"I don't want her hurt, that's all. I haven't any objection to her being tried for the murder of Tuckleton. But I ain't going to have you haze her around. Understand?"

"There y'are," said Jonesy. "You don't need a warrant for the girl.

All you have to do is to give your orders to Shotgun and Riley.

They'll do the rest."

"But after turning her loose thisaway--" began the thoroughly frightened district attorney.

"You can rearrest her and have her tried on that butcher-knife evidence," insisted the stubborn Jonesy. "Just going by what she says herself, there's enough to fix her clock twice over. You dump her, Rale, and dump her quick."

"Or we'll fix your clock," inserted Tim Mullin.

The hapless district attorney cast his distressed gaze this way and that. But every eye that met his either was unfriendly or wrathfully hostile. Certainly there was no help for him in that room. The district attorney shuddered. He knew Jonesy and the rest of the Tuckleton outfit; knew, too, if he did not do as these men of violence demanded, that they would make him hard to find. On the other hand, if he obeyed them, Bill Wingo would as surely kill him. The district attorney shuddered again.

"What you shivering about?" demanded the sarcastic Tim Mullin.

The district attorney squared his afflicted shoulders and did the obvious,--chose the more remote of the two evils. "I'll send Shotgun and Tyler to Prescott's to-morrow," he said, rose to his feet and,--the door flew open, and, Jerry Fern, wild-eyed with liquor, stumbled into the room. The stage driver rolled straight to Felix Craft and pawed him. "Fuf-felix," he babbled, "I wan' shush-shome mon-money."

The furious Felix shook him off. But Jerry Fern was nothing if not persistent. He returned with bellowings.

The grinning faces of Guerilla Melody, Johnny Dawson, Shotgun and Riley looked in through the open doorway.

"Come along, Jerry," called Guerilla. "We been hunting you all over."

Jerry Fern was not in the least interested in coming along. He had another and very definite end in view. "Fuf-felix, gug-gimme shome mum-money!"

Felix bit off a curse. "Look here, Jerry," he said soothingly, patting the hysterical drunkard on the back, "you go home and sleep it off.

You don't want to go whoppin' round this way at your age."

The district attorney, Jonesy and his two punchers stared. This was another Felix. The Felix they knew would have knocked the sot down.

"I wuh-wuh-wan' shush-shome mum-money," gargled Jerry, even as Billy's four friends pushed in through the open doorway.

"You come along with me," urged Felix, gently propelling Jerry toward the street.

Jerry braced his feet mulewise. "I wuh-won't! I wuh-won't! I wuh-wan' mum-money you promised me."

"I didn't promise you a nickel," said Felix, wrestling with his emotions. "But come along, and I'll give you some money if you're hard up."

"Huh-how much?"

"Plenty. I'll give you what you deserve." There was cream and b.u.t.ter in the gambler's voice, but there was grisly menace in his restless eyes.

"Gug-guve mum-me more than you gug-gave bub-before?"

"Yes, yes. C'mon!"

"Wuh-want mum-money now!" yelped the contumacious Jerry, "or I'll pup-put you in jail!"

At which Felix lost his patience and his head and gave Jerry the b.u.m's rush through the doorway. Jerry skidded across the sidewalk and slid a yard on his nose. This annoyed him considerably. He sat up, supporting himself on a wavering elbow and squalled, "Yuh-you nun-needn't thuh-think I'm gug-gonna lul-lie for you nun-no longer! If you dud-don't gug-gimme plenty mum-money, I'm gug-gonna tell folks how yuh-you huh-held up the sush-stage yourself all dressed up in Bill Wingo's clothes sho you cuc-could throw the bub-blame on him!"

Most certainly then the gambler would have put a bullet through Jerry Fern had not Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler been too quick for him.

"Now, now, Felix, calm down," suggested Shotgun.

"He's a liar!" foamed Felix, struggling to jerk his gun arm free. "I never held up the stage! Bill Wingo did it himself! Ask Sam Larder!"

"Was Sam there, too?" said Riley, with fresh interest. "Here, Sam, wait a minute. What's your hurry?"

"Got to see a man," mumbled Sam. "Be right back."

"Stay a while," invited Riley Tyler.

Sam Larder regarded the muzzle of Riley's gun. "All right," said Sam Larder.

"Felix," said Shotgun Shillman, "I don't _want_ to plug you."

Felix Craft took the hint.

Johnny Dawson went out into the street and returned with Jerry Fern, who had forgotten his grievance against Felix Craft and wished only to sleep.

Shotgun Shillman looked at the district attorney. "Rale, this sort of puts a crimp in the notion that Bill Wingo held up the stage."

"It looks like it," admitted the district attorney, fumbling the papers on his desk. "Of course, we'll have to do some more investigating first."

"Before any investigating is done, we want Hazel Walton arrested,"

tucked in the malevolent Jonesy.

"All right! All right!" snarled the badgered Rale. "I'll have her arrested first thing in the morning."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE FOOL-KILLER

The district attorney, having looked carefully to the fastenings of his windows, tucked a six shooter under his pillow and began to unlace his shoes. Came a rapping at his chamber door and the voice of his housekeeper.

"Say, Art, here's another of your infernal friends at the kitchen door.

Says his name's Johnson."

The district attorney, jumping at a conclusion, immediately reached for his six-shooter. "I don't know any Johnsons. Not around here, anyway.

What's he look like?"

"Middlin' tall, scrubby lot of black whiskers, talks sort of thick like."

"Pebbles under his tongue, most likely. Tell him to come into the kitchen, so I can get a look without him knowing."

"He won't come in. Says he wants you to come to the door your own self. Says it's important."