It was evident that the district attorney was becoming more and more worried at the prospect of giving Tip his quietus.
"We'll have to figure out something else for Wingo," said Rafe. Then he brought his open palm down on his knee with a crack like a pistol shot. The district attorney jumped in his chair. "I got it!" cried Rafe. "I got it! It just came to me when you said 'Wingo.' We'll get the three of 'em at one lick."
"I knew I didn't put that bottle away soon enough."
"Rats. My head's clear as a bell—two bells, by Gawd! Listen. We'll get Simon and that foreman of his drunk. We'll sick the pair of 'em on Tip O'Gorman. They'll put the kibosh on Tip, and the word will be passed for the sheriff. He will go to make the arrest and they'll plug him. Being drunk, they'll be desperate and won't care what they do."
"Suppose the deputies go with Bill?"
"We'll have to fix it so they won't. Oh, it'll be natural this time. We'll wait till they're taking somebody over to Hillsville, or gone to make an arrest or something."
"But the sheriff may swear in a posse to help chase 'em."
"There won't be any chase. For a chase you gotta have horses, and we'll take away their horses first thing. No, it's a cinch Bill Wingo will go to arrest 'em by his lonesome. He's that kind."
"And we took him for a mark," was the district attorney's bitter remark.
"I didn't," lied Rafe. "I always knowed what he was."