"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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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 dispa.s.sionate 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 d.a.m.n 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 a.s.semblage, 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.