"Are you?" said Felix Craft. "Seems to me you've overlooked a bet. Didn't we run across Red Herring at the end of the draw?"
"Now look here, Craft," cried the marshal. "You can't hook this killing up with me! I can prove I was in Golden Bar an hour ago. I can get people to swear I was."
The district attorney nodded. "Red's innocent of this, all right. He couldn't have done it. It wouldn't be reasonable. He always was friendly with Rafe, and this was a grudge killing. It couldn't have been robbery, because nothing of Rafe's was stolen; watch, money, it's all here. It's Hazel Walton, and you can stick a pin in that. C'mon, let's go."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY'S NIGHTMARE
Behind the corral of Guerilla Melody, at the tip end of Golden Bar, Main Street, a small spring bubbled to life amid rocks. It was the custom of Guerilla Melody to slip out to this spring for a long cool drink of fresh water each night before going to bed.
On the night of the first of April, Guerilla, having spent a short but profitable poker evening with several friends in a saloon, reached the spring at eleven o'clock.
"I thought you were never coming," announced a peevish voice from the black shadow of a large rock. "I've been waiting here since nine o'clock."
"You talk much louder, Bill," said Guerilla calmly, "and you'll wait here a while longer—say about twenty years longer or fifteen, if the judge feels good-natured. Man alive, ain't you got any sense?"