me, I'll have to defend myself. And you know your pa was never very quick on the draw, Sally Jane. So long."
He let her bridle go and moved aside. She snatched her horse around with a jerk and flew homeward at a gallop.
Chapter Two.
A Safe Man
"We gotta be careful," cautioned Tom Driver, the local justice of the peace.
"Careful is our middle name," Rafe Tuckleton said reassuringly.
"I know, I know," persisted Driver. "But you can't fool all the people all——"
"Abe Lincoln said it first," Felix Craft interrupted impatiently. "But he didn't live in Crocker County."
"Or he wouldn't have said it, huh?" flung in Tip O'Gorman. "Don't you fool yourself, Crafty. Tom's right. Human nature don't change any."
"I s'pose you mean give the people a square deal then," sneered Felix.
"If he does, he's crazy," said a lanky citizen named Shindle.
O'Gorman grinned a wide Irish smile. "No, I ain't crazy, but we'll give 'em a square deal alla same."
"He is crazy," declared lank Shindle.
"A square deal," repeated O'Gorman. "A square deal—for us."
"I thought so," nodded plump Sam Larder, speaking for the first time since the beginning of the discussion. "A square deal—for us. Let's hear it, Tip."
O'Gorman sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "When a dog is hungry it ain't sensible to feed him a whole juicy steak. He'll gobble it down an' come pesterin' round for more in five minutes. But give him a bone and he'll gnaw and gnaw and be a satisfied dog for quite a long while."
"What kind of a bone were you figuring on giving our dog?" inquired Tom Driver.
"Sheriff." Thus Tip O'Gorman with finality.
Felix Craft shook a decided head.
"Guess again. Too much meat on that bone."
"Not if it's the right kind of meat," said O'Gorman blandly.
"Stop walking in the water," grunted the impatient Felix. "Say it right out."
"A sheriff with a ring in his nose," explained O'Gorman.
"A weak sister, huh?" put in Tom Driver.
"Or words to that effect," smiled O'Gorman. "Can't you see how it is, gents? To shove our ticket through we gotta give 'em one good man. If we don't, the four legislators are a stand-off. We may elect them. We may elect our three justices, county clerk and coroner. You can't tell what will happen to them. Folks will scratch their heads this election and they'll vote their own way. Take my word for it. And when it comes to sheriff, folks are gonna do more than scratch their heads. They're gonna think—hard. That's why we gotta give 'em a good man."
"One of themselves, for instance?" said plump Sam Larder, locking his hands over his paunch.
"Sure," O'Gorman drawled. "Do that. Give 'em somebody they trust and like for sheriff an' they'll be so busy thinkin' about electin' him that the rest of the ticket will slide in like a greased pig through a busted fence."
"To tell the truth. I'd more than half-promised the job to Jack Murray," remarked Rafe Tuckleton, incidentally wondering why Jack had not yet turned up at the meeting. "He should have been here an hour ago."
"You half-promised it to Jack Murray, huh?" exclaimed the lank citizen Shindle. "Lemme tell you that I was a damsight more than half-counting on that job myself."
"Neither of your totals is the right answer, Skinny," explained O'Gorman pleasantly. "Nominatin' either you or Jack would gorm up the whole ticket."
"Aw, the party is strong enough to elect anybody!" protested Felix Craft.
"Not this year," contradicted O'Gorman. "You ain't been round like I have, Felix. I tell you I know. Gents, if we go ahead and nominate either Skinny Shindle or Jack Murray, we'll all have to go to work."
"Who you got in mind?" queried Rafe Tuckleton.
"Bill Wingo."
Dead silence for a space. Then Rafe Tuckleton looked at Sam Larder and whistled lowly. Sam's eyes switched to Tip.
"I don't see the connection," said Sam Larder.
"Me either," concurred Rafe.
"I should say not," Shindle declared loudly.
"I'll tell you," said Tip O'Gorman, beaming impartially upon the assemblage. "Take Skinny Shindle. He——"
"Aw right, take me!" burst out the gentleman in question. "What about me! What——"
"Easy, easy," cautioned Tip O'Gorman, his smile a trifle fixed. "I ain't deaf in either ear, and besides ain't we all li'l friends together?"
"But you said——" Skinny tried again.
"I ain't said it yet," interrupted Tip, "but I'm going to—gimme a chance. It won't hurt. It's only the truth. Take Skinny and look at him. He buys scrip at three times the discount anybody else does, and there was a lot of talk about that beef contract the agent gave him."
"What of it? Folks don't have to bring scrip to me if they don't wanna, and suppose there was chatter about the contract. It's the government's funeral."
"It came near being the agent's," slipped in Sam Larder, with a reminiscent grin. "Some of them feather dusters like to chased him off the reservation when they saw the kind of cattle he gave 'em. I saw 'em. They were thinner than Skinny. No exaggeration. Absolutely."
"Well, that's all right, too," said Skinny. "A feller's got to make money somehow. Who ever heard of giving a Injun the best of it? Not in Crocker County, anyway."
"That's all right again, too," declared Tip. "But that last deal with the agent was a li'l too raw. Taking that with your prices for scrip, Skinny, has made a heap of talk. You ain't a popular idol, Skinny, not by any means."
"Damn my popularity!" snarled the excellent Skinny. "I wanna be sheriff."
"Like the baby wants the soap," said Tip. "Well, you'll never be happy then, because you'll never get it."
"Lookit here, Tip——"
"You lookit here, Skinny," swiftly interjected Rafe Tuckleton. "Is this campaign your own private affair, or is it the party's?"
"The party's, I guess," Skinny reluctantly admitted. "But I want my share of it."
"You can have your share without being sheriff," Rafe told him. "You'll be taken care of, don't fret. This here's a case of united we stand, divided we tumble. Suppose any li'l thing upsets our plans, and our ticket don't
