CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT
"I tell you, Rafe," said Reelfoot in a panic, "they suspect me—they think I'm mixed up in this murder business."
"Accessory before and after the fact," slipped in the district attorney. A reptile himself, he relished the wrigglings of another reptile. "If they prove it on you, you'll be hanged sure as Dan Slike will hang."
"I ain't the only one they can prove it on," snarled Simon Reelfoot.
"Who have you got in mind?" Rafe Tuckleton said in a colorless voice.
"Both of you, for instance," Reelfoot informed him.
"You do us a grave injustice." Thus the district attorney solemnly.
Rafe Tuckleton shook his head at Simon. "Wrong tree. You don't know anything about us."
Simon Reelfoot gaped at both of them. "Why, we fixed it up between us. You know we did. You even wanted two cows killed so's to make it look lifelike to the deputies."
Rafe looked at the district attorney. "The man's mad."
Simon's teeth snapped together like a cornered coyote. "If you're trying to put this thing all off on me—" he began, and stopped.
"We're not trying to put anything off on you," the district attorney told him silkily. "There's nothing to put off on you anyway. Not a thing. You're nervous, that's all, Simon. Your imagination is working overtime."
"Sure is," corroborated Rafe. "You don't think we've got anything to do with the murder of Tom Walton, do you, Simon?"
The Reelfoot jaw dropped. The man stared helplessly at Rafe and the district attorney. "Whatell did— Say, what else was all that rigamarole for then?"
"What rigamarole?" Oh, so patient was the voice of Rafe Tuckleton.
Reelfoot gulped. "You had me go to Wingo's office, and rile him up, and spin him a lot of jerkwater stuff about my rustled cows, so's to get him and his deputies all ready to go away with me, when Driver was to come in with that stuff about Kilroe and keep Bill in town while the deputies went with me. Well, you know how only Shillman went. But I couldn't help that. Anyway, I suppose you thought you was foxy not to tell me the rest of the story about Skinny Shindle and the fake letter and so forth. Gents, you was foxy. Yeah, you was foxy. But I'm foxy himself. I can put two and two together and make four any day."
He paused and glared at the pair of them. "I wondered what it was all about. Yeah, I wondered, and I asked you and you said it was to keep Bill Wingo from mixing into a li'l stock deal. Stock deal!" Here Simon spat upon the floor. "Stock deal!" rushed on Simon. "You never said it was murder."
Rafe Tuckleton and the district attorney exchanged wooden looks.
"Now that you mention it," said Rafe, "I don't believe we did."
"I thought you didn't like Tom Walton," observed the district attorney.
Simon Reelfoot swore a string of oaths. "I didn't like him, not a bit. But I don't want to be hung for helping having him killed."
"That would be unfortunate," murmured the district attorney.
"I ain't sorry he was killed, of course," Simon fretted on, unheeding. "That part was all right, but I didn't want to be mixed up in it. There's no sense in doing a thing like that if you're gonna be caught. And I don't mean to be caught! You didn't have no right to get me into this deal without telling me all the circumstances first," he concluded weakly.
"Then you think you've been badly treated?" purred the district attorney.
"I know it," declared Simon.
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't come here for sympathy."
"What did you come for?"
"Protection. What do you s'pose? You've gotta protect me."
"Listen to him, Rafe. Says we gotta protect him. That new brand of whisky at George's Place is certainly awful stuff. If you'll take my advice, Simon, you'll go a li'l easy on it till your system gets used to it."
"Yeah, sosh up by degrees like," offered Rafe.
"Look here," said the exasperated Reelfoot, "either you fellers pull suspicion off o' me, or I go to Wingo with the whole story."
"What'll that get you?" demanded Rafe. "Nothin', just nothin'. Wild tales of dead cows and separatin' Bill from his deputies and all ain't evidence. Nawsir. Think again, brother, think again."
"And, anyway," tucked in the district attorney, "what was wrong with the wild tale? It came straight enough. There were the tracks and there were the cows. Who can say your story wasn't the truth?"
"I tell you, they know it ain't the truth."
"How do they know?"
Simon did not make immediate reply. It was the worst thing he could have done.
"Well?" prompted Rafe.
"They—uh—uh—they know it."
"How, I asked you?"
"They didn't—Shillman got suspicious over the cows."
"Why did he get suspicious over the cows?"
Simon Reelfoot wriggled in his chair. "Well—uh—I—he did, that's all."
Rafe leaned forward. His face was sharp with suspicion. "Why did he?"
"I—I——" Simon stammered, and bogged down right there.
"C'mon," directed Rafe inexorably. "Spit it out."
"One of the cows had big-jaw," admitted Reelfoot.
Rafe sucked in his breath.
"What did the other one have?" almost whispered the district attorney.
"The other one died of the yallers last fall," said Reelfoot in a voice that matched the district attorney's. "But," he added hastily, "it come on to freeze soon after. I—I sort o' hated to kill two good cows."
"Seeing that two good cows were all you were putting up in return for the benefits you would derive from the—uh—political situation, you could have afforded to lose them." Thus the district attorney, staring at Reelfoot.
The latter looked with sullen foreboding at Rafe. The Tuckleton face was bloated with rage.
"So that's how it is!" he choked out. "You had your orders and you muddled them out of rank meanness! Too stingy to kill a couple of healthy cows, you hadda risk everything with one that died last year and another with big-jaw! And then, after you've got 'em suspectin' you good and strong through what's first, last, and only your own fault, you come to us for help!"
"Where else could I go?" queried Reelfoot sulkily.
"To hell for all I care, you half-witted fool! A big-jaw steer! And the other one half rotten, I'll bet!"
"I didn't think he'd notice it," defended Simon.
"You didn't think! No, I'll gamble you didn't! You never have! You couldn't! My Gawd, you deserve to be hung! I hope you are!"
"You forget, Rafe," said the district attorney, "that you and I don't know what all Mr. Reelfoot is driving at."
But Rafe Tuckleton was too angry to keep up the farce any longer. "I hope the fool's hung!" he panted.
"I'll take care not to go alone," said Reelfoot, pressing his advantage. "You fellers will have to see that I'm protected or I'll tell what I know."
"Blah!" blared the district attorney. "You wouldn't dare snitch!"
"I'll dare more than that to save my skin," Reelfoot declared hardily.
Rafe Tuckleton returned to the charge. "What in so-and-so and such-and-such did you do such a fool trick for? Don't you know—couldn't you—oh, whatsa use?"
"You oughta told me all the circumstances," persisted Reelfoot. "That was your fault. If I'd knowed, I could have managed better."
"I expect—you couldn't," said Rafe Tuckleton, with an appreciable pause after each word.
"What you gonna do about it?" Reelfoot wanted to know, fidgeting in his chair.
"You'll be taken care of now, you needn't to worry."
"Oh, fine, fi-ine. That helps a lot, that does, with either Bill Wingo or one of his deputies over to my place about every other day, snoopin' round and talking to my men."
"They do that, do they?"
"Yes, they do that."
"What of it?" demanded Rafe. "They can't find out anything, can they? You weren't fool enough to let on to your men—your foreman or anybody, were you?"
"Sure not. But——"
"But what?"
"I don't like 'em slouchin' round this way. You dunno what'll happen. They might find out somethin' you can't tell."
"If you didn't tell any of your men, you're safe," soothed the district attorney, "so long as you keep your upper lip stiff. You're just a li'l nervous, that's all, Simon. Nothing to worry you a-tall. Here, have another drink. Rafe, shove the bottle over, will you?"
Rafe Tuckleton pettishly obeyed, muttering under his breath. It was only too painfully obvious that Reelfoot's remarks had upset him, and he didn't care who knew it.
"Look here, Simon," he said suddenly. "You wanna leave right here your notion that you'll snitch if it comes to the squeak."
"I'll think about it," said Simon, setting down his glass deliberately.
"Because," Rafe continued, as though there had been no interruption, "you wanna remember it's almost as easy to kill two men as it is one."
"I'd thought of that," said Simon, "and I brought two of my men with me to-night. They're down at the saloon waiting for me now."
"A lot of good they are down there," sneered Rafe.
"But they can do you and Arthur here a lot of harm later—if anything happens."
"Don't you trust us?"
"Not so far as I can throw a calf by the tail," was the candid reply. "I'm goin' now. You fellers scratch your heads over what I've said. I ain't gonna go to the pen for anybody, and you can stick a pin in that."
When Simon was gone, the district attorney and Rafe sat in silence while a man, had one been so inclined, might have counted three hundred. Neither looked at the other. Rafe fiddled with his glass on the tabletop. The district attorney rolled a slow cigarette.
The district attorney was the first to break the silence with, "Simon's got a bad case of nerves."
"We oughtn't to have used him," said Rafe. "First thing you know the tom fool will say or do something we'll all be sorry for. I didn't think he was like that."
"Maybe we'd ought to have told him all of it from the beginning."
"Not that. No, he'd never have gone in it then. He ain't got nerve enough. I'm afraid Reelfoot's days of usefulness to us are over."
"He's done good work in the past."
"The past ain't now. And I tell you, Arthur, if Simon gets any more jumpy than he is now, he'll kick the kettle over. You hear me, he'll do it, the pup!"
Rafe allowed the district attorney two full minutes to mull over this, then he continued:
"We gotta get rid of him."
The district attorney looked over at Rafe, his upper lip lifting. "I suppose we gotta."
"We'll work the old game over again."
"Not on your life! We turned it once! And that was one too many."
"We had bad luck, that's all. Just a li'l hard luck. Look here, didn't Simon say either Bill or one of his deputies were always snooping round his ranch? All right, what more do we want? We can fix it so's to get rid of two birds at a clip. And it'll work this trip. We'll do it all right."
"We'll have to." The district attorney smiled grimly.
Rafe Tuckleton gazed speculatively upon his friend. "How about Tip O'Gorman?"
"Well?"
Rafe came flatly to the point. "How about gettin' rid of him, too?"
But this was going too fast for the district attorney. He shook his head. "No. Too dangerous."
"Now look here," said Rafe, leaning forward and tapping the district attorney's knee with a persuasive forefinger, "you're forgetting that all this trouble we're having is due to Tip O'Gorman. If it hadn't been for him wanting a 'safe' man, Jack Murray would have been elected, and everything about now would be fine as frawg's hair in January."
"Well, we had to give 'em one honest man," said the district attorney cynically. "The voters were getting ideas."
"Rats," snorted Rafe. "What if they were? I don't give a damn what Tip or anybody says, we were strong enough to elect our whole ticket. Huh? No 'maybe' about it. I know. Tip's an old woman, I tell you. He's gettin' too big for his boots. He needs a lesson."
"Who'll give him one?"
"We will."
"No. Not for a minute. I know Tip. I ain't locking horns with that gent."
"Whatcha afraid of? He can't do anything."
"Can't, huh? Aw right, let it go at that. Not any for me, thanks."
Again Rafe's persuasive forefinger came into action. "Say, Tip ain't any grizzly bear, feller. He's only a two-legged man like you and me. He can be put where he belongs."
The district attorney remained unconvinced. "I hear you say it."
"Ain't you got any nerve a-tall?"
"Where Tip is concerned, not much," was the frank reply. "I've seen that man in action."
"Action nothin'. That's just what's the matter with that man—not enough action. He'll go so far and no farther. He don't want anybody wiped out if he can help it. You saw what a fuss he made over Tom Walton's killing. Lord! He made me sick! You might 'a' thought Tom was a good friend of his. I tell you, Arthur, that sort of squeamishness don't get you anywhere. Nawsir. You gotta go the whole hog or you'll wind up in the calaboose. You bet I ain't for any of them half-way plans. It's kill a bull every time, or I don't shoot. Tip O'Gorman must go."
"Lessee what Sam Larder and Crafty say," the district attorney offered uneasily.
"No, not them, either of 'em," Rafe declared firmly. "They're friends of Tip's."
"You tell 'em just like you told me," suggested the other. "Maybe you could persuade 'em."
Rafe shook a decided head. "Not a chance. I know them. They're soft and bull-headed where Tip's concerned. They think he's hell on the Wabash, you know that. Those three stand together always. No, Arthur, if we shove this deal through, we gotta do it alone."
But the district attorney remained dubious. "It's too big an order."
"Not by a jugful it ain't. Gimme the bottle."
Rafe poured out a stiff four fingers. He drank it slowly. Then he had another. His eyes began to gleam redly. Suddenly he stood up and struck the table with his fist.
"I'll show 'em," he exclaimed. "Tip needn't think he can gimme orders! Won't let you ship cows if you get your leg over the pole again, says O'Gorman, Larder and Craft. Just as if I'd done something out of the way instead of tryin' to put one more polecat out of the world. I'll show 'em! Say, Arthur, whatsa matter with buckin' Larder and Craft after we put Tip out of business?"
"Wait till we do," replied the district attorney, who foresaw many difficulties in the proposed operation. "And if you ask me, I don't know how we're going to do it."
Rafe Tuckleton scratched a tousled head. "Jonesy might shoot him cleaning' his gun," he proffered.
"Why don't you do it yourself?"
Rafe showed the requisite amount of contempt for such a foolish question. "It's more'n possible Tip might start cleanin' his own gun about that time. And I could spare Jonesy if I had to."
"Jonesy might not want to take the chance. You haven't thought of that, have you?"
Rafe, by way of reply, took another drink. When he set the bottle down, the district attorney picked it up, held it against the daylight, then looked reproachfully at his friend and put the bottle away in the cupboard.
"Tell you what we can do," said Rafe. "We can have Simon do it."
"Simon Reelfoot?"
"Who else. Sure. Why not?"
"You're crazy. Simon may be a fool, but he has more sense than that."
"Simon drinks a skinful sometimes. Ever see him when he gets that way? He acts very rowdy. Yeah. I'm almost certain if, when Simon was under the influence thataway, he was told that Tip had found out about his share in the Walton killing and was making threats against him, that Friend Simon would just naturally hop out and fill Tip full of holes."
"But I thought you were saving Simon for Wingo? The sheriff's more important than Tip just now."
It was evident that the district attorney was becoming more and more worried at the prospect of giving Tip his quietus.
"We'll have to figure out something else for Wingo," said Rafe. Then he brought his open palm down on his knee with a crack like a pistol shot. The district attorney jumped in his chair. "I got it!" cried Rafe. "I got it! It just came to me when you said 'Wingo.' We'll get the three of 'em at one lick."
"I knew I didn't put that bottle away soon enough."
"Rats. My head's clear as a bell—two bells, by Gawd! Listen. We'll get Simon and that foreman of his drunk. We'll sick the pair of 'em on Tip O'Gorman. They'll put the kibosh on Tip, and the word will be passed for the sheriff. He will go to make the arrest and they'll plug him. Being drunk, they'll be desperate and won't care what they do."
"Suppose the deputies go with Bill?"
"We'll have to fix it so they won't. Oh, it'll be natural this time. We'll wait till they're taking somebody over to Hillsville, or gone to make an arrest or something."
"But the sheriff may swear in a posse to help chase 'em."
"There won't be any chase. For a chase you gotta have horses, and we'll take away their horses first thing. No, it's a cinch Bill Wingo will go to arrest 'em by his lonesome. He's that kind."
"And we took him for a mark," was the district attorney's bitter remark.
"I didn't," lied Rafe. "I always knowed what he was."
The district attorney did not contradict this statement. Nothing was to be gained by a fight with Rafe Tuckleton.