“What’s happened?” repeated Frank. “Where?”
“In Ophir. Hasn’t something happened there recently?”
“Two things have happened,” spoke up Blunt, his face dark with doubt and suspicion of Lenning. “One happened yesterday and the other this morning. You borrowed a horse from Burke and went for a long ride—but you didn’t come back. Then——”
“I’ll tell you about that,” broke in Lenning eagerly. “What happened this morning?”
“The stage from Gold Hill was held up.”
“That’s it, that’s it,” Lenning half whispered, dropping a trembling hand on the cowboy’s arm. “Do they think I had anything to do with holding up the stage? That’s what I want to know.”
Blunt studied the haggard face before him and looked into the shifty, dark eyes. His voice was less hard as he went on.
“There were two of the robbers, and one of them looked like you, Lenning. What’s more, he rode a horse that answers the description of Burke’s.”
Lenning struck his hands together sharply.
“So that’s what he tried to do!” he muttered fiercely; “that was his game all along! Isn’t there any chance at all for a fellow who wants to do right—who’s trying to clear his record? I suppose, now, that everybody thinks Jode Lenning is up to his old tricks, and was one of those who robbed the stage?” Lifting himself high above the bowlders, Lenning looked up and down the cañon. “I wish they’d come!” he gritted. “Why can’t they come now?”