"Last week. Come on, Jess."
"Say, are you crazy?"
"Then I am," Jess spat decisively. "Not a mile from this heah gate I seen Tusk no moh'n half hour ago! When I hollered at 'im, he ducked an' run!"
Dale's tongue went again to his lips. He stared at the sheriff with about as much surprise as the sheriff was staring at him. Finally he said:
"I must a-missed 'im. Ruth was lookin' at me, an' maybe that throwed me off. But, anyhow, you want me for killin' Bill Whitly nine year ago!"
The sheriff's jaws dropped.
"Say," he whispered, "what you tryin' to do—commit suicide? or write yohse'f a invite to the pen?"
"I ain't hankerin' for neither," Dale answered in a dejected voice.
"Wall, you're hankerin' for somethin', that's a fac'! You jest shet up with them ghost stories! The Cunnel don't want nothin' like that, scarin' the wimmin-folks! I wa'n't sheriff nine year ago, no-how," he thoughtfully fingered his chin, "an' I reckon if the statters of limintation was looked up we'd find they'd done run out on that old fracas."