CHAPTER NINE
THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY
It was the next day that Arthur Rale, the district attorney, called on the new sheriff. He was a heavy-jowled, heavy-handed, heavy-bodied individual, with black hair, close-set eyes, and, what was curiously at variance with those heavy jowls, a long and pointed nose.
Billy Wingo was expecting the district attorney to pay him a visit. For Shotgun Shillman had been told that Tip O'Gorman, Rafe Tuckleton and Judge Driver had spent the morning closeted with that gentleman.
Billy Wingo was cleaning a Winchester when the district attorney knocked and entered.
"Si'down, Arthur," invited Bill, indicating a chair with the barrel of the rifle.
The district attorney returned the salutation gruffly. Billy smiled sweetly down at the rifle stock he was hand-rubbing. Mr. Rale stamped his feet, hung up his hat and coat and sat down heavily in the chair. Resting both fists on his knees, he fixed Billy with a hard eye.
"What's this I hear?" he wished to hear.
"I dunno," said truthful William.
"I hear you've appointed Shillman and Tyler deputies," Rale said accusingly.
"Seems to me I have done something like that," admitted Billy.
"You've got to cancel their appointments."
"Got to?"
"Got to."
"I must be gettin' deaf," drawled Billy. "Seems like I heard you say got to."
"You heard me right," declared Rale, with a vicious snap of strong, white teeth. "You cancel those appointments and put in Johnson and Kenealy instead."
"Everybody seems to want those two fellers," said Billy, wagging a puzzled head. "I don't understand it."
The district attorney leaned forward. His broad, flat face was venomous in its expression.
"Look here," he said harshly, "you like Hazel Walton, don't you?"
Whang! In that confined space the crash of the gun was deafening. The district attorney, coughing in the smoke, picked up himself and his chair from the ground. He had fallen over backward at the shot, struck the back of his head and now his actions were purely mechanical.
"Dazed you like, didn't it?" Billy queried in a soft voice. "You did hit pretty hard. Luck is with you to-day. I'll bet if you went down to Crafty's, you'd bust the bank and Crafty's heart."
Rale did not take the palpable hint. He sat down again and looked uncertainly at Billy Wingo. He had courage, this district attorney, the species of courage, you understand, that to function properly must have a shade the better of the break, that bets always on a sure thing and never on an uncertainty.
Rale had been knocked off balance mentally and physically. He did the wrong thing.
"You tried to murder me," he blurted out.
Billy shook a solemn head. "You're mistaken. If I'd tried to murder you, I'd have done it. Accidents will happen, though, even to the most careful fellers. Yeah. You were speaking of the Waltons, Arthur. I didn't quite catch what you said."
He gazed expectantly at the district attorney. It seemed to the latter that the barrel of the rifle was in a line with the third button of his vest. Certainly the muzzle looked as large as a mine opening. Was the rifle cocked? Billy Wingo's large hand covered the breech. Billy moved the large hand a trifle. Yes, the rifle was cocked. The district attorney's eyes strayed downward. At Billy's feet was a spent shell.
"Look here," said Rale, "if that shot was an accident, why did you flip in a fresh cartridge?"
"How do you know I worked the lever?" demanded Billy.
"Because the spent shell's on the floor between your feet."
"You've been reading those detective stories again. Arthur. It would look mighty bad for me if you were to pass out in here to-night. You're a big man and a heavy man. And the ground is frozen harder than rock. Bet I'd have to use a pick. I hope, Arthur, you're not thinking of doing anything to make me use a pick."
Billy had uttered these sinister words in a mild and plaintive tone. The expression of his countenance was even milder and more plaintive. The district attorney found it difficult to believe that he had heard aright. Yet he had heard the report of the rifle aright. There could be no mistake about that.
The district attorney sat rigidly erect. He cleared his throat. He wished his heart would stop pounding so hard. Odd, too, that it should seem to have moved out of its usual position to another that was already occupied by his windpipe. Breathing and speaking were rendered difficult. Quite so.
He cleared his throat again. "Wingo," he said, "are you threatening me?"
"Threatening you?" Billy said in a shocked tone. "Certainly not. Wouldn't think of such a thing."
The district attorney tried again. "Wingo, I don't know what to do with you. I——"
"Don't do anything," suggested Billy. "I'd feel better about it, too."
"Huh?"
"Yeah, I would. I've got a new job here, Arthur, and I guess it will keep me busy—busy enough, anyway. And how am I going to swing it and do justice to the taxpayers, if well-meaning fellers like you are alla time experimentin' with me?"
"Wingo," said the district attorney sternly, "stop this tomfoolery! Instantly! You have played the buffoon long enough."
"All right," smiled Billy. "I'll be good."
"That's better. Much better. Keep to that tone and we'll get along, we'll get along."
Again the district attorney cleared his throat.
"Lord, Lord," thought Billy Wingo, "what a foolish thing this man is!"
The district attorney picked up the thread of his discourse. "We can't have you upsetting our plans in any way, Wingo. We can't have it, and we won't have it. I order you to immediately cancel the appointments of Shillman and Tyler and appoint instead Johnson and Kenealy. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Billy in a weary voice, "I understand. I understand perfectly. You can go now."
"I'll go when I have your answer."
"Your mistake. You're going now."
So saying, Billy arose, lowered the hammer of his rifle to the safety notch and laid the weapon on the table. Then he raised himself on tiptoe and stretched luxuriously. His arms came down slowly. He turned a surprised gaze upon the district attorney.
"Haven't you started yet?" he said briskly. "Come, come, get a-going."
Even as he spoke he leaped with cat-like agility upon the district attorney where he sat in his chair and wrenched the right arm of that surprised gentleman around behind his back. With his left hand, despite the struggles and protesting roars of the captive, he removed a six-shooter from a shoulder holster and a derringer from a vest pocket.
"You must be scared of some one," observed Billy Wingo, as the derringer followed the six-shooter to a place on the table. "Arise, pushing your stomach ahead of you, and depart in peace."
But the district attorney was averse to departing that way. "You will regret this outrage!" he bellowed, his ripe cheeks and the veins in his neck swollen with passion.
"So will you," said Billy, twisting the man's arm ever so slightly. "You are in a serious position. If you'd only realize it, and be reasonable, we'd all be happier. I don't want to break your arm—unless I have to. Observe, Mr. Man, how easily I could do it."
So saying, he pushed the district attorney's arm somewhat farther up his back. The district attorney groaned. Billy eased the pressure. The district attorney began to curse. Billy, boosting him with his knee, assisted him toward the door.
With his left hand Billy withdrew the bar from the staple, opened the door, swung his right foot and kicked the district attorney out into a snowdrift. After him Billy tossed his coat and cap. Then he closed the door and shoved the bar into place.
"And that's that," said Billy Wingo.