"He opened it and read it." A smile of amused understanding of her finesse curled Art's lips. "And he stuck it in the pocket of his chaps and went on to wherever he was going." His eyes challenged her impishly.
"And it was from Uncle Carl, you say?"
Art hesitated, and the smile left his lips. "It—it was from Carl, yes. Why?"
"Oh, I just wondered." Jean was wondering why he had stopped smiling, all at once, and why he hesitated. Was he afraid he was going to contradict himself about the day or the errand? Or was he afraid she would ask her Uncle Carl, and find that there was no letter?
"Why don't you ask your dad, if you are so anxious to know all about it?" Art demanded abruptly. "Anyway, that's the last time I was ever over there."
"Ask dad!" Jean's anger flamed out suddenly. "Art Osgood, when I think of dad, I wonder why I don't shoot you! I wonder how you dare sit there and look me in the face. Ask dad! Dad, who is paying with his life and all that's worth while in life, for that murder that you deny—"
"What's that? Paying how?" Art leaned toward her; and now his face was hard and hostile, and so were his eyes.
"Paying! You know how he is paying! Paying in Deer Lodge penitentiary—"
"Who? YOUR FATHER?" Had Art been ready to spring at her and catch her by the throat, he would not have looked much different.
"My father!" Jean's voice broke upon the word. "And you—" She did not attempt to finish the charge.