"Hello, boys! Off on a hunting trip?" he asked affably. "Get down and have a drink."
"We're after you, Jim," said Graham bluntly. "Three-fingered Jack split on the gang."
Glendon started in surprise. "What the Dickens are you talking about. What have I to do with Three-fingered Jack? You must be joking!" He regarded them so frankly that they wondered uncomfortably whether the dead man had told the tale in spite, as Glendon hastened to suggest.
"I had trouble with Jack over two months ago, and I suppose this is his way of getting even with me."
"He said you were with them on the first hold-up, and that they were to bring the loot to you this time for you to take care of for them. I guess it's up to you to go quietly, Jim. We don't go much on what he said, but we can't help ourselves."
"It's a fine proposition when a man stays home and minds his own business, then finds he's accused of being mixed in a thing like this," Glendon spoke indignantly. "I bet Three-fingered Jack won't repeat that story to my face."
"No he won't, Jim;" returned Graham quietly. "He's dead. He made his statement when he knew he was dying, and called the posse to witness what he said. He shot the express messenger;—got a load of buckshot himself."
Glendon shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "Oh, well, I suppose I've got to go, but you're on the wrong trail this time, boys. I haven't been away from home for over a month, as my wife can tell you."
He turned toward the house as though to call for corroboration.
"No use dragging Mrs. Glendon into it," said Limber, quickly. "I guess you can get other witnesses outside of her, if you need 'em Jim. It ain't the sort of thing for any woman to be mixed up in, and we don't want to make it harder for her than we have to."