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Updated: May 7, 2025
"If you'll clamp yore hands behind yore head, Jack, we'll all be the happier. Luke, fish out the knife you wear under yore left armpit, lay it on the floor and kick it into the corner." Luke Tweezy's knife tinkled against the wall at the moment that the sheriff, his deputy, and two other men entered from the street. The third man was Mr. Johnson, the Wells Fargo detective.
While in some ways the murder might be considered sufficiently safe, the method of it and the act itself did not smack of Pooley's handiwork. It was much more probable that the killing was the climax of Luke Tweezy's original plan adhered to by the attorney and his friends against the advice and wishes of Jacob Pooley. "Guess we'd better go on to McFluke's," was Racey's suggestion. They went.
He bought county scrip at a liberal discount and lent his profits to the needy at the highest rate allowed by law. Luke Tweezy's knowledge of what was allowed by territorial law was not limited to money-lending. He had been admitted to the bar, and no case was too small, too large, or too filthy for him to handle. In his dislike of Luke Tweezy Racey Dawson was not solitary.
But he made no attempt to seize his weapon with his left hand. Luke Tweezy picked himself up from the floor where he had thrown himself a split second before the shot. Luke Tweezy's leathery face was mottled yellow with rage. "I'll get you ten years for this!" he squalled, pointing a long arm at Racey. "You started this fight! You tried to murder him!" "Oh, say not so," said Racey.
There was nothing to be gained by remaining in the barn. Tweezy was not badly hurt. Racey, when his boots were on, picked up his hat. At least he thought it was his hat. When he put it on, however, it proved a poor fit. He had taken Tweezy's hat by mistake. He dropped it on the floor and turned to pick up his own where it lay behind the wagon-seat.
Luke Tweezy's thin and sandy eyebrows lifted up in what would pass with almost any one for surprise. "Who?" "Jack Harpe." "Dunno him." Indifferently too indifferently. "You dunno him long, slim feller, black hair and eyes, and a hawky kind of nose? Jack Harpe. Shore you know him. Why, I seen " Racey broke off abruptly. "Yeah," prompted Luke Tweezy after an interval. "You seen what?"
"Yo're yo're lyin'," sputtered Luke Tweezy. "Am I? We'll see. When playin' cards with old Dale didn't work they caught the old man at McFluke's one day and after he'd got in a fight with McFluke and McFluke downed him, they saw their chance to produce a forged release from Dale." "Who did the forging?" broke in the Judge. "I dunno for shore. This here was found in Tweezy's safe."
For as he reached the animal he saw approaching across the flat the figures of a horse and rider. And the man was Luke Tweezy. With the sight of Mrs. Dale's tears fresh in his memory and the rage engendered thereby galvanizing his brain he went to meet Mr. Tweezy. "Howdy, Racey," said the lawyer, pulling up. "Whadda you want?" demanded Racey, halting a scant yard from Luke Tweezy's left leg.
Swing Tunstall, slow in the uptake as usual, perceived nothing beyond the fact that Luke Tweezy had suddenly become a careless spendthrift till halfway down the second bottle when Luke said: "Shore is funny how you thought I knowed this Jack Harpe." "Yuh-yeah," assented Racey, and overset a glass in such a way that four fingers of raw liquor splashed into Luke Tweezy's lap.
But it was almost twice as far from the Tweezy house to the dance hall as it was from the Judge's house to Tweezy's. That was something. Indeed it was a great deal. But he would have to work fast. All the neighbours would come bouncing out at the crash of the explosion. Racey paused to flatten an ear at the kitchen door.
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