then? What happens? For one thing you won't get the contract for furnishing the lumber for the new jail and town hall that's gonna be built next year. And for another, that land deal you and I put through last month will be investigated. How'd we like that, huh?"
"Rafe's right," said Tom Driver. "This is no time for taking any chances. It ain't a presidential year, and you can gamble there ain't gonna be a thing to take folks' eyes off the county politics. We've all gotta give up something for the sake of the party."
"I don't notice you givin' up anything," snapped the disgruntled Skinny. "I seem to be the only one that loses."
"And Jack Murray," supplemented Rafe Tuckleton. "Hell's bells, Skinny, why didn't you say something sooner? To-night's the first I ever heard you even wanted an office. That's why I told Jack he could have it. He's a good man, but if I'd known——"
"What difference does that make?" interrupted Skinny, bitterly. "You couldn't give me the nomination anyway."
"You could have had another office—say county clerk."
"Wouldn't take it on a bet—not enough opportunity. Aw hell, it's a dead horse! Let it go, Rafe. Tip, you've had a lot to say about me, now let's hear what you got against Jack Murray."
"Yep," said Rafe Tuckleton, "let's have it. I'll have to give Jack some reason for going back on him, and I don't see exactly——" He did not complete the sentence.
"Speaking personal," observed Tip, again on the broad grin, "I ain't got a thing against Jack. Him and me get along fine. But when Jack was first deputy two years ago he managed to kill four men one time and another."
"That was in the line of duty," said Rafe. "They all resisted arrest."
Tip O'Gorman nodded. "I ain't denying it. And we've got Jack's word for it besides; but the four men all had friends, and when, as you know, each and every one of 'em turned out to be more or less innocent, why the friends got to talking round and saying Jack was too previous. Ain't you heard anything a-tall?"
"I've heard it said he was a leetle quicker than he maybe needed to be," conceded Rafe. "But folks always talk more or less about a killing. It didn't strike me there was enough in it to actually keep Jack from being elected."
"There is. They're only talking now, but nominate Jack and they'll begin to yell."
"You must have been mighty busy these last few weeks, Tip," sneered Skinny.
"I have," declared Tip. "Seems like I've talked with every voter in the county. I've gone over the whole field with a finetooth comb, and I tell you, gents, the bone for our dog is Bill Wingo. Most everybody likes Bill. He's a damsight more popular than the opposition candidate. Bill will get a lot of the other feller's votes, but if we put up anybody else the other feller will get a lot of ours—and so will the rest of his ticket."
Tip O'Gorman sat back in his chair and eyed his friends. It was obvious that the friends were of two minds. Rafe Tuckleton, his fingers drumming on the table, stared soberly at the floor.
"Are you sure, Tip," inquired Larder suddenly, "that Bill Wingo is the breed of horse that will always drink when you lead him to water?"
Tip O'Gorman nodded his guarantee of Mr. Wingo's pliability of character. "Bill is too easy-going and good-natured to do anything else."
"I'd always had an idea he was a good deal of a man," said Sam Larder.
"Oh, he'll stand the acid," Tip said. "He'll go after anybody he thinks he oughta go after; but if we can't manage to give him the right kind of thoughts we're no good."
"You needn't start losing flesh, Sam," slipped in Tom Driver. "Bill would never go back on his friends. H's just a big overgrown kid, that's all."
Rafe Tuckleton leaned back in his chair and stared dubiously at Tip O'Gorman. "All right for Bill, but how about Tom Walton?"
"I'll bite," Tip averred blandly. "How about him?"
"Nothing, oh, nothing a-tall. Only Tom Walton has been one too many round here for a long time."
"He does talk too much," admitted Tom Driver, his bright little eyes, like those of an alert bird, fixed on Rafe Tuckleton.
"He's a very suspicious man," said the latter. "He like to broke Simon Reelfoot's neck last week over a horse of his he said Simon rustled."
"Serve Simon right," said Tip promptly. "Simon's a polecat. Always was. Felt like breaking his neck more than once myself. Good for Walton."
"But Simon's one of our crowd," Rafe reminded him, "and he's been mighty useful. We gotta consider his feelings."
"Oh, damn his feelings. The old screw ain't got any right to feelings."
"Yes, but there wasn't any real actual proof about the horse—only some tracks in Simon's corral that Walton thought he recognized."
Tip quirked a quizzical mouth. "Between us, Rafe, what did Simon do with the horse?"
"Sold him to a prospector who was leaving the country. So it couldn't be traced."
"Good horse was it?"
"It was that chestnut young Hazel rides."
"Hazel's own pony? Lord! Man alive, Simon is worse'n a polecat. He's a whole family of them. Why couldn't he have rustled some other horse?"
"I ain't Simon, so I can't tell you," said Rafe dryly. "But if you don't want anything done on Simon's account, how about this: yesterday one of my boys was shot at while he happened to be doing a li'l business on the Walton range."
"What did your boy happen to be doing?" smiled Tip.
Rafe attempted to excuse himself and his cowboy. "It was a long-ear."
"Branding it on the Walton range?"
"Yes."
"With its mammy?"
"Yes."
"Serve the boy right." Tip gave judgment. "You and your outfit are getting too reckless for any use, Rafe. The territory is not a Sunday-school. You can't pick a man's pocket openly any more. It isn't safe. And you know it isn't safe. Who was the boy and what time of day was it?"
"Ben Shanklin; and it was round noon."
"Worse and more of it. My Gawd, Rafe, you gimme a pain!"
Sam Larder shook a fat-cheeked head. "Dangerous, Rafe; dangerous. You've got to consider a man's feelings now more than you used to. Haven't you told your man to always work round sunrise and sunset, and never to shoot a calf's mammy on her owner's territory?"
"Others do, and get away with it. Besides, he didn't shoot the cow."
"He might as well have shot her," declared Tom Driver. "He got caught, didn't he?"
"Ben didn't get caught. He made the riffle all right with two holes in his saddle-horn and one in his cantle that tore his pants."
"What range? Did he say?"
"About
