Guerilla Melody screwed a forefinger into the side of his head. "Wheels, wheels, wheels, hear 'em buzz."
"You don't understand, Guerilla. You're all right lots of ways, and I'm your friend, and don't let anybody tell you different, but you haven't any brains, not a brain."
"Now, look here," began indignant Guerilla, "if you——"
"Shut up and listen," Billy cut him short. "I ain't going to the Medicine Mountains a-tall."
"Where are you going?"
"South—after Dan Slike. Don't you see, this fool district attorney won't think of skirmishing after me south of Golden Bar. But I'll bet he'll have posses combin' the Medicines within seven days. And if I haven't read him wrong, he'll have a warrant for the Tuckleton murder issued for me, too."
Guerilla nodded a grave head. "With Miss Walton out of it, he'll have to cinch it on to somebody else. But I don't see yet how finding Dan Slike, always supposin' you do find him, is going to help you any. You'll still have to stand your own trial. And you ain't thinkin' that Arthur Rale——"
"Oh, angels ever bright and fair! The man doesn't see it yet! I intend to bring in the murderer of Tip O'Gorman and the man who held up the stage, too, while I'm at it. In words of one syllable that is my plan."
The expression on the face of Guerilla Melody was one of awe diluted with doubt. "All by your lonesome?"
"Why not?"