Otis, who had regained his composure to some extent by this time, cried out with some display of eagerness:
“Well, there’s one way we can settle this whole thing, Sheriff. Let’s ride over to Gus Bernat’s cabin right now, and if he tells you I wasn’t at his place last night, then I’m willing to go to jail.”
The Sheriff frowned and shook his head.
“No chance, Otis. It’s too far. I’m afraid we’ll have to take you to Jackson under arrest, and investigate the evidence afterward. But I’ll send word to Gus to come to town tomorrow. If his story fits in with yours—well, then it will be up to the prosecuting attorney to decide what to do. Seth, you telephone the coroner. Then we’ll cut that plank out of the floor as evidence, and get started back to town.”
While the deputy was carrying out the Sheriff’s instructions, Otis seated himself at the table, and rolled and lighted a cigarette. He made note of the fact that there was not the slightest tremor in his fingers, and was glad, for he knew his every act was being observed closely, and that evidences of nervousness would not help him.
He had banished the panic which had possessed him at first when he read the dead man’s accusation. Now he reflected that all that was needed to tear asunder the veil of suspicion which enveloped him, was Gus Bernat’s alibi. His spirits rose with the thought, but he did not neglect to study every feature of the room as he waited. For he knew that even though Bernat’s alibi would free him from facing trial, nothing but the discovery of the identity of the real murderer would absolve him from suspicion in the minds of the residents of the community. And there was one person in particular whose regard had come, within the last few days, to mean far more to Otis than he had realized until he had been snared in this trap of Fate.
“All right, Otis, let’s go,” Sheriff Ogden called when the deputy had ripped from the floor the plank containing Joe Fyffe’s dying words. He permitted the door of the ranger cabin to remain unlocked, explaining that the coroner would fasten it after removing the body.
Otis’ chestnut pony, a rugged little mountain animal which had gained the name of “Pie-face” because of the splotched white star between his eyes, turned an inquiring look at the approach of his master. Like all Western saddle-horses, Pie-face had been taught to stand as though hitched as long as his reins were trailing on the ground. As Otis passed the reins over the animal’s head, he threw one arm about the neck of his loyal little mount and patted him affectionately. Here, at least, was one friend who would always believe in him!
“Looks like rain, Sheriff,” Otis drawled with assumed nonchalance. “Look at those clouds rolling over the Tetons. By the way, are you going to use your—er—handcuffs?”