He passed the photograph to the Sheriff, who glanced at it, whistled softly, and passed it on to Sterling Carr. Others in the room crowded about him, eager for a sight of the picture.
Sterling Carr glanced sternly at Otis.
“Son, this picture shows you!”
“Sure, that’s Otis!” came the bewildered tones from those crowded about the picture.
“Looks like you, all right,” the Sheriff said to Otis.
Otis smiled indulgently.
“That’s what Joe Fyffe thought, too,” he remarked. “He got one glance at the man, and thought it was me. That’s why he wrote on the floor that I killed him. He died thinking I was his murderer.
“And can you blame him? Look at that hat. Just like mine. Look at that vest. Just like mine. Pants the same. Boots the same. Build the same as mine. Horse looks a lot like Pie-face.
“All right. We’ll let that ride for a minute. Let’s get back to the rustling. No one ever saw the rustler, did he? No.