"I don't guess there's any tearing rush," he mumbled.
Strangely enough or rather naturally enough, Billy experienced no surprise at the remark. "No hurry, huh?" he observed. "A minute ago you were in a hot sweat to have us do something right away quick. And now you ain't. What has changed you, Mr. Reelfoot? I ask to know."
"I want the job done right," was the lame explanation. "If you hustle off too sudden you might forget something."
"What do you think we're liable to forget?" queried Billy.
"How do I know what? But I know it don't pay to go off half-cocked."
Again Simon Reelfoot's eyes strayed to the window. When the eyes swiveled back to meet those of Billy Wingo, the pucker of worry had been wiped from Reelfoot's eyebrows.
"No," he resumed, in a tone that was unmistakably relieved, "it don't pay to go off half-cocked."
"No, it don't," concurred Billy, wondering greatly, both at the change in Simon's expression and the relief in his tone. Why? He desired to know why. And he made up his mind to know why. For among his other vices, Simon was friendly with Rafe Tuckleton and his precious gang.
Billy Wingo, shoving cartridges through the loading-gate of a Winchester, slouched casually past the window through which Simon was looking. He perceived, kicking his way through the snow, Mr. Tom Driver, the local Justice of the Peace. There was no one else in sight.
"Lordy, how the snow dazzles your eyes," remarked Billy, stepping back and squinting. "Is that Tom Driver coming here?"