Oh, the wisdom of the frontier child.

"Weren't you afraid?" probed Billy.

"Nah. Why, you needn't ever be afraid of a drunk man. They can't hurt you if you keep out of their way. I've seen lots of drunk men, I have, in my time."

Billy was somewhat overwhelmed. "That's fine," he said lamely. "Did you run away when the drunk man came out to the woodpile to sleep it off?"

"Nah. Ain't I said I ain't scared of drunks? I didn't run away. I stayed right there on the other side of the woodpile listening to the drunk man."

"I thought you said he went to sleep."

"He talked in his sleep," patiently explained the amazing Winnie.

"What did he say?"

"Lots."

"Did he say anything about Sally Jane?"

"He said he loved her."

"Anything else?"

"He said he was gonna marry Sally Jane, by Gawd, and n.o.body else was gonna do it but him."

"Did he talk about any men?"

"He talked about Bill."

"Bill who?"

"Bill Wingo."

"Now, we're gettin' there. Did he say anything particular about Bill Wingo?"

"He said he was gonna shoot him."

"What for?"

"For being sheriff, or something. I don't remember that exactly."

"You've remembered enough. What kind of a looking man was this drunk?"

"Oh, he was an old, old man."

"Old, huh? How old?"

"Oh, about your age."

Billy began to feel like Methuselah. "What did he look like in the face?"

The winsome Winnie looked at him critically. "Something like you in the face. Sort of scrubby-looking and dirty--except maybe his whiskers wasn't so long as yours."

"What color were the whiskers?"

"Oh, black."

"Was his hair black?"

"Yop, his hair was black."

"Was he a li'l, short, runty feller?"

"Nope, he was a big, tall feller, skinny sort of."

"Did you hear his name?"

"His friend called him d.a.m.n-your-soul sometimes and Jack sometimes."

So Jack Murray had gathered unto himself a friend. This was interesting, especially as Jack was apparently still cherishing plans for revenge. If Jack and the anonymous friend were in the vicinity of Dorothy, it behooved a man in Billy's position to look to himself.

Billy had no illusions about Jack Murray. The man was perfectly capable of making another try at him from ambush. He did not believe that Jack would "snitch." Such procedure would indubitably attract too much public attention to Jack. He couldn't afford that. Not with three thousand dollars on his head.

"Is the drunk with the black hair and whiskers around town?" he asked.

"They ate dinner here yesterday."

"They--oh, he and his friend?"

"Yep, him and his friend."

Billy got up and went to the door of the kitchen. "Excuse me, ma'am, do you remember a tall, black-haired feller and a friend with him who ate in here yesterday noon?"

Oh, yes, the good-looking girl remembered perfectly both men. Billy thought that it would be as well to have a description of the friend.

Would she describe him. She would and did. The description was that of Slike, Slike with a short beard. The man's eyes, she said, seemed to bore right through her. They gave her the creeps.

Billy believed he had heard enough for the time being.

After dinner Billy went up and down Main Street, sc.r.a.ping acquaintance with storekeepers, saloon keepers, the hotel proprietor and the town marshall. By five o'clock he had established the fact that two ranches of the neighborhood, the TU and the Horseshoe were at loggerheads, and that the Horseshoe was hiring gunfighters; that the black-haired man called Jack and his friend, whose name no one knew, had been engaged in conversation with the Horseshoe foreman; that the following day they had told a bartender that they had offers of good jobs at one hundred a month apiece; and that finally, a wolfer had met them on the range riding in the direction of the Horseshoe ranch.

That night Billy and Dawson disappeared from Dorothy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE GUNFIGHTERS