"Whose game?" asked Pocus Pete.
"Len's! That's why he wouldn't stop to help me. He had been here sawing through the posts so our best bunch of cattle would get out and be spoiled. The hound! Wait until I get hold of him!"
"Better go a bit slow," advised Pocus Pete, in his drawling tones.
"Slow! What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean it isn't a good thing t' go around makin' accusations like that, without somethin' t' back 'em up. In this country you've got t' back up what you say, Dave."
"I know that, but—"
"An' what evidence have you got that Len did this mean trick? For mean trick it is, as shore as guns is guns. What evidence have you?"
"Why, didn't I see him riding away as fast as his horse could gallop just a little while ago?"
"Well, s'posin' you did. That's no evidence in a court of law. You didn't see him saw the posts; did you?"
"No, of course not. But look! Here's some fresh sawdust on the ground! The posts have been sawed within a few hours—perhaps even inside an hour. Maybe just before I came." Dave pointed to the moist earth under some of the splintered posts and boards. There was the fine sawdust where it had been preserved from the trampling hoofs of the steers.