At the fierce clutch of Billy's fingers, Simon's shaking legs refused to uphold him longer. He fell on his knees. "I—I didn't kill him!" he spluttered. "He was dead when——"
"You lie! You killed him! Conley said so! You tried to throw the blame on me by leaving behind—" Billy's voice trailed off into silence.
"That was Conley's idea!" screamed the panicky Reelfoot. "He got the hatband and quirt one day when nobody was in the office. I didn't have anything to do with it! Conley shot him, too!"
"Conley shot him too, huh? Then you shot Tip your own self?"
"He was gonna squeal! He was gonna get me mixed into that Walton murder! They told me he was! He—he pulled first, I tell you! It was an even break! I was drunk! I didn't know what I was doing! Oh, my Gawd!"
Billy flung the groveling Simon from him. "This ought to be enough for you."
Guerilla wagged an admiring head as he set about securing the arms of the wretched Reelfoot. "Gotta give you credit, Bill. I never thought it would work."
"I did," said the strayman, Johnny Dawson. "I've seen it done before. Most folks are sheep when it comes to a bluff."
"Don't tie him too tight, Guerilla. Might as well ask him some more questions."
That evening there was another prisoner in the Golden Bar calaboose. "If they keep on coming in like this," said Shotgun Shillman to Riley Tyler, "we'll have to build an addition to the jail."