"Lessee what Sam Larder and Crafty say," the district attorney offered uneasily.
"No, not them, either of 'em," Rafe declared firmly. "They're friends of Tip's."
"You tell 'em just like you told me," suggested the other. "Maybe you could persuade 'em."
Rafe shook a decided head. "Not a chance. I know them. They're soft and bull-headed where Tip's concerned. They think he's hell on the Wabash, you know that. Those three stand together always. No, Arthur, if we shove this deal through, we gotta do it alone."
But the district attorney remained dubious. "It's too big an order."
"Not by a jugful it ain't. Gimme the bottle."
Rafe poured out a stiff four fingers. He drank it slowly. Then he had another. His eyes began to gleam redly. Suddenly he stood up and struck the table with his fist.
"I'll show 'em," he exclaimed. "Tip needn't think he can gimme orders! Won't let you ship cows if you get your leg over the pole again, says O'Gorman, Larder and Craft. Just as if I'd done something out of the way instead of tryin' to put one more polecat out of the world. I'll show 'em! Say, Arthur, whatsa matter with buckin' Larder and Craft after we put Tip out of business?"
"Wait till we do," replied the district attorney, who foresaw many difficulties in the proposed operation. "And if you ask me, I don't know how we're going to do it."
Rafe Tuckleton scratched a tousled head. "Jonesy might shoot him cleaning' his gun," he proffered.