It was Bill himself who named the date, snapping the words out with a savage click of the teeth.
CHAPTER XIII
A CLEVER IDEA
Halting, hating to set down in plain words the full extent of his guilt, driven to it by the relentless promptings of Bill, Jack Huntley wrote three precious pages, that would make interesting reading for the county officials, before he signed his name. Abington saw the teary warning of the pen going dry and dropping blots on the book, and signed his name as a witness before all the ink ran out. The thing was done.
Bill threw back his shoulders with an unconscious gesture of relief, and stepped away. “Now, die and be damned to you!” he said as he turned his back and walked off.
Abington looked after him grinning. “This is where he holes up, Bill. He should have a pretty fair equipment. Better explore around a little. I have carbide tied up in my handkerchief, if you need the lamp. But the place seems well lighted from above.”
“Yeah, I’m sure goin’ to look around. I believe he’s the one poisoned our burros. I bet—”
Abington looked up, got to his feet and started toward Bill, who had given a sudden bellowing whoop.
“Well, the hound!” Bill was balancing two large mescal stalks in his hands. Light they were as cork, tough as bamboo, large at the base as Bill’s muscular leg above the knee. Three feet from the base of each was a foot rest, lashed securely to the stalk.
“There’s the gosh-awful!” Bill said in the incredulous tone of one who can scarcely believe his own eyes. “Look at how them sticks is cut on the bottom, professor! Sheep hoofs to a T. Stilts! And that’s how the thing took such long steps and got over the country so almighty mysterious!”
“Ingenious!” Abington declared, balancing the stilts in his hands before he stood them against the wall of the cave. “Simple, too. I had a suspicion of some such thing, but dismissed it as impractical in so rough a country.”