Читать книгу The Rider of Golden Bar - William Patterson White - Страница 4

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"We gotta be careful," cautioned Tom Driver, the local justice of the peace.

"Careful is our middle name," Rafe Tuckleton said reassuringly.

"I know, I know," persisted Driver. "But you can't fool all the people all——"

"Abe Lincoln said it first," Felix Craft interrupted impatiently. "But he didn't live in Crocker County."

"Or he wouldn't have said it, huh?" flung in Tip O'Gorman. "Don't you fool yourself, Crafty. Tom's right. Human nature don't change any."

"I s'pose you mean give the people a square deal then," sneered Felix.

"If he does, he's crazy," said a lanky citizen named Shindle.

O'Gorman grinned a wide Irish smile. "No, I ain't crazy, but we'll give 'em a square deal alla same."

"He is crazy," declared lank Shindle.

"A square deal," repeated O'Gorman. "A square deal—for us."

"I thought so," nodded plump Sam Larder, speaking for the first time since the beginning of the discussion. "A square deal—for us. Let's hear it, Tip."

O'Gorman sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "When a dog is hungry it ain't sensible to feed him a whole juicy steak. He'll gobble it down an' come pesterin' round for more in five minutes. But give him a bone and he'll gnaw and gnaw and be a satisfied dog for quite a long while."

"What kind of a bone were you figuring on giving our dog?" inquired Tom Driver.

"Sheriff." Thus Tip O'Gorman with finality.

Felix Craft shook a decided head.

"Guess again. Too much meat on that bone."

"Not if it's the right kind of meat," said O'Gorman blandly.

"Stop walking in the water," grunted the impatient Felix. "Say it right out."

"A sheriff with a ring in his nose," explained O'Gorman.

"A weak sister, huh?" put in Tom Driver.

"Or words to that effect," smiled O'Gorman. "Can't you see how it is, gents? To shove our ticket through we gotta give 'em one good man. If we don't, the four legislators are a stand-off. We may elect them. We may elect our three justices, county clerk and coroner. You can't tell what will happen to them. Folks will scratch their heads this election and they'll vote their own way. Take my word for it. And when it comes to sheriff, folks are gonna do more than scratch their heads. They're gonna think—hard. That's why we gotta give 'em a good man."

"One of themselves, for instance?" said plump Sam Larder, locking his hands over his paunch.

"Sure," O'Gorman drawled. "Do that. Give 'em somebody they trust and like for sheriff an' they'll be so busy thinkin' about electin' him that the rest of the ticket will slide in like a greased pig through a busted fence."

"To tell the truth. I'd more than half-promised the job to Jack Murray," remarked Rafe Tuckleton, incidentally wondering why Jack had not yet turned up at the meeting. "He should have been here an hour ago."

"You half-promised it to Jack Murray, huh?" exclaimed the lank citizen Shindle. "Lemme tell you that I was a damsight more than half-counting on that job myself."

"Neither of your totals is the right answer, Skinny," explained O'Gorman pleasantly. "Nominatin' either you or Jack would gorm up the whole ticket."

"Aw, the party is strong enough to elect anybody!" protested Felix Craft.

"Not this year," contradicted O'Gorman. "You ain't been round like I have, Felix. I tell you I know. Gents, if we go ahead and nominate either Skinny Shindle or Jack Murray, we'll all have to go to work."

"Who you got in mind?" queried Rafe Tuckleton.

"Bill Wingo."

Dead silence for a space. Then Rafe Tuckleton looked at Sam Larder and whistled lowly. Sam's eyes switched to Tip.

"I don't see the connection," said Sam Larder.

"Me either," concurred Rafe.

"I should say not," Shindle declared loudly.

"I'll tell you," said Tip O'Gorman, beaming impartially upon the assemblage. "Take Skinny Shindle. He——"

"Aw right, take me!" burst out the gentleman in question. "What about me! What——"

"Easy, easy," cautioned Tip O'Gorman, his smile a trifle fixed. "I ain't deaf in either ear, and besides ain't we all li'l friends together?"

"But you said——" Skinny tried again.

"I ain't said it yet," interrupted Tip, "but I'm going to—gimme a chance. It won't hurt. It's only the truth. Take Skinny and look at him. He buys scrip at three times the discount anybody else does, and there was a lot of talk about that beef contract the agent gave him."

"What of it? Folks don't have to bring scrip to me if they don't wanna, and suppose there was chatter about the contract. It's the government's funeral."

"It came near being the agent's," slipped in Sam Larder, with a reminiscent grin. "Some of them feather dusters like to chased him off the reservation when they saw the kind of cattle he gave 'em. I saw 'em. They were thinner than Skinny. No exaggeration. Absolutely."

"Well, that's all right, too," said Skinny. "A feller's got to make money somehow. Who ever heard of giving a Injun the best of it? Not in Crocker County, anyway."

"That's all right again, too," declared Tip. "But that last deal with the agent was a li'l too raw. Taking that with your prices for scrip, Skinny, has made a heap of talk. You ain't a popular idol, Skinny, not by any means."

"Damn my popularity!" snarled the excellent Skinny. "I wanna be sheriff."

"Like the baby wants the soap," said Tip. "Well, you'll never be happy then, because you'll never get it."

"Lookit here, Tip——"

"You lookit here, Skinny," swiftly interjected Rafe Tuckleton. "Is this campaign your own private affair, or is it the party's?"

"The party's, I guess," Skinny reluctantly admitted. "But I want my share of it."

"You can have your share without being sheriff," Rafe told him. "You'll be taken care of, don't fret. This here's a case of united we stand, divided we tumble. Suppose any li'l thing upsets our plans, and our ticket don't go through? What then? What happens? For one thing you won't get the contract for furnishing the lumber for the new jail and town hall that's gonna be built next year. And for another, that land deal you and I put through last month will be investigated. How'd we like that, huh?"

"Rafe's right," said Tom Driver. "This is no time for taking any chances. It ain't a presidential year, and you can gamble there ain't gonna be a thing to take folks' eyes off the county politics. We've all gotta give up something for the sake of the party."

"I don't notice you givin' up anything," snapped the disgruntled Skinny. "I seem to be the only one that loses."

"And Jack Murray," supplemented Rafe Tuckleton. "Hell's bells, Skinny, why didn't you say something sooner? To-night's the first I ever heard you even wanted an office. That's why I told Jack he could have it. He's a good man, but if I'd known——"

"What difference does that make?" interrupted Skinny, bitterly. "You couldn't give me the nomination anyway."

"You could have had another office—say county clerk."

"Wouldn't take it on a bet—not enough opportunity. Aw hell, it's a dead horse! Let it go, Rafe. Tip, you've had a lot to say about me, now let's hear what you got against Jack Murray."

"Yep," said Rafe Tuckleton, "let's have it. I'll have to give Jack some reason for going back on him, and I don't see exactly——" He did not complete the sentence.

"Speaking personal," observed Tip, again on the broad grin, "I ain't got a thing against Jack. Him and me get along fine. But when Jack was first deputy two years ago he managed to kill four men one time and another."

"That was in the line of duty," said Rafe. "They all resisted arrest."

Tip O'Gorman nodded. "I ain't denying it. And we've got Jack's word for it besides; but the four men all had friends, and when, as you know, each and every one of 'em turned out to be more or less innocent, why the friends got to talking round and saying Jack was too previous. Ain't you heard anything a-tall?"

"I've heard it said he was a leetle quicker than he maybe needed to be," conceded Rafe. "But folks always talk more or less about a killing. It didn't strike me there was enough in it to actually keep Jack from being elected."

"There is. They're only talking now, but nominate Jack and they'll begin to yell."

"You must have been mighty busy these last few weeks, Tip," sneered Skinny.

"I have," declared Tip. "Seems like I've talked with every voter in the county. I've gone over the whole field with a finetooth comb, and I tell you, gents, the bone for our dog is Bill Wingo. Most everybody likes Bill. He's a damsight more popular than the opposition candidate. Bill will get a lot of the other feller's votes, but if we put up anybody else the other feller will get a lot of ours—and so will the rest of his ticket."

Tip O'Gorman sat back in his chair and eyed his friends. It was obvious that the friends were of two minds. Rafe Tuckleton, his fingers drumming on the table, stared soberly at the floor.

"Are you sure, Tip," inquired Larder suddenly, "that Bill Wingo is the breed of horse that will always drink when you lead him to water?"

Tip O'Gorman nodded his guarantee of Mr. Wingo's pliability of character. "Bill is too easy-going and good-natured to do anything else."

"I'd always had an idea he was a good deal of a man," said Sam Larder.

"Oh, he'll stand the acid," Tip said. "He'll go after anybody he thinks he oughta go after; but if we can't manage to give him the right kind of thoughts we're no good."

"You needn't start losing flesh, Sam," slipped in Tom Driver. "Bill would never go back on his friends. H's just a big overgrown kid, that's all."

Rafe Tuckleton leaned back in his chair and stared dubiously at Tip O'Gorman. "All right for Bill, but how about Tom Walton?"

"I'll bite," Tip averred blandly. "How about him?"

"Nothing, oh, nothing a-tall. Only Tom Walton has been one too many round here for a long time."

"He does talk too much," admitted Tom Driver, his bright little eyes, like those of an alert bird, fixed on Rafe Tuckleton.

"He's a very suspicious man," said the latter. "He like to broke Simon Reelfoot's neck last week over a horse of his he said Simon rustled."

"Serve Simon right," said Tip promptly. "Simon's a polecat. Always was. Felt like breaking his neck more than once myself. Good for Walton."

"But Simon's one of our crowd," Rafe reminded him, "and he's been mighty useful. We gotta consider his feelings."

"Oh, damn his feelings. The old screw ain't got any right to feelings."

"Yes, but there wasn't any real actual proof about the horse—only some tracks in Simon's corral that Walton thought he recognized."

Tip quirked a quizzical mouth. "Between us, Rafe, what did Simon do with the horse?"

"Sold him to a prospector who was leaving the country. So it couldn't be traced."

"Good horse was it?"

"It was that chestnut young Hazel rides."

"Hazel's own pony? Lord! Man alive, Simon is worse'n a polecat. He's a whole family of them. Why couldn't he have rustled some other horse?"

"I ain't Simon, so I can't tell you," said Rafe dryly. "But if you don't want anything done on Simon's account, how about this: yesterday one of my boys was shot at while he happened to be doing a li'l business on the Walton range."

"What did your boy happen to be doing?" smiled Tip.

Rafe attempted to excuse himself and his cowboy. "It was a long-ear."

"Branding it on the Walton range?"

"Yes."

"With its mammy?"

"Yes."

"Serve the boy right." Tip gave judgment. "You and your outfit are getting too reckless for any use, Rafe. The territory is not a Sunday-school. You can't pick a man's pocket openly any more. It isn't safe. And you know it isn't safe. Who was the boy and what time of day was it?"

"Ben Shanklin; and it was round noon."

"Worse and more of it. My Gawd, Rafe, you gimme a pain!"

Sam Larder shook a fat-cheeked head. "Dangerous, Rafe; dangerous. You've got to consider a man's feelings now more than you used to. Haven't you told your man to always work round sunrise and sunset, and never to shoot a calf's mammy on her owner's territory?"

"Others do, and get away with it. Besides, he didn't shoot the cow."

"He might as well have shot her," declared Tom Driver. "He got caught, didn't he?"

"Ben didn't get caught. He made the riffle all right with two holes in his saddle-horn and one in his cantle that tore his pants."

"What range? Did he say?"

"About fourteen hundred."

"Fourteen hundred, huh? Then he couldn't have been recognized."

"Luckily not."

"Luck is the word—for you—for us."

"Wonder who did the shooting?"

"I don't know. Ben dug out one of the bullets from his horn. It was fifty caliber—a Sharps."

"That was Tom Walton himself," declared Tom Driver. "He's the only one in his outfit owning a Sharps, and he won't let any one else shoot it. 'Twas Tom Walton. And don't be so positive Ben wasn't recognized, Rafe. I hear Walton carries field glasses now."

"He is getting suspicious," smiled Tip O'Gorman.

The smile stung the amiable Rafe. "He's gotta be stopped."

"How?" Thus Tip.

"There are ways," snarled Rafe.

"Of course, but it doesn't pay to be too rough. Tom has a great many friends. We can't afford to stir up a whole kettleful of discontent. A little care, Rafe, is all that's necessary. I think I'd impress my men, if I were you, with the absolute necessity of being careful."

"I did tell 'em," said Rafe sullenly.

"Your telling seems to have left them cold. At least it left Ben Shanklin. Damn his soul! I almost wish Tom Walton had got him, the coyote! He deserves to be got, gorming up our plans thisaway."

"Well, everything turned out all right," Felix Craft tucked in hastily. "So why worry? I'm sure Rafe's men will be more careful after this."

"I wish I was sure," grunted Tip O'Gorman. "They're a wild bunch, every last one of 'em. I believe they just try to stir up trouble. They're eternally getting drunk and shooting up saloons and other places of business. People don't like it."

"Oh, boys will be boys," deprecated Rafe.

"Your boys will be dead boys if they don't watch out. Anyway, you put the hobbles on that Ben boy, Rafe. We can't afford to have him spoil things."

"How about having him spoil Walton?"

"And antagonize all of Walton's friends, huh? Bright, oh, very!"

"If the feller who spoiled Walton was a stranger, it would be all right. You couldn't connect an absolute stranger with us, could you?"

"Let's hear your li'l plan," said Tip O'Gorman.

Every man of them listened intently to the Tuckletonian plan.

As plans go it was a good plan. Procuring an assassin to do the dirty work is always a good plan. Rafe knew a gunman, named Slike, in a neighboring territory. For two hundred and fifty dollars, according to Rafe, Dan Slike would murder almost any one. For five hundred it was any one, without the almost.

"Can he do it?" doubted Tom Driver.

"We all know how slow Tom Walton is on the draw," sneered Rafe. "Which he's slower than Sam Prescott. If Slike don't plug Walton three times before he can draw, I'll eat my shirt."

"That sounds well," said Tip O'Gorman, eyeing Rafe with frank disgust. "But, somehow, I don't like the idea of having Walton killed."

"Whatsa matter with you?" demanded the originator of the idea. "Losing your nerve?"

Tip O'Gorman's expression did not alter in the slightest. He gazed upon his questioner as if the latter were a new and interesting specimen of insect life.

"No," he said, "I don't think I'm losing my nerve. Do you think I'm losing my nerve, Rafe?"

Rafe looked upon Tip. Tip looked upon Rafe. The others held their respective breaths. In the room was dead silence.

"Do you, Rafe?" persisted Tip, his voice velvety smooth.

Rafe found his tongue. "No, I don't," he declared frankly. "But, I don't see why you don't like my scheme."

"Don't you? I'll explain. Tom Walton's niece, Hazel, is the drawback. Rubbin' out Tom would most likely put a crimp in her, sort of. She lost her ma and pa only five years ago."

"Aw, the devil!" exclaimed Rafe Tuckleton. "We can't stop to think of all those li'l things. We're here to make money, no matter how. Good Gawd, Tip! We ain't——"

"Good Gawd, Rafe!" interrupted Tip. "We ain't hiring any gunman to wipe out Tom Walton. I'm no he-angel—none of us are, I guess; but I've known Hazel since she was a li'l squaller, and I won't sit still and see her hurt. And that goes!"

Tip nodded with finality at Rafe Tuckleton. Rafe sat back on the middle of his spine and gnawed his lower lip. His eyes were sulky.

"I don't want to see Hazel hurt either," said Skinny Shindle with an indescribable leer, "but when it comes to a question of li'l Hazel or us, I'm for us every time."

"You look here, Skinny," said Tip O'Gorman in a low dispassionate voice, "what I said to Rafe, I say to you: Hands off Tom Walton."

"Oh, all right," said Skinny Shindle, "but if anything happens out of this, don't say I didn't tell you."

"I won't say so, Skinny," Tip said good-naturedly. "I won't say a word."

"Gentlemen," Felix Craft put in hurriedly, "let's go slow about now. No use saying anything hasty, not a bit of use. Tip's right. None of us want to hurt Hazel, and——"

"And we want to be damn sure we don't want to hurt Hazel," interrupted Tip O'Gorman, his eyes fixed on Rafe Tuckleton's sullen face.

"'T'sall right, 't'sall right," said Rafe, forcing a smile. "Have it your own way, Tip. Tom Walton's safe for all of me."

"Good enough," Tip said heartily, shooting at Rafe a glance that was not completely trustful.

Entered then Jack Murray, wearing a set smile across his scratched face. He nodded to the assemblage, sat down jauntily on the edge of the table and brought out the makings.

"Well!" he said, his eyes on Rafe Tuckleton, rolling the while a meticulous cigarette. "Well, I suppose you've got the ticket all made up."

"Just about," nodded Rafe.

"What prize did I draw?"

"A large, round goose-egg," Skinny Shindle answered for Rafe with malice.

"Huh!" Thus Mr. Murray, the hand he had reached upward to his hatband coming down without the match. "You serious, Skinny?"

"I wish I thought I wasn't," was the reply.

Jack Murray turned a slow head back toward Rafe Tuckleton. "You told me the sheriff's job was mine," he said bluntly.

"I thought it was," admitted Rafe, looking straight into his eyes. "But we've heard some bad news, unexpected news. It seems you ain't as popular with our citizens as you might be. We understand that you're so little liked you wouldn't be elected in a million years."

"Who told you that?" Jack's tone was sharp.

"I did." Thus Tip O'Gorman in a tone no less sharp. "And I know what I'm talking about, you can gamble on that."

"Tip's had his ear to the ground pretty steady," said Rafe Tuckleton. "He knows what's on every voter's mind, and if we nominate you for sheriff it means the defeat of the party. Listen, and I'll explain the whole thing."

Jack Murray listened in silence. When Rafe said his last word, Jack Murray laid his unlighted cigarette across the end of his left index finger and teetered it slowly.

"Who you figurin' on running in my place," he drawled, his dark gaze on the cigarette.

"Bill Wingo."

The teetering stopped. The cigarette slipped into the fork of two fingers. The man slid to his feet.

"Bill Wingo," he repeated. "Bill Wingo, huh? Well, this is a surprise."

Without another word he left the room, closing the door behind him very gently.

When he had gone Tip O'Gorman threw a whimsical glance at Rafe Tuckleton.

"I'd feel better if he'd slammed that door," said Tip O'Gorman.