CHAPTER THIRTEEN
OPEN AND SHUT
"Well," said the district attorney, "you can't hold this man on any such biased evidence as this."
"But you see I am holding him," pointed out Billy Wingo.
"They'll get him out on a writ of habeas corpus."
"They? Who's they?"
"His friends. I suppose the man has friends."
"Oh, yes," acquiesced Billy, "the man has friends. Too many friends."
The district attorney looked away. "You'd better let him escape—or something," he suggested brazenly. "We—we mustn't be made ridiculous, you know."
"We? We? Don't get me mixed up with you, Rale. I'm particular who I bracket with, sort of. Another thing, the last time you were in here you went out on your head, remember. Well, lemme point out that you're here, I'm here, so's the door, and history is just the same thing over again."
The close-set little eyes wavered. "I tell you, Wingo, the case looks black for you too."
Billy Wingo rolled and lit a placid cigarette before he spoke. "Black? For me?" Inquiringly.
"I'm afraid so."
"You mean you hope so. Go on."
"There are a great many strange things about the whole affair. For instance, why was Judge Driver wearing your clothes when the bodies were found? If, as you say, you saw the whole thing, why did you not prevent the murder? How do we know that you did not kill both Tom Walton and the judge and then lay the blame on this stranger?"
"You don't know," admitted Billy. "That's the worst of it. But you will know. Yeah, you will know."
"I intend to look into your side of the case very closely, Wingo," declared the district attorney. "It may be that everything has not yet been told."
"There is more in this than meets the eye," nodded Billy. "Considerable more."
"If you persist in holding this man for a hearing," said Rale impressively, "it may—will, I should say—involve you. I'd hate to see you get into trouble."
"I'll bet you would," Billy concurred warmly. "You'd hate it like you do your left eye. But I'm gonna gamble with you. I'll hold the man till the judge decides what to do."
"In that case, I'll send for Judge Clasp at once."
"Why Judge Clasp? Why bother that old gent?"
"Because Driver's dead," the district attorney explained impatiently. "We have to have a judge to hold the hearing."
"Oh, I know all about that. I've sent for one."
"Who?"
"Judge Donelson."
"But he's the Federal judge, and he lives way over in Hillsville," objected Rale. "Judge Clasp is nearer. In a case of this kind when the judge of a district is unavailable, the nearest judge takes over the district. The statutes——"
"The statutes say 'any judge,'" interrupted Billy Wingo. "On this point I am quite clear. I looked it up to make sure. 'Any judge' means 'any judge.' Nothing else. And you know that Judge Donelson is a territorial as well as Federal Judge. Technicalities can't pull your wagon out of this hole, Arthur, old settler."
"I shall send for Judge Clasp at once," bumbled Arthur, old settler.
"If you send right away, he should be here by day after to-morrow. Yep, day after to-morrow at the earliest."
"Judge Donelson can't get here till the day after that," said Rale triumphantly.
"Oh, he can't, can't he?" smiled Billy. "Unless he has an accident he'll be here to-morrow. You see, Arthur, I started Riley Tyler off to Hillsville ten minutes after I arrested Slike. That's why I'm gamblin' that Judge Donelson will get here first."
The district attorney openly lost his temper. "I don't regard the evidence as given sufficient for indictment. I shall ask the judge not to hold him."
"Don't do anything rash, Arthur. Remember the hearing will be at the Walton ranch to-morrow afternoon."
"The Walton ranch! It'll be held here in Driver's office, that's where it will be held."
"Not a-tall. I want Judge Donelson to see the layout. Then he'll be able to tell better what's what. The Walton ranch to-morrow afternoon. Don't forget."
"Your Honor, I don't see how this man can be held," protested the district attorney. "I claim that the sheriff's testimony is biased. How do we know that it wasn't the sheriff himself who murdered both men and wounded Slike?"
"You can easily see, Judge," put in the coroner smoothly, "How flimsy the evidence is against the prisoner. It is practically his word against the sheriff's The prisoner has explained everything—how he was coming to the ranch on business and was arrested by the sheriff the minute he stepped inside the doorway. Why, your Honor, it's the plainest open-and-shut case I ever saw. Absolutely nothing to it."
"The coroner's right," boomed the district attorney. "And I hereby ask that Dan Slike be released from custody and——" he paused dramatically.
"Well—" prompted Judge Donelson, his old eyes inscrutable.
"And I feel it my duty to charge the sheriff, William H. Wingo, with the murder of Thomas Walton, the murder of Judge Driver, and assault with intent to kill upon Daniel Slike."
"Didn't the coroner's jury bring in a verdict of 'at the hands of persons unknown'?" inquired Judge Donelson.
"They did," admitted the district attorney, "but it was in direct opposition to the evidence. Indeed, the coroner instructed the jurymen otherwise."
"Then he exceeded his duty. But that by the way. The jury brought in a 'persons unknown' verdict. However, I do not agree with the jury."
"I knew you would not," the district attorney cried triumphantly.
"No, I believe the person is known. Sheriff, will you tell us in your own words, how you happened to be on hand in time to be a witness of the murder of Judge Driver?"
Like so many trained seals those present turned their heads to stare at the sheriff. Some eyes were friendly, some noncommittal, but the majority were unfriendly. This was because the crowd consisted largely of county office-holders. Billy gave a straightforward and detailed account of everything that had led up to the murder of Judge Driver.
As he concluded his story Judge Donelson nodded a slow head. "Why did you not immediately enter the ranch house after you looked in the window and saw the boot soles of the dead man?"
"Judge," said Billy, with a whimsical smile, "suppose now you went out hunting and you wanted to get more than one deer and had only one cartridge, what would you do—shoot the first deer you saw or wait till you got two in line?"
"I see," nodded the Judge. "I see. Still, Sheriff, there is the word of Dan Slike. It would have been better had you had another witness."
"Another witness," said Billy. "If that's all you want I have one. Riley Tyler, stand up."
The younger deputy stood up and was duly sworn. He deposed that the sheriff's match signal to Guerilla Melody to send the judge down to the house had been also a signal to him, Riley Tyler, to come down from the flat and take position under the window directly opposite the one at which the sheriff was posted. All this had taken place according to plan. Riley Tyler had heard every word uttered by both the judge and Dan Slike and had also seen Slike shoot the judge. Furthermore he had talked with the Federal deputy marshal in Hillsville and learned that the marshal had never even thought of asking Judge Driver to approach the sheriff concerning the alleged bootlegging activities of Jake Kilroe.
Riley Tyler concluded his testimony and sat down, taking occasion as he did so to wink at the district attorney. The latter glared back with frank dislike.
"The evidence I have just heard," said Judge Donelson, "is clear. There is no shred, jot or tittle of it that throws suspicion on Sheriff Wingo. I will hold Daniel Slike for the grand jury. If Judge Driver were alive, I would hold him as accessory before and after the fact. Do you still think, Mr. Rale, that Mr. Wingo should be held?"
"Why—uh—uh——" stalled the district attorney.
"Tell me," persisted Judge Donelson, "exactly what you think?"
But the district attorney did not dare tell Judge Donelson anything like that. Instead he said, with a smile he strove to make natural and pleasant:
"Hold Mr. Wingo? Certainly not. I have misjudged him. I am sure he will not bear malice against me."
"Hold it against Mr. Rale?" said Billy, with the straightest face in the world. "Certainly not. I have misjudged him. But I am sure he will not bear malice against me."
Even the judge smiled.
Dan Slike, lying on an improvised bed of blankets in the corner of the room, raised his head. "You'll never hang me, y'understand," said Dan Slike. "And you ain't got a jail in the territory big enough to hold me after I get shut of these scratches. I'll see you later, Sheriff."
Dan Slike added a curse or two and relapsed into silence. Not a likable person, Mr. Slike. No, not at all.
"This," said Rafe Tuckleton, "is a helluva note."
"It's all your fault," the district attorney recriminated bitterly.
"You did most of it," flung back Rafe, always an enthusiastic player at the great game of passing the buck. "You know damn well——"
"Who thought of it first?" interrupted the district attorney. "Who was the bright li'l feller, I'd like to know?"
"Don't you try to ride me," snarled the genial Rafe. "Dontcha do it."
"Aw, shut up; you gimme a pain! Gawd, and I'll bet your parents thought you was just too cunnin' for anything. It's a shame they let you live. To think of all the fatal accidents that might have happened to you, and didn't, almost makes a feller lose his faith in Providence. 'Oh, yes,' says you, 'Wingo will walk into the trap with his eyes shut. It'll be just too easy.'"
"Well, the first part worked all right," protested Rafe Tuckleton. "Dan downed Walton without any trouble. How could I tell Driver would slip up on his part? I'm glad Slike downed him. Served him right for being a fool. Reelfoot did his part all right, too."
"How do we know Reelfoot did? How do we know what happened before the fraycas at Walton's? We don't. We don't know anything except that Tom Driver is dead, Dan Slike wounded in the calaboose, and Skinny Shindle has skedaddled."
"Skinny tell any one where he was goin'?"
"He did not. Soon as he heard that infernal Bill Wingo had pulled through without a hole in him, Skinny saddled his horse and went some'ers else a-whoopin'. And I don't think he expects to come back. Oh, it's a fine mix-up all round, a fine mix-up."
"Sh-sh," cautioned Rafe. "Somebody coming—oh, it's you, Tip. 'Lo."
"Yeah, it's me, Tip," said O'Gorman, closing the door carefully and sitting down on the only vacant chair. "Look here, Rafe, what did I tell you about downing Tom Walton?"
"I ain't downed Tom Walton," denied Rafe sullenly.
"You had it done," insisted O'Gorman.
"How do you know I did?" dodged Rafe.
"By the way it was gormed up."
"I suppose now if you'd planned it——"
"I wouldn't have planned it in the first place. I told you to keep your paws off, and now look at the damn thing."
"It wasn't my fault," barked back Rafe.
"Can't you say anything different?" the district attorney threw in drearily.
"You don't even seem able to obey orders any more," said Tip O'Gorman.
"I don't have to take orders from you," flared up Rafe.
"No, you don't have to. Nobody has to do anything they don't want to. But we've decided, Rafe, that hereafter you sit on the tail-board. You don't pick up the lines again, see."
"Who's we?" demanded Rafe.
"Craft, Larder and myself."
"You can't do anything!" Contemptuously.
"No? For one thing, we can keep you from shipping so much as a single cow."
"How?"
"Our ranges surround you on three sides, and where we don't fit in, the mountains do. You can't drive through the mountains, and we won't let you drive through us. That's how."
"Huh?"
"Yeah, it's root, hog, or die, feller. You gonna be good?"
"I—I suppose so."
"Good enough. One slip on your part and you know what happens, Rafe. Bear it in mind, and it'll be money in your pocket."
"You talk like a minister."
"I wish I was one, preaching the funeral sermon over your grave. Lord, what a stinking skunk you are, Rafe!"
"Look here——"
"Blah! You are a skunk. So crazy after money you had to go and hurt li'l Hazel Walton. Damn your soul, I told you not to do anything to hurt her! And you bulled right ahead! You lousy packrat, you've broken that child's heart! She thought the world and all of her uncle, she did. I tell you, Rafe, you ain't fit to drink with a Digger or eat with a dog!"
"I ain't gonna fight with you," declared Rafe Tuckleton.
"I was hoping you would," averred Tip. "There'd be one tom-fool less to worry about if you did."
"No, I can wait," said Rafe with a feline grin.
"Oh, I'll be watching you, you rattle-snake," nodded Tip.
"Go easy, you two!" snapped the district attorney, as a dog in the next room began to bark. "There's somebody comin' up the path."
The squabble went dead.
"Good thing the wind's yowlin' its head off to-night," observed Tip O'Gorman. "I forgot myself for a shake."
Rafe Tuckleton looked at the floor. There was venom in his heart and death in his thoughts.
Tip O'Gorman fingered out the makings.
He was shaking in the tobacco when Billy Wingo opened the door and strode without ceremony into the office. He was followed by Riley Tyler. The latter slammed the door behind him and set his back against it.
"Three li'l friends together," said Billy, his eyes gleaming at them beneath the peak of his fur cap. "I saw your light as I was passing, Arthur, and I thought I'd sift in and thank you for all those kind words of yours yesterday. I appreciated 'em, you bet. You too, Rafe, did about as well as could be expected. Tip is the only one I can't thank."
He smiled lazily on Tip. The latter grinned back.
"It ain't my fault you can't," returned Tip cryptically.
Billy nodded, although naturally he did not grasp the other's meaning, and said, "Got another li'l matter for you gentlemen. Finding you all together thisaway is gonna save me trouble. I'm in luck to-night."
"Aw, spit it out!" Rafe directed rudely.
Billy looked pained. "Our long-faced li'l playmate seems all fussed up over something. Well, boys will be boys, I suppose, and burned fingers now and then have got to be expected."
He paused and regarded them gravely. Rafe's answering stare was darkling, the district attorney's uncomfortable, while Tip's was impersonal.
"I hope you boys are feeling generous to-night," resumed Billy.
Rafe Tuckleton stole a glance at O'Gorman. Generous?
"The fact is," went on the calm voice, "I'm takin' up a collection—a collection for Tom Walton's niece, Hazel."
Billy thought that at the mention of the ranchman's name both the district attorney and Tuckleton stiffened their slouching bodies, but he could not be positive. The lamp on the table gave a poor, weak light.
"Her uncle's gettin' downed thisaway will be a bad blow for her. He was all she had. Y'understand now—the girl won't ever know that this is any benefit like. She mustn't ever know. It's insurance on Tom's life, see? Sam Prescott was keepin' the policy for him in his safe. Tom must have forgot to tell her about it. That's what Sam's going to tell her. How much will you boys give?"
Tip O'Gorman did not hesitate. "You can put us down for a thousand apiece."
"What!" chorused the district attorney and Rafe Tuckleton.
The sheriff cocked an eyebrow at the two men. "You think it's too little? Well, I guess maybe you're right. A thousand is enough for Tip here, but you two are rich men. Say twice that—two thousand from each of you will be about right."
The two rich men were speechless. But only for a moment.
"Two thousand!" gasped Rafe. "Not a nickel."
"Not a thin dime!" contradicted the district attorney.
"Say not so!" said Billy Wingo.
Tip O'Gorman nodded. "'Say not so,' is right."
Billy looked at the speaker approvingly. "I'm glad Tip agrees with me. I'll take the money in gold, greenbacks and silver. No drafts."
The district attorney squealed like a stuck pig. "No nothing, you mean! Whadda you think we are?"
"A couple of rascals," was the prompt reply. "And there's a tax on rascals. That li'l girl has got to be taken care of."
Billy's voice was earnest. But a sardonic devil looked out of his eyes. He yearned with a great yearning for the district attorney and Rafe Tuckleton to join battle with him. He knew that he could easily take care of both. Tip O'Gorman was the unknown quantity. One could never be quite sure what Tip was thinking. One thing, Tip was neither a murderer nor a dealer in murder. That had never been Tip's way. And something told Billy that in the present crisis Tip would keep his hands off. The issue lay strictly between Rafe, the district attorney and Billy Wingo.
The district attorney by a great effort recovered his mental balance. "You are threatening," he bumbled lamely.
"Not a-tall," returned Bill. "I only said you and Rafe are a couple of rascals. What's fairer than that, I'd like to know?"
"It's blackmail—extortion," the district attorney trotted on.
"Blackmail and extortion to subscribe money for the support of a girl whose uncle has been murdered? No, no, you don't mean it, Arthur, old settler. You mean that you and Rafe will be glad to do your parts. That's what you mean."
"No." Thus Rafe Tuckleton.
"Yes—and again yes. Three times in fact. Rafe, how about that last deal of yours with the Indian agent? Remember it? The agent, y'understand, gets drunk sometimes, and a drunk will talk. Ever thought of that?"
If Rafe had not thought of that, he thought of it now.
"And how about that last bribe you took?" pressed Billy, turning accusingly on the district attorney.
The immediate shrinkage in the form of the district attorney was plainly visible to the naked eye. He went a trifle paler too.
"Do I get the two thousand apiece for Hazel Walton, Arthur?" demanded Billy.
"Why-uh—yes, yes, of course. I'd always intended to contribute. I was just fooling. Yes."
"And you, Rafe?"
Rafe Tuckleton nodded a reluctant head. "I'll pay."
"That's fine," said Billy heartily. "I'll be around to-morrow for the money."
Rafe Tuckleton did not attempt to demur at the shortness of time as he had done with Dan Slike. He recognized the utter futility of arguing with a man like Billy Wingo.
"By the way," said Billy, staring hard at Rafe Tuckleton, "I wonder if it was any part of Dan Slike's plan to kill Miss Walton too?"
Rafe's face went wooden. "How should I know?"
Billy nodded. "I was just wonderin'. No harm in that, I suppose. Lucky she wasn't there alla same."
"It was lucky," stated Tip O'Gorman. "Do you know I've been doing a li'l wondering myself. Why wasn't she there?"
"She just happened to be visiting the Prescotts'," replied Billy Wingo, his eyes on Rafe's face.
Rafe did his best to return the stare, but his eyes would drop despite his best effort.
"You know that letter from Miss Walton Judge Driver threw in the fire—the one you heard me telling Judge Donelson about?" went on Billy. "Yeah, that one. It might have fooled me—I'm only human, you know, if——"
"You're too modest," Tip interrupted dryly.
"If it hadn't been for one or two li'l things," resumed Billy. "The handwriting was a fine imitation—you couldn't beat it. But I knew she hadn't written it." He paused, and began to roll a cigarette.
Rafe Tuckleton passed his tongue across his lips. The district attorney looked down at his locked hands. Of the three Tip O'Gorman was the only one to remain his natural self.
"G'on," urged Tip, "give it a name."
"You see," said Billy, "Skinny Shindle told me Miss Walton gave him the note about 2.30 P.M. Now on that afternoon I happened to be at the Prescott ranch. Miss Walton was there visiting Miss Prescott. I didn't leave the Prescotts' till nearly three o'clock, and Miss Walton was still there and intending to spend the night. That's how I knew she couldn't have written that note."
"Nine miles from Prescott's to Walton's," said Tip.
"Nearer ten," corrected Billy. "Skinny was sure careless. So were several other men. You've got to make things fit."
He nodded kindly to the company and abruptly departed with his companion.
"I wonder what he meant by 'making things fit,'" mused the district attorney, following five minutes' silence.
"I dunno," Rafe mumbled in accents of the deepest gloom, "but you can put down a bet he meant something."
"He did," declared Tip O'Gorman, "and I'm telling you two straight, flat and final, you ain't fit to play checkers with a blind man. It makes a feller ashamed to do business with you, you're so thumb-handed, tumble-footed foolish. At the time the note was written from Walton's the girl was at Prescott's. Oh, great! And he knew it alla time. And you two jokes wondered why your scheme fell through! You know now, don't you? Gawd! What a pair you are! Oh, I've always believed that a man makes his own li'l hell. Whatever devilishness he does on this earth he pays for on this earth. You fellers are already beginning to pay."
Thus Tip O'Gorman, the moralist. He departed wrapped in a virtuous silence. He did not dare let the others know the actual worry that rode his soul. He knew it was only a matter of time when Billy Wingo would be camping on his trail too. Lord, how he'd been fooled! He had never suspected that the sheriff possessed such capabilities. And how had the sheriff learned of that flour deal between Rafe and the Indian agent. The flour supposed to have been bought through another man. Rafe had not appeared in the affair at all, yet Billy Wingo knew all about it.
And the bribe taken by the district attorney. There was another odd chance. Besides the two principals, Rafe Tuckleton and himself, Tip had not supposed that any one knew of the matter. It was very mysterious.
Tip could have kicked himself. He alone was the individual responsible for the whole trouble. If only he had not proposed the election of Billy Wingo— But he had proposed it, and now look at the result!
"Say, Bill," said the greatly impressed Riley Tyler on the way to the office, "what's this about that deal of Rafe's with the Indian agent? You never said anything about it before."
"Good reason," grinned Billy, "it just occurred to me."
"Occurred to you?" puzzled Riley.
"Yeah, I don't actually know of any deal between Rafe and that thief of an agent; but knowing Rafe and knowing the agent, I guessed likely they had been mixed up together in a business way. Seems I guessed right. Same with the district attorney, only easier. If he's taken one bribe, he's taken forty. Wouldn't be Arthur Rale if he hadn't."
Riley Tyler chuckled. "Poker is one fine game," said Riley Tyler.
At the office they found Shotgun Shillman.
"What luck?" asked Billy.
"Plenty," was the reply. "We went to the Cayley cabin first. Nobody livin' there. Ashes in the fireplace might have been a week or a month old. But the balsam tips in the bunks were older than that. They were last summer's cutting—all stiffer than a porcupine's quills."
"As I remember that cabin," reflected Billy, "the balsam grew all around it."
"They still do. We found a quarter of beef hanging on a stub back of the house. 'There,' says Simon, 'there's proof for you.' 'Yes,' I says, 'let's see the cow it came off of.' 'Whatsa use?' says Simon.
"'Lots,' I says. 'C'mon.' He did reluctant, bellowing alla time how we'd oughta follow the tracks leading away from the house toward the Hillsville trail a mile away."
"Were those tracks made by one man?" inquired Billy.
"Looked so to me—anyway, we went along on the line of tracks leading to the dead cow. It had been shot all right enough. It oughta been shot. It had big-jaw."
"'You mean to tell me them fellers cut that quarter off a big-jaw cow?' I says to Simon. 'Sure,' he says. 'Aw right,' I says. 'Let it go at that.' I poked around to find the other cow. Simon raising objections alla time to me wastin' so much time and trying to get me off the trail. Oh, he didn't care a whoop about me finding the second cow. Wasn't one enough? Oh, sure, to hear him talk! But I found the cow. It hadn't been shot a-tall. Died of the yallers last fall. And it had just about half rotted before freezing weather set in. 'I suppose,' I says sarcastic, 'both cows were killed about the same time.' 'You've guessed it,' says Simon, bold as brass. 'Now all you gotta do is chase right along back to the cabin and take up the trail like I wanted you to do in the first place and trail 'em down.' He acted real disappointed when I left him standin' there and came away. I'd have arrested him right then only you said not to."
"Good enough," approved Billy. "Plenty of time to arrest him later. I want to give him plenty of rope. One of these days I'll get a subpoena from Judge Donelson and serve it on him. That'll give him plenty of time to think things over between now and the trial."
"Simon ain't the kind to take things easy," mused Shotgun Shillman.
"He'll fret his head off. About the time Slike is well enough to stand prosecution, Simon Reelfoot will be ready to bust."
But the well-known best-laid plans are more breakable than the equally well-known best-laid eggs.