Part 5 (1/2)
”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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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 s.h.i.+rt.”
”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 s.h.i.+ndle 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 dispa.s.sionate voice, ”what I said to Rafe, I say to you: Hands off Tom Walton.”
”Oh, all right,” said Skinny s.h.i.+ndle, ”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.”