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."