“Why, no,” said Radabaugh innocently. “I was just dropping in for a drink, like I’d done before. Some time back.”
Wint grinned. “Of course. Go ahead.”
“We-ell, the door wasn’t locked,” said Radabaugh. “So I knew I was meant to come in. And I went in. On in where they were. Four of them. Tuttle, and Harley, and Gates, and this Lutcher. I went in; and Tuttle throws a five-dollar bill to Lutcher and says: ‘Here’s for that last bottle, Lutch.’
“Lutcher took it. And he’d seen me before he took it. Then he got up and says: ‘Hello, Jim. Have a drink?’
“So I told him to come along.”
He stopped; it was evident that his story was done. Wint nodded. “Well, that’s plain enough,” he agreed.
“It’s my evidence against theirs,” Radabaugh reminded him. “But that’s the way it’s got to be.”
“Your evidence is good enough for me.”
“Sure. But he’ll fight.”
“We can’t help that,” Wint reminded him. “All we can do is—soak him.” There was a sudden heat in his voice; and Radabaugh eyed him curiously and asked: