CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CONTRARIETIES
"There's a lot of this stuff I don't understand," said Guerilla Melodythe day after Dawson's return from the railroad. "Why did Conley gosouth? Reelfoot and he were almighty friendly. Got drunk together andeverything. And Conley ain't committed any crime round here that Iknow of."
"I'm betting he did, alla same," said Billy. "Or else why was he soparticular to tell those TU boys he was from Arizona? Folks don't hidewhere they come from without a reason. We know there have been twomurders committed here by unknown murderers. It never occurred to metill you said Conley hadn't committed any crime that you know of thatmaybe--" He left the sentence unfinished.
Guerilla looked bewildered. "What did Conley have against Tip?"
"I don't know," said Billy. "But I intend to find out."
"That's the trick," chipped in Dawson. "In cases like this it pays todig into the innards of everything you don't understand. You're almostsure to find out somethin'."
"Maybe friend Simon can tell us somethin'," Billy said. "Let's go.It'll be sunrise in two hours."
Simon Reelfoot, riding the range that day, met a horseman who said hewas strayman for the Wagonwheel outfit north of the West Fork. DidSimon know where Park Valley was? Simon knew, and gave the straymanminute directions.
"Shucks," said the strayman, "I can't carry all that in my head.Here's a envelope and a pencil. Make a li'l map like, will you?"
Simon was not an adept with the pencil. To use either it or a penrequired the most perfect concentration and his tongue in his cheek.Wondering greatly at the strayman's claimed inability to remember a fewsimple landmarks, Simon took the pencil and envelope and bent over hissaddle horn.
"Here," he said, after three minutes' work, holding out the envelope,"This ought to fix you up."
To this horror, the well-known voice of Billy Wingo at his backconcurred readily. "It ought to," said Billy Wingo. "We're obliged toyou, Simon. Kindly clasp your hands over your hat."
The envelope and pencil fell to the ground as Simon obeyed. Thestrayman dismounted and picked them up.
"You oughtn't to have given him that envelope," Billy admonished thestrayman. "It has the confession in it. You got to be more careful."
"I will," said the strayman humbly, and tucked the envelope into hispocket.
Simon stirred uneasily on his saddle. Confession! Whose confession?He recalled that there had been several folded sheets of paper in theenvelope. Of course, Simon could not know that these sheets werewhite,--innocent of either handwriting or printing. But Simon'sconscience was a helpful little thing. And Simon's mind was prone tojump at conclusions.
"I'll just take your gun, Simon," murmured Billy. "I don't think you'ddo anything reckless, but you might. Slide off easy. That's it. Youlook kind of bewildered, Simon. Don't know how I got here, do you?Easy, like eatin' pie. While you were hard at work with your pencil,Guerilla and I were tippytoeing out of that stand of timber behind us aways. You shouldn't be so trusting of strangers, feller. _Keep yourpaws up_! Just because I've felt you all over and haven't found anextra gun or knife doesn't signify you can do as you please. You standright still and steady. Johnny, let's have that envelope. My friendwill watch you, Simon, while I glance over this."
Billy took the envelope, fingered out the sheets of paper and unfoldedthem. His lip moved as he solemnly looked them over. It was apparentto Reelfoot that he was refreshing his memory.
"Simon," Billy said, glancing up suddenly, "why did Conley go South?"
Simon's leathery face assumed a richly jaundiced hue. "I--I dunno!"
"Yes, you do," Billy insisted, striking the sheets of paper with hisfist. "We found Conley. He was working for the TU when he died."
Simon's face went even yellower. "I told him not to go," mutteredSimon Reelfoot.
"Conley talked before he died," said Billy. "He told me someinteresting things about himself--and you. We've got you dead torights, Simon." Here Billy stuffed the sheets of paper into histrousers pocket and gripped Simon by the throat. "You damned murderer,what did you kill him for?"
At the fierce clutch of Billy's fingers, Simon's shaking legs refusedto 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 theblame on me by leaving behind--" Billy's voice trailed off intosilence.
"That was Conley's idea!" screamed the panicky Reelfoot. "He got thehatband and quirt one day when nobody was in the office. I didn't haveanything 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 Waltonmurder! They told me he was! He--he pulled first, I tell you! It wasan even break! I was drunk! I didn't know what I was doing! Oh, myGawd!"
Billy flung the groveling Simon from him. "This ought to be enough foryou."
Guerilla wagged an admiring head as he set about securing the arms ofthe wretched Reelfoot. "Gotta give you credit, Bill. I never thoughtit 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 morequestions."
That evening there was another prisoner in the Golden Bar calaboose."If they keep on coming in like this," said Shotgun Shillman to RileyTyler, "we'll have to build an addition to the jail."
"The more the merrier," grinned Riley Tyler. "Listen to thatskunkified Reelfoot! You'd think he was having the horrors, the wayhe's carrying on."
"Did you hear what he said about leaving a lantern outside the cell allnight, account of Tip haunting him in the dark?"
Riley nodded. "I heard. His nerve has gone completely bust."
"It's funny how he keeps insisting that Bill Wingo was with Guerillaand that Dawson man when they captured him. Why, everybody knows BillWingo is far, far away." Thus Shotgun Shillman, his tongue in hischeek.
"Damfunny," Riley assented with a wink. "Especially when Guerilla andDawson said they hadn't seen a sign of Bill, not a sign. You mightalmost think Simon Reelfoot was mistaken."
"You might," chuckled Shotgun Shillman. "I wonder, speaking as man toman, and not as sheriff _pro tem._ to his deputy, where Bill is anyway."
"Probably in town this minute. It would be just like him."
"Guessin' thataway is bad business," Shotgun reproved Riley. "Besides,you're mistaken. If we thought Billy was in town, it would be our dutyto hop out and arrest him, wouldn't it? You bet it would. So we don'tthink he's in town. That is certain sure. You wanna mix a li'l commonsense with your job, Riley. You're too half-baked by a jugful. Youkeep on expressin' opinions so free and easy, and first thing you knowfolks will think we ain't so anxious to arrest Bill."
"Some of 'em think so now," said the unimpressed Riley.
"Ain't that the public all over!" exclaimed the justly indignantShotgun. "Tell you, an honest officer of the law is never appreciated,never. Is that bottle empty, Riley?"
In the meantime Billy Wingo was calmly eating his supper in the houseof Guerilla Melody. On Guerilla's bed Dawson was snoring the sleep ofexhaustion.
"What next?" asked Guerilla Melody, when Billy was lighting hisafter-supper cigarette. "With Tip's murder settled and knowin' whokilled 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'lmore work on the hold-up. Dumping Rafe's murderer won't do me a heapof good while I'm breaking rock for twenty years at Hillsville. Don'tlook so glum, Guerilla. There's a trail out. There always is."
At the tail of the woods a convivial voice in the street broke intoboisterous song. "Who's that?" asked Billy.
"It's Jerry Fern," said Guerilla indifferently. "He's drunk again."
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br /> "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 amonth."
"The lucky devil. Big legacy?"
"I dunno how much. Fair size, I guess. Must have been for Crafty tolend him money to play with."
"What?"
"Don't get so excited," cautioned Guerilla, with a nervous glance overhis shoulder. "You've no idea how your voice carries. Even if youdon't mind being dumped, I do. And I don't care three whoops aboutspending two or three years in jail for giving aid and comfort to----"
"Shut up, for Gawd's sake!" begged Billy. "Do you know Crafty's beenlending money to Jerry?"
"Didn't I see him with my own eyes more than once? But----"
"Say, don't you see anything else yet?"
"I see you, but that ain't sayin' much."
"Guerilla, if you weren't so serious you'd be funny. But don't getdown-hearted. I'm as foolish as you are, every bit. Why, when theyhad me corraled in Sam Larder's house, and Crafty blatted right outloud that he didn't know Jerry Fern was driving that trip and Tip andSam said later that they knew Jerry was, I had the answer to the puzzleif I had the sense to follow it up. Especially when it turned outlater that Jerry, who always gives a bandit a battle, didn't even tryto lock horns with Crafty. But I never caught the connection till yousaid Crafty was lending money to Jerry. Lending him money! Do youthink you can get Jerry Fern in here and make him drunk?"
"When?" asked Guerilla, beginning to get a glimmering.
"To-night. Now. I want to get Jerry so full he'll talk. Tell us allhe knows, see?"
"I'll make him drunk," Guerilla said earnestly. "And I'll make himtalk, or there ain't a drop of virtue in Old Crow."
Guerilla flipped on his hat and departed.
Half an hour later Guerilla returned, bringing his sheaves with him.And, oh, the sheaves were merry and, oh, the sheaves were drunk.Guerilla himself was giving an admirable imitation of a roisteringblade.
"Meet my friend, Mister Johnny Dawson," said Guerilla, waving anexpansive hand toward the erstwhile strayman.
"Huh, h'are you, Misher Juh-johnny Duh-duh-daw-son," said Jerry Fern,solemnly shoving out a wavering paw and missing the mark by eighteeninches. "Washer name of other tut-tut-twin?"
For a bad moment Dawson feared that Billy Wingo had been foolish enoughto come in from the other room. Then he understood. "His name'sEliphalet," he made reply, solemnly turning to the empty air on hisright.
Jerry Fern again pumphandled the empty air. "Pup-pup-pleased meetcha,"he stuttered. "Cuc-cuc-cuc-can't pup-pronounce name, but thash allri'. All li'l friends tut-together. Wheresh bottle? You gug-gotbub-bub-bottle, Guh-guh-gil-Guerilla?"
"Sit down," urged Guerilla, steering Jerry to anchor. "Here's yourbottle."
Jerry Fern clasped the bottle to his bosom and sang a lusty stave.
"Rye whisky, rye whisky, Rye whisky, I cry. If I don't get rye whisky I surely will die."
Like the boy in the story, Jerry could sing without stuttering. Butwhen he began again to talk, his enunciation was worse than ever."Buh-buh-buh-whistle for the crossing--but I ain't gug-gug-gargle gonnadie. Nun-nun-not me. I gug-got rye whuh-whisky."
He put the bottle to his lips and went through all the motions oftaking a hearty pull. "Fuf-funny," he said, holding the bottle atarm's length. "Wuh-wuh whisky lul-lul-lost all its taste."
"Take the cork out," suggested Guerilla.
"Cuc-cuc-cork?" smiled Jerry Fern. "I'll tut-take cuc-cork out."
So saying he smashed the bottle neck against the edge of the table,broke it short off, and drank without ceasing till the bottle wasempty. He held the bottle against the light. He pressed it to hisear. He shook it. Then he tossed it nonchalantly over his shoulder,laid his cheek on the table and began to snore.
This would never do. Guerilla and Dawson shook him awake.
"Mush been shleep," mumbled Jerry, knuckling his eyes. "Gimme anuzzerdud-drink."
"Not yet," said Guerilla firmly. "Is Felix Craft a good friend ofyours, Jerry?"
"Helluva good fuf-fuf-friend," was the instant reply.
"He doesn't pay you enough," prompted the carefully drilled Dawson.
"Thash whu-what I tut-told him!" cried Jerry Fern, pounding the tablewith a vehement fist. "I ought tut-tut-to have num-more."
"He's treatin' you mean," said Guerilla. "He ain't goin' to give youany more money."
"Yesh he wuh-will," insisted Jerry.
"He told me different." Thus Dawson.
"Yesh he wuh-will. Huh-he'll have to gimme all money I want. Pup-puthim in juh-juh-jail if he don't."
Guerilla and Dawson looked toward the doorway giving into the otherroom. Then they began to laugh immoderately. "That's a good one,"cried Guerilla, wiping his eyes. "You can't put Felix Craft in jail.He hasn't done anything wrong."
"Oh, ain't he?" flared Jerry Fern with all the drunkard's irritation atbeing disbelieved. "I know more abub-bub-bout Fuf-felix Cuc-craft thanyou thuh-think. I cuc-can muh-make Fuf-felix Cuc-craft lul-liedud-down and rur-roll over."
"Yes, you can." With derision.
"Yeah, I cuc-can!"
"What makes you think so?"
"I know all rur-right," vaguely.
This was maddening. Billy, in the other room, yearned to take JerryFern by the scruff of his drunken neck and squeeze the truth out of him.
"You don't know a thing about Felix Craft," persisted Guerilla. "Not athing."
"Damn shame he don't pay you enough," chipped in Dawson.
"Maybe if I went to him I could get more money for you," suggestedGuerilla. He waited a moment for the meaning of this to sink in beforeadding, "What will I tell him."
"Tut-tell him I'll tell if he dud-don't pup-pay."
This sounded promising. "Tell what?"
"Tut-tell whuh-who held up the sush-sush-stage."
"Oh, that's nothing," said Guerilla. "Felix told me all about that.He said you didn't help him out a-tall."
Jerry Fern was instantly up in arms. "I dud-did so," he chattered."He knows bub-better. Did-didn't he plan it all out wuh-with mum-menun-nun-not to cuc-cuc-cut down on him, and didn't I tut-tell thepup-passengers to muh-make sure of Bub-bill's clothes and the bub-brassgug-gug-guard of his six-shu-shooter? Did-didn't I? Did-didn't I?Yeah, and his huh-horse and all too? Dud-didn't I do all themthuh-things acc-acc-accordin' to cuc-contract? Did-didn't I?Cuc-course I did. And if Fuf-felix do-don't pay up, I'll pup-put himin jail."
"That's right," Guerilla soothed him. "Do anything you want with him."He went to the door of the other room and whispered, "Has he saidenough, Bill?"
"About," answered Billy, pushing his chair back and standing up.
"But maybe he won't repeat it under oath when he's sober," worriedGuerilla.
"We won't wait that long. We'll sic him on Felix right now. You gofind out where Felix is, will you, Guerilla, and-- Here, wait a shake!Better have Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler in on this. Huh? Coursenot! Don't tell 'em I'm here. Tell 'em----"
The Rider of Golden Bar Page 24
