Part 68 (1/2)

”North?”

”Yeah, couldn't stand the climate in Arizona, he said,” amplified Tommy, loosening the knot. ”Git up, feller, pull your freight. Life's sure funny. I'll bet that calf's the first Daley ran our iron on. He only joined the outfit last week. Let's go see if I know the other feller.”

Since the place where the dead man lay was on their back trail, they went with Tommy, the TU boy.

”Sure, I know him,” declared Tommy, after one look at the dead face.

”He's named Brindley--been with the Horseshoe since February.”

Which simple statement explained the presence of Skinny s.h.i.+ndle, but left Jack Murray completely to the imagination. After all, decided Billy, Jack Murray did not matter, and promptly forgot him. Had he known how important a place the slippery Mr. Murray actually held in the scheme of things, he, Billy Wingo, would not have been so casual.

”We gotta make a heap of trail,” said Dawson to Billy, when Tommy had departed in suspicious haste. ”That d.a.m.n Tommy is going to the ranch for the rest of his bunch. First thing we know we'll lose our prisoner.”

”Don't hurry on my account,” said the sardonic Slike. ”If I gotta be hung, lemme be hung and no fuss about it. I don't want to ride all the way north again.”

”We need you, Dan,” said Billy briefly. ”No hanging goes yet a while.”

Forthwith they began to ”make a heap of trail.” It may as well be said at once that they saw no further signs of Tommy or any other of the TU boys.

Toward dawn next day the horses showed signs of tiring. ”Mine won't last another five miles,” said Johnny Dawson.

”This is as good a place as any,” said Billy briefly. ”We'll stop here.”

They dismounted Slike and stripped and hobbled the horses. Slike had not enjoyed the long night ride. He was disposed to be peevish. ”I want a smoke,” he demanded.

Billy ceased pounding coffee and fixed him with a hard eye. ”You won't get it,” he said shortly.

”h.e.l.luva way to treat a prisoner,” snarled Slike. ”You done better by me when I was in jail.”

”Lots of things have happened since. But don't you fret. I'll give you what you deserve in about five minutes. I missed out on it yesterday, but I'll try to see you don't lose anything by the delay.”

”Huh?” puzzled Slike.

”You remember going to Miss Walton's ranch,” elaborated Billy in a cold, monotonous tone. ”You beat her.”

”h.e.l.l, nothin' to that. I only pulled her hair a few times and slammed her once or twice.”

”You kicked her, too.”

”Not hard, though. Besides, I had to. She was stubborn. My Gawd, you wouldn't begin to believe how stubborn that girl was!”

Billy laid aside the rock with which he had been pounding coffee. ”I guess the coffee can wait better than I can.”

He stood up limberly and unbuckled his cartridge belt and dropped it beside Johnny Dawson, who was slicing bacon. Then he crossed to Slike and untied the knots of the rope that bound him. Slike stretched his arms and legs but made no offer to rise. Billy nudged him in the ribs with the toe of his boot.

”What's that for?” roared Slike, scrambling to his feet.

”I'm going to give you the best licking you ever got. You've had it coming a long time, and now you're going to get it.”

”Is that so?” sneered Slike. ”Is that so? You expecting to do all this without help?”

Fists doubled, Billy started for Slike. The latter side-stepped and feinted Billy into a position between himself and Dawson. Slike crouched. His right hand flashed downward. The fingers fumbled at his bootleg. Billy ran in, expecting to beat Slike flat.