hundred."
"Fourteen hundred, huh? Then he couldn't have been recognized."
"Luckily not."
"Luck is the word—for you—for us."
"Wonder who did the shooting?"
"I don't know. Ben dug out one of the bullets from his horn. It was fifty caliber—a Sharps."
"That was Tom Walton himself," declared Tom Driver. "He's the only one in his outfit owning a Sharps, and he won't let any one else shoot it. 'Twas Tom Walton. And don't be so positive Ben wasn't recognized, Rafe. I hear Walton carries field glasses now."
"He is getting suspicious," smiled Tip O'Gorman.
The smile stung the amiable Rafe. "He's gotta be stopped."
"How?" Thus Tip.
"There are ways," snarled Rafe.
"Of course, but it doesn't pay to be too rough. Tom has a great many friends. We can't afford to stir up a whole kettleful of discontent. A little care, Rafe, is all that's necessary. I think I'd impress my men, if I were you, with the absolute necessity of being careful."
"I did tell 'em," said Rafe sullenly.
"Your telling seems to have left them cold. At least it left Ben Shanklin. Damn his soul! I almost wish Tom Walton had got him, the coyote! He deserves to be got, gorming up our plans thisaway."
"Well, everything turned out all right," Felix Craft tucked in hastily. "So why worry? I'm sure Rafe's men will be more careful after this."
"I wish I was sure," grunted Tip O'Gorman. "They're a wild bunch, every last one of 'em. I believe they just try to stir up trouble. They're eternally getting drunk and shooting up saloons and other places of business. People don't like it."
"Oh, boys will be boys," deprecated Rafe.
"Your boys will be dead boys if they don't watch out. Anyway, you put the hobbles on that Ben boy, Rafe. We can't afford to have him spoil things."
"How about having him spoil Walton?"
"And antagonize all of Walton's friends, huh? Bright, oh, very!"
"If the feller who spoiled Walton was a stranger, it would be all right. You couldn't connect an absolute stranger with us, could you?"
"Let's hear your li'l plan," said Tip O'Gorman.
Every man of them listened intently to the Tuckletonian plan.
As plans go it was a good plan. Procuring an assassin to do the dirty work is always a good plan. Rafe knew a gunman, named Slike, in a neighboring territory. For two hundred and fifty dollars, according to Rafe, Dan Slike would murder almost any one. For five hundred it was any one, without the almost.
"Can he do it?" doubted Tom Driver.
"We all know how slow Tom Walton is on the draw," sneered Rafe. "Which he's slower than Sam Prescott. If Slike don't plug Walton three times before he can draw, I'll eat my shirt."
"That sounds well," said Tip O'Gorman, eyeing Rafe with frank disgust. "But, somehow, I don't like the idea of having Walton killed."
"Whatsa matter with you?" demanded the originator of the idea. "Losing your nerve?"
Tip O'Gorman's expression did not alter in the slightest. He gazed upon his questioner as if the latter were a new and interesting specimen of insect life.
"No," he said, "I don't think I'm losing my nerve. Do you think I'm losing my nerve, Rafe?"
Rafe looked upon Tip. Tip looked upon Rafe. The others held their respective breaths. In the room was dead silence.
"Do you, Rafe?" persisted Tip, his voice velvety smooth.
Rafe found his tongue. "No, I don't," he declared frankly. "But, I don't see why you don't like my scheme."
"Don't you? I'll explain. Tom Walton's niece, Hazel, is the drawback. Rubbin' out Tom would most likely put a crimp in her, sort of. She lost her ma and pa only five years ago."
"Aw, the devil!" exclaimed Rafe Tuckleton. "We can't stop to think of all those li'l things. We're here to make money, no matter how. Good Gawd, Tip! We ain't——"
"Good Gawd, Rafe!" interrupted Tip. "We ain't hiring any gunman to wipe out Tom Walton. I'm no he-angel—none of us are, I guess; but I've known Hazel since she was a li'l squaller, and I won't sit still and see her hurt. And that goes!"
Tip nodded with finality at Rafe Tuckleton. Rafe sat back on the middle of his spine and gnawed his lower lip. His eyes were sulky.
"I don't want to see Hazel hurt either," said Skinny Shindle with an indescribable leer, "but when it comes to a question of li'l Hazel or us, I'm for us every time."
"You look here, Skinny," said Tip O'Gorman in a low dispassionate voice, "what I said to Rafe, I say to you: Hands off Tom Walton."
"Oh, all right," said Skinny Shindle, "but if anything happens out of this, don't say I didn't tell you."
"I won't say so, Skinny," Tip said good-naturedly. "I won't say a word."
"Gentlemen," Felix Craft put in hurriedly, "let's go slow about now. No use saying anything hasty, not a bit of use. Tip's right. None of us want to hurt Hazel, and——"
"And we want to be damn sure we don't want to hurt Hazel," interrupted Tip O'Gorman, his eyes fixed on Rafe Tuckleton's sullen face.
"'T'sall right, 't'sall right," said Rafe, forcing a smile. "Have it your own way, Tip. Tom Walton's safe for all of me."
"Good enough," Tip said heartily, shooting at Rafe a glance that was not completely trustful.
Entered then Jack Murray, wearing a set smile across his scratched face. He nodded to the assemblage, sat down jauntily on the edge of the table and brought out the makings.
"Well!" he said, his eyes on Rafe Tuckleton, rolling the while a meticulous cigarette. "Well, I suppose you've got the ticket all made up."
"Just about," nodded Rafe.
"What prize did I draw?"
"A large, round goose-egg," Skinny Shindle answered for Rafe with malice.
"Huh!" Thus Mr. Murray, the hand he had reached upward to his hatband coming down without the match. "You serious, Skinny?"
"I wish I thought I wasn't," was the reply.
Jack Murray turned a slow head back toward Rafe Tuckleton. "You told me the sheriff's job was mine," he said bluntly.
"I thought it was," admitted Rafe, looking straight into his eyes. "But we've heard some bad news, unexpected news. It seems you ain't as popular with our citizens as you might be. We understand that you're so little liked you wouldn't be elected in a million years."
"Who told you that?" Jack's tone was sharp.
"I
