The Rider of Golden Bar. William Patterson White

      "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 fourteen 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