is three to five thousand bucks, I'd like to know. I'm no child, man. I've got my growth, and I've put away childish things, including all-day suckers."

"You must take me for one."

"Not you, not in a million years. But—" Mr. Wingo paused and looked up at the ceiling. His lips moved. He muttered of figures and sums.

Tip O'Gorman awaited his pleasure. What else was there to do?

"I think between nine and ten thousand is nearer the correct amount for li'l me," Billy said at last.

"What?" screeched Tip, fairly jarred off his balance at last.

Billy made his position plain. "Say ten thousand in round numbers."

"Ten thousand devils!"

"Not devils—dollars."

"You're crazy!"

"It's the least you can do," insisted Billy.

Tip O'Gorman made an odd noise in his throat. After making which, a dog would have bitten Mr. Wingo. Tip may have been a bad old man, but he was not a dog. He really dissembled his foamingly murderous rage very well indeed.

"I'll have to see the rest of the boys," said Tip O'Gorman, and he actually smiled.

"Why, no," contradicted Billy. "You won't. Why should you? Rafe and you are the dogs with the brass collars in Crocker County, and you wear more brass than Rafe, when you come right down to it. What you say usually goes without question."

"I never said ten thousand for a sheriff before," protested Tip.

"There's nothing like establishing a precedent. Don't be hidebound. This is the newer generation, and advanced age, you know; one that's advanced by jumps, if you could only be brought to realize it."

Tip held up an arresting hand. "Don't joke," he said. "I realize what the blessed age is doing, but doubling the ante this way is more than a jump—it's a mighty wild leap."

"It can be done," Billy said placidly. "What are impossibilities to-day become realities to-morrow. Q.E.D. P.D.Q."

Tip O'Gorman raised plump hands to the level of his ears. "I didn't think when I proposed you for sheriff," he remarked earnestly, "that I was proposing a road agent too. Oh, you burglar! I do admire a hawg. Yes, sir. But what can a feller do? Ten thousand goes. About those deputies—I don't suppose you'll have any objections, now that you've got what you want, to appointing Johnson and Kenealy?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I have—plenty. No Johnson and no Kenealy. Shillman and Tyler. Yes."

"No. You've got to earn that ten thousand."

"Bribery and corruption, Tip, is a serious crime."

"Bosh! You listen to me, young feller. We're buying you, body, soul and roll, with that ten thousand cases! You've got to do as we say. Hells bells, what do you think you are?"

"A stranger in a strange land. Damn strange, too. Tip, you're an old scoundrel!"

Tip O'Gorman's hand halted half-way to his armpit.

"No, no, Tip, not that," Billy warned him, keeping turned on the other man's stomach the gun that had suddenly appeared from nowhere. "Don't turn rusty in here. The carpet is new and so is the furniture. Go a li'l slow, or a li'l slower, whichever appeals to you."

Tip locked his hands behind his head. "Be sensible, Bill," said he calmly. "You can't hope to buck us, if that's your idea. You can't."

"Can't I? We'll see."

"What can one man do?" contemptuously.

"One-two-three. Three men. Three men can do a lot. Yep. I've seen it done."

"Have you?"

"I have. But I want to be fair to you, Tip. You'll notice I haven't removed your gun. I'll return mine where it came from—behind the waistband of my pants. Now turn your wolf loose."

But Tip O'Gorman merely smiled. "I thank you kindly," said he. "You mean well; but as you say, the carpet and the furniture are new. It would be a pity to spoil both them and the evening."

"You mean we'll go outdoors then?"

"We will not, but I will. You will stay here and, I hope, enjoy one good night's rest."

"One, huh? Do I hear you say one? I do. I get your meaning, thank you. So good of you. Don't get up. I would a tale unfold. Did you ever hear the story of Benjy and the bear. No? This is it. Benjy was out hunting one day and it happened the bear was out hunting too. For the bear was hungry, and the bear saw Benjy before Benjy saw the bear. And after the dust had cleared away and all, the bear was bulgy and the bulge was Benjy."

"Huh," snorted Tip O'Gorman, "what does that prove?"

"It proves that it's better to be the bear than Benjy. At least, that's the way it looks to a man up a tree. I made up my mind some time ago that if I got tangled up in a situation like that I'd be the bear and not Benjy."

Tip O'Gorman stared with an odd expression at Billy Wingo. "You have changed," he remarked with conviction. "I wonder——"

"Give it a name," begged Billy, when Tip failed to complete the sentence.

Mr. O'Gorman shook his bullet head. "No, I got other fish to fry."

He got up heavily and began to pull on his overcoat.

When he was gone, Billy Wingo crossed the room unhurriedly and barred the door. He threw a quick glance at the blankets nailed across the windows ostensibly to keep out the drafts. All tight. No one could look in.

"All right, boys," he said in a conversational tone. "You can come out now."

The door of an inner room opened. Two men emerged. One was a long, lean citizen with a long, lean face barred by a heavy grizzled mustache. The other was shorter, of equally lean build, and considerably younger. The older man was Shotgun Shillman, the younger was Riley Tyler.

In Riley's hand was a thin block of paper. A pencil stuck up behind his ear.

"Did you get it all?" queried Billy, sitting down in his chair and hunching it close to the table.

"Most of it," Riley replied. "All the important part, especially where he tried to buy you up. Gee, you've got him now. Send him over the road any time."

"But it's only Tip," said Billy, taking the block of paper from Riley and riffling through the scribbled leaves.

"Arresting him would sure throw a heap scare into the others," Riley grinned.

"And that is what I want to avoid," said Billy. "There's no use in scaring off the flock by downing one bird. We'll just file away Tip O'Gorman's remarks for future reference. We can afford to wait. Where's that Bible? I'll swear you boys in right away."