“What goods?”
“Well, we expect to get ’em when we examine those packs.”
“Look here!” said Custer. “You’re all wrong. I have nothing to do with that pack train or what it’s packing. I came up here to catch the fellows who have been bringing it down through Ganado every Friday night, and who cut our fence last week. I don’t know any more about what’s in those packs than you do—evidently not as much.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Pennington. You’ll probably get a chance to tell all that to a jury. We been laying for you since last spring. We didn’t know it was you until one of your gang squealed; but we knew that this stuff was somewhere in the hills above L. A., and we aimed to get it and you sooner or later.”
“Me?”
“Well, not you particularly, but whoever was bootlegging it. To tell you the truth, I’m plumb surprised to find who it is. I thought all along it was some gang of cheap greasers; but it don’t make no difference who it is to your Uncle Sam.”
“You say some one told you it was I?” asked Custer.
“Sure! How else would we know it? It don’t pay to double-cross your pals, Mr. Pennington.”
“What are you going to do with me?” he asked.
“We’re going to take you back to L. A. and get you held to the Federal grand jury.”