“Well, I’m telling you what people say. If I were you--you’re a public official, you know, in the public eye--I’d be careful. Tell your mother to get rid of her. Safest thing to do.” “I’m not looking for safe things to do.” Wint liked the defiant sound of that. Routt nodded. “I’d be worried, if it was me. That’s all.” “I’m not worried,” said Wint. “Hetty’s all right. And if she weren’t--I don’t propose to be scared.” “We-ell, it’s your funeral,” Routt told him. Wint laughed. “I guess it’s not as bad as that. It’s almost twelve. I’m going home.” CHAPTER XI FIRST BLOOD It was upon the carnival that Wint was to score first blood in his fight to clean up Hardiston. Mike Rand, carnival boss, was a hard man, willing to take a chance, afraid only of being bluffed. So he took Wint’s warning as a challenge. Nevertheless, for the sake of making things as sure as might be, he went to see V. R. Kite. He and Kite had known and understood each other for a good many years. He dropped in to see Kite Tuesday morning; and the little man remembered his church connections and his outward respectability, and worried for fear some one had seen Rand come in. His worry took the form of resentment at Rand’s imprudence. “Ought to be more careful,” he protested. “Have more sense, man. I have to watch myself in this town. Don’t you know that? I have a position to keep up. You’re all right, of course.” This as Rand’s eyes hardened in a stare that made Kite wince. “But I can’t afford to be hitched up with you openly. It wouldn’t do either of us any good.” Rand said dryly: “You don’t need to worry about me. I can stand it.” “I can be useful to you now, whereas my usefulness would be gone if I were less respected.” “Respected, hell!” said Rand without emotion. “Don’t they call you ‘The Buzzard’ around here? I’ve heard so. That don’t sound respectful.” “That’s a jest,” said Kite. “Nothing more.” “Pinned on you by this shrimp Mayor, wasn’t it?” “Yes. Good-naturedly. He was drunk.” “Drunk? Him?” Rand lifted his hands in pious horror. “I thought he was one of these ‘lips-that-touch-liquor-shall-never-touch-mine’ guys, to hear him talk.” “He’s not drinking now; not openly. He was a sot, a few months ago. Dead drunk in the Weaver House, the night he was elected Mayor. I saw him there.” Rand drawled: “I’ll say this is some town.” He leaned forward. “What I want to know is: how about this booze? He serves notice on me that I’m responsible if any’s sold. How about it? Will he go through? Or is it a bluff?” Kite considered. “I don’t know,” he said. “Has he shut you down?” “He gave us orders not to sell; and we’re not selling. But we’re not idle. We’re preparing to spring a mine under that man.” “He’s got you bluffed.” Kite’s face twisted with a sudden rush of fury. “I tell you, we’re going to destroy him--blast him!--in our own good time.” Rand studied the little man; then he nodded. “Well, that’s all right. Just the same, he’s got you shut down.” “Yes.”