"Conley shot him too, huh? Then you shot Tip your own self?"

"He was gonna squeal! He was gonna get me mixed into that Walton murder! They told me he was! He--he pulled first, I tell you! It was an even break! I was drunk! I didn't know what I was doing! Oh, my Gawd!"

Billy flung the groveling Simon from him. "This ought to be enough for you."

Guerilla wagged an admiring head as he set about securing the arms of the wretched Reelfoot. "Gotta give you credit, Bill. I never thought it 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 more questions."

That evening there was another prisoner in the Golden Bar calaboose.

"If they keep on coming in like this," said Shotgun Shillman to Riley Tyler, "we'll have to build an addition to the jail."

"The more the merrier," grinned Riley Tyler. "Listen to that skunkified Reelfoot! You'd think he was having the horrors, the way he's carrying on."

"Did you hear what he said about leaving a lantern outside the cell all night, 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 Guerilla and that Dawson man when they captured him. Why, everybody knows Bill Wingo is far, far away." Thus Shotgun Shillman, his tongue in his cheek.

"Damfunny," Riley a.s.sented with a wink. "Especially when Guerilla and Dawson said they hadn't seen a sign of Bill, not a sign. You might almost think Simon Reelfoot was mistaken."

"You might," chuckled Shotgun Shillman. "I wonder, speaking as man to man, 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 duty to hop out and arrest him, wouldn't it? You bet it would. So we don't think he's in town. That is certain sure. You wanna mix a li'l common sense with your job, Riley. You're too half-baked by a jugful. You keep on expressin' opinions so free and easy, and first thing you know folks 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 indignant Shotgun. "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 house of Guerilla Melody. On Guerilla's bed Dawson was snoring the sleep of exhaustion.

"What next?" asked Guerilla Melody, when Billy was lighting his after-supper cigarette. "With Tip's murder settled and knowin' who killed 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'l more work on the hold-up. Dumping Rafe's murderer won't do me a heap of good while I'm breaking rock for twenty years at Hillsville. Don't look so glum, Guerilla. There's a trail out. There always is."

At the tail of the woods a convivial voice in the street broke into boisterous song. "Who's that?" asked Billy.

"It's Jerry Fern," said Guerilla indifferently. "He's drunk again."

"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 a month."

"The lucky devil. Big legacy?"

"I dunno how much. Fair size, I guess. Must have been for Crafty to lend him money to play with."

"What?"

"Don't get so excited," cautioned Guerilla, with a nervous glance over his shoulder. "You've no idea how your voice carries. Even if you don't mind being dumped, I do. And I don't care three whoops about spending 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 been lending 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 get down-hearted. I'm as foolish as you are, every bit. Why, when they had me corraled in Sam Larder's house, and Crafty blatted right out loud that he didn't know Jerry Fern was driving that trip and Tip and Sam said later that they knew Jerry was, I had the answer to the puzzle if I had the sense to follow it up. Especially when it turned out later that Jerry, who always gives a bandit a battle, didn't even try to lock horns with Crafty. But I never caught the connection till you said Crafty was lending money to Jerry. Lending him money! Do you think 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 all he knows, see?"

"I'll make him drunk," Guerilla said earnestly. "And I'll make him talk, 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 roistering blade.

"Meet my friend, Mister Johnny Dawson," said Guerilla, waving an expansive 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 eighteen inches. "Washer name of other tut-tut-twin?"

For a bad moment Dawson feared that Billy Wingo had been foolish enough to come in from the other room. Then he understood. "His name's Eliphalet," he made reply, solemnly turning to the empty air on his right.

Jerry Fern again pumphandled the empty air. "Pup-pup-pleased meetcha,"

he stuttered. "Cuc-cuc-cuc-can't pup-p.r.o.nounce name, but thash all ri'. All li'l friends tut-together. Wheresh bottle? You gug-got bub-bub-bottle, Guh-guh-gil-Guerilla?"

"Sit down," urged Guerilla, steering Jerry to anchor. "Here's your bottle."

Jerry Fern clasped the bottle to his bosom and sang a l.u.s.ty stave.

"Rye whisky, rye whisky, Rye whisky, I cry.