"What time was the shooting?" asked Anton.
"Between a quarter and a half after eight," the sheriff replied coolly, "we know that much fo' sure, any way. And Dan'l can't show an alibi. He says he was in bed. His bed can't give evidence in court. Yo' didn't see him, Anton?"
"No," the boy answered, "I haven't been out of the house since seven o'clock except just to my rain-gauge."
"Well," said the sheriff, yawning, "that's yo' last chance, Dan'l. If Anton had seen yo', there'd have been a witness. But yo' ain't got none and Ole Lindstrom, here, declares that he seen yo' jes' afore it got dark."
"Ah've done nothin'!" the darky declared.
The sheriff kicked the darky's tattered boots across the floor, not unkindly.
"Hyar," he said, "put yo' shoes on. Carl ain't goin' to die, and the jedge won't do much to yo'."
"Ah never done nothin'," the negro protested, but he leant down as he was told, and started to put on his shoes.
One of the shoes had slid close to Anton's feet, almost knocking the crutch out of his hand, and the lad's glance fell on it. He started.
"What time did you say the shooting was done, Mr. Abner?" he asked.