“Now why is that?” Caretall asked. “That’s because he’s who he is, I sh’d say.” Amos puffed deep at his black pipe. “Trouble is,” he commented, “Kite wouldn’t take the job. Not after what Wint handed him to-day. You heard that?” Gergue grinned widely. “Yeah. The old buzzard. Say, that surely does hit Kite. The way he holds his head. I’d always thought of a turkey, but I guess a buzzard does it too. Like he was always looking over a wall.” “What I’d like to see,” said Amos, “is some one that would guarantee to give Wint bad advice.” “We-ell,” Peter told him, “I can do some of that.” “Trouble is, there’s others will tell him to do the right thing.” “You talk like James T. Hollow,” said Gergue. “Always trying to do what’s right.” “I wonder,” said Amos casually, “whether them that tell him to keep straight figure he’ll do what they say?” Peter understood that there was something back of the question; he studied Amos’s impassive face. Then he thought for a minute, and nodded his head. “You mean Jack Routt,” he said. “Yes,” the Congressman agreed. Peter considered. “I don’t quite know about Jack,” he said. “He lets on to be Wint’s friend. But he don’t help Wint any. Jack’s got a way of telling Wint to do a thing that works the opposite every darned time.” “I’ve a notion,” said Caretall, “that if Routt was to tell Wint to take care of his health, say, Wint’d go shoot himself, just to be different.” “That’s right,” Gergue agreed; and the two men sat for a time without speaking, their pipes bubbling, the smoke drifting upward lazily. “Question is,” said Caretall at last, “what are we going to do about it?” Gergue made no comment, and Amos asked: “What do you think, Peter?” “I don’t see through Routt,” said Gergue. “I don’t see what he’s got on his mind.” “Looks to me that he’s plain ornery,” Amos suggested. “I guess that’s right.” “But that don’t get us anywheres. I’d like to have him let Wint alone.” “He’d ought to.” “How can we make him let Wint alone?” Amos asked. Peter considered that, fingers rummaging about the back of his head. “Routt’s looking for something,” he said. “Maybe he wants to be prosecuting attorney. Or something. I don’t know.” “He never will be,” said Amos. “I guess that’s right.” “Not as long as I can swing any votes here.” “Question is,” said Peter, “whether he knows you feel that way.” “No,” Amos told him. “He don’t know.” Peter looked sidewise at Amos. “He might be bought,” he suggested. “Or he might be scared. I don’t know. He may be yellow. If he is, you could scare him.” Amos’s pipe went out, and he rapped it into his palm and treasured the charred crumbs to prime his next smoke. “Peter,” he said thoughtfully, “I’d like to see Jack. To-night.” Gergue was a good servant. He got up at once. “All right, Amos,” he said. Caretall went with him to the door. “I’m taking the noon train, to-morrow,” he told Gergue. “I’ll be there,” said Peter.