“Don’t worry about that for a minute, Jim. I haven’t done anything. It’s just a big mistake.”
The officers and their prisoner were in the car ready to start. The marshal pointed a finger at Jim.
“Don’t forget what I told you about keeping your mouth shut until morning,” he admonished.
They drove off toward Los Angeles. Jim watched them for a moment, as the red tail light diminished in the distance. Then he turned into the office of his feed barn and took the telephone receiver from its hook. “Gimme Ganado No. 1,” he said to the sleepy night operator.
It was five minutes before continuous ringing brought the colonel to the extension telephone in his bedroom. He seemed unable to comprehend the meaning of what Jim was trying to tell him, so sure was he that Custer was in bed and asleep in a near-by room; but at last he was half convinced, for he had known Jim for many years, and well knew his stability and his friendship.
“If it was anybody but you, Jim, I’d say you were a damned liar,” he commented in characteristic manner; “but what in hell did they take the boy for?”
“They wouldn’t say. Just as I told ’em. I don’t know what he done, but I know he never done it.”
“You’re right, Jim—my boy couldn’t do a crooked thing!”
“I’m just like you, colonel—I know there ain’t a crooked hair in Cus Pennington’s head. If there’s anything I can do, colonel, you jest let me know.”
“You’ll bring the Apache up in the morning? Thank you again, Jim, and good-by.”