"C'mon," directed Rafe inexorably. "Spit it out."
"One of the cows had big-jaw," admitted Reelfoot.
Rafe sucked in his breath.
"What did the other one have?" almost whispered the district attorney.
"The other one died of the yallers last fall," said Reelfoot in a voice that matched the district attorney's. "But," he added hastily, "it come on to freeze soon after. I—I sort o' hated to kill two good cows."
"Seeing that two good cows were all you were putting up in return for the benefits you would derive from the—uh—political situation, you could have afforded to lose them." Thus the district attorney, staring at Reelfoot.
The latter looked with sullen foreboding at Rafe. The Tuckleton face was bloated with rage.
"So that's how it is!" he choked out. "You had your orders and you muddled them out of rank meanness! Too stingy to kill a couple of healthy cows, you hadda risk everything with one that died last year and another with big-jaw! And then, after you've got 'em suspectin' you good and strong through what's first, last, and only your own fault, you come to us for help!"
"Where else could I go?" queried Reelfoot sulkily.
"To hell for all I care, you half-witted fool! A big-jaw steer! And the other one half rotten, I'll bet!"