No, he was sure “leg” had been mentioned. Besides, he himself had seen the blood-stained trousers the man had worn.
“And one doesn’t wear trousers on one’s arms. What does it all mean?” Jerry mused.
He tried to think it out. Clearly, since there was no trace of a bullet wound there could have been no bullet. And, by the same process of reasoning, if there was no bullet there could have been no shot fired at Munson.
“And if there wasn’t a shot there wasn’t the fight he described, and maybe—yes, there was a cattle theft all right.” Jerry was sure of that much, anyhow.
“But why should he fake a wound?” Jerry asked himself. “What object could he have, unless he wanted to make himself out a hero. I guess that must be it. He wanted to prove that he wasn’t afraid of a gun. Well, maybe he isn’t. But this is a queer way to prove it. I give it up!”
A little later as Jerry was sitting out in the sun Munson came limping toward him.
“He’s keeping up the fake,” thought the tall lad. “And he does it well. Limps just about enough, and not as much as at first. He doesn’t forget, either. Must be a good actor.
“How’s the leg?” the boy asked, just to see what would be said.
“Oh, getting on fine!” was the enthusiastic answer. “I’ll be able to leave the bandages off in a couple of days now,” and he motioned to a bulge under his trousers where, evidently, he had wound some cloth, uselessly, as Jerry knew.
“That’s good,” was Jerry’s comment. Then, just to see what the effect would be, he remarked, as though in surprise: