"So he was. But, Tom, I've made up my mind that you're innocent. It's going to be dreadful hard to prove it."
"But how was he killed?" demanded Tom.
"With buckshot."
Tom stood and mused a minute.
"Now tell me who says I did the shooting."
"I never heard of him before. Sovine, I believe his name is."
"Dave Sovine? W'y, he's the son of old Bill Sovine; he's the boy that ran off four years ago, don't you remember? He's the black-leg that won all my money. What does he want to get me hanged for? I paid him all I owed him."
Lincoln hardly appeared to hear what Tom was saying; he sat now with his eyes fixed on the grating, lost in thought.
"Tom," he said at length, "who was that strapping big knock-down fellow that used to be about your place—hunter, fisherman, fist-fighter, and all that?"
"Do you mean Bob McCord?"