"Maybe I'd better go with you?" offered Guerilla.

"No," said Bill decidedly, "I'd rather you were here in Golden Bar.

Then you can tell me the news now and then. Outside of you and Shotgun and Riley, there ain't a soul in town I can trust, and for official reasons I can't go near the deputies. So I guess you're elected, Guerilla."

"Aw right," said his friend. "You're the doctor. Have another drink?"

"Not to-night. Look at the time. Here we've been ga.s.sin' a solid hour. I didn't have any business coming into your house anyway. Never can tell who might walk in on us."

"You better wait till I find out from Riley if Rale kept his word about Hazel Walton."

"I won't have to wait here for that. When you come back from talking to Riley, if everything is O.K. and Hazel has started with Shotgun for Prescott's, you set a lamp on your kitchen table and open and close your kitchen door four times. If Rale hasn't moved, open your kitchen door and stand in the door-way for half a minute. I'll be watchin'

from the ridge-- Huh? Sure, I've got field gla.s.ses. Borrowed a pair from Sam Prescott same time I borrowed a horse. So long, Guerilla!"

Guerilla Melody blocked off the light of the lamp with his hat while Billy opened the door and vanished into outer darkness.

Twenty minutes later, Billy, sitting his horse on the crest of the aforementioned ridge, saw a rectangle of light at the tip end of town, show and go out four distinct times. He clucked to his horse and moved quartering down the slope in the direction of the Hillsville trail.

His goal was Prescott's, his intention to obtain from Hazel a detailed account of what had happened at the ranch the night of the Tuckleton murder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE HUNCH

The time was an evening in the first week in May; the place was the Arkansas Saloon in Willow Bend, Redstone County, the man was Billy Wingo, wearing a sevenweeks' beard and an air of preoccupation. He was draped against the bar, making rings on the bar top with the wet bottom of his whisky gla.s.s.

The weather was unseasonably warm, and the big double-burner reflector lamps in the saloon raised the bar-room temperature at least fifteen degrees. Billy felt the salty moisture running down into his eyes. He pushed back his hat and with a fillip of his fingers slatted off the perspiration.

He did not see a man at the other end of the bar look up at his sudden movement. Nor, when he departed after his second gla.s.s, did he know that the other man was following until he had pa.s.sed out into the street. Then, with that sixth sense men who carry their lives in their holsters so frequently develop, he knew it. Hence, quite naturally, instead of going directly to the hotel hitching-rail where his horse was tied, he sauntered with apparent aimlessness round the corner of the saloon, along the blank side wall and round the next corner.

In the darkness behind this corner, gun in hand, he waited. The other man slid round the corner in his wake and ran plump into the muzzle of the Wingo six-shooter.

"Were you looking for me?" Bill asked in a low tone.

The man, having shown that he was no shorthorn by promptly throwing up his hands, laughed low. "I was looking for you," he said, still chuckling, "but not the way you mean."

"Your voice sounds familiar," said the sceptical Billy. "Suppose you step over here into the light from this window. Keep your hands up."

"Glad to--both ways," agreed the man, obeying instantly. "Satisfied now?"

"You can put 'em down," said Billy sliding his gun back into the holster as soon as the light fell on the man's face. "I thought you went up to Jacksboro to visit your uncle."

"I did," said John Dawson. "But I thought I'd drift back for the Cross T round-up. On my way south I stopped at Golden Bar."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I was looking for a gent name of Tuckleton. I saw where he was buried."

"I guess you heard something while you were there, huh?"

"I heard something in Jacksboro, too. That's why I followed you.

Let's go where we can talk private."

On a log, in the darkness, behind the dance hall, they sat down to talk "private."

"What did you hear in Jacksboro?" Billy asked.

"I heard a posse talk--six men. I met 'em over on Coldstream Creek three-four times."

Billy uttered a light laugh. "I figured it would be that way."

"They seemed to think you'd oughta been camping on Coldstream."

"What kind of a warrant did they have?"

"All kinds. Two murders and a stage hold up."

"Was one of 'em on account of Tuckleton?"

"Yep. I didn't know whether to hold it against you or not."

"You needn't. It wasn't me."

Dawson grinned his appreciation. "I'm glad. If you had it would have always been between us. I had figured on playing even-Steven with Tuckleton myself."

"I'm looking for the man who killed him. If I don't find him I needn't go back to Golden Bar."

"I heard you'd been suspended from office," said Dawson bluntly.

"I hadn't heard it yet, but I expected it. Anybody else appointed?"

"Shotgun Shillman, pro tem."

"I almost wish it was somebody else," he said whimsically. "Shotgun is a friend of mine, and energetic as a bear with a bee tree. He'll maybe dump me before I do what I want."

"If he's a friend of yours----" hinted Dawson.

"He'd arrest his own brother, if there was a warrant issued against him. He's that kind."

"A conscience is a heavy load to pack," said the cynical Dawson. "Me, I believe the end justifies the means. It don't matter much what trail you follow, so you get there. Can I help you any?"

"How?"

"I dunno--any old way. You did me one good turn, and I'm not forgetting it. Anything I got you can have any time anywhere."

"Now, that's right clever of you," said Billy, somewhat embarra.s.sed at the other's grat.i.tude. "But I don't guess you can help me any."