In the meantime Billy Wingo was calmly eating his supper in the house of Guerilla Melody. On Guerilla's bed Dawson was snoring the sleep of exhaustion.
"What next?" asked Guerilla Melody, when Billy was lighting his after-supper cigarette. "With Tip's murder settled and knowin' who killed Tuckleton——"
"Certainly doesn't help us any with the stage holdup," cut in Billy. "Before we spring the joke in the Tuckleton deal, I've got to do a li'l more work on the hold-up. Dumping Rafe's murderer won't do me a heap of good while I'm breaking rock for twenty years at Hillsville. Don't look so glum, Guerilla. There's a trail out. There always is."
At the tail of the woods a convivial voice in the street broke into boisterous song. "Who's that?" asked Billy.
"It's Jerry Fern," said Guerilla indifferently. "He's drunk again."
"Ain't it kind of new for him? He never used to drink much."
"Oh, he can't stand prosperity."
"Prosperity?"
"Yep. Aunt died, left him some money. He ain't drove for nearly a month."
"The lucky devil. Big legacy?"