“You mean yo’re double-crossin’ me and Fox?” said Black Joe, his words falling slowly.
“I mean that I’m wipin’ my slate clean afore I resigns as sheriff. Wipin’ it clean, regardless uh what it costs. I’m givin’ you a chanct tuh leave me and these two boys here and git out. Do yuh take it?”
Kipp’s eyes were fixed on a battered alarm clock. The half hour was up. Tad would be starting. Even if he had a gun to fire a signal would only be putting Black Jack on guard. Tad would come cautiously. Fate would decide.
A calculating gleam flashed in the breed’s eyes. Documentary evidence to a criminal is a dangerous weapon. Dead men may tell no tales, but a written statement is as a voice from beyond the grave.
“Looks like yuh hold all the winnin’ cards this deal,” he said flatly. “Yuh shore out-figgered Fox when yuh planted them papers in yore safe tuh cover yore trail. I suppose yore friend Hank Basset holds the combination.”
It was a shrewd bit of calculating and Black Jack’s acting was without fault. He was playing for the highest stakes a man may wager: Life and freedom. Never did a gambler play more shrewdly.
Kipp, physically and mentally worn to the breaking point, was caught off guard.
“Yes, and Hank’s the man that’ll see justice done. I——”
Black Jack’s ugly laugh caught the sheriff up short. Too late, he realized the mistake he had made.
“Bill,” ordered the breed quickly, “take a man and ketch the fastest mounts in the remuda. Ride tuh town and bust open that cracker-box safe. Bring all the papers that’s in it. Tell Fox tuh play safe fer a spell. Tell him that Alder Gulch’ll be needin’ a new sheriff. Kipp’s dead.”