"Oh!" mumbled Len, and he shrunk away in fear.
"I won't touch you—at least not now—if you don't try any more of your underhand work," promised Dave. "But I'm going to converse with you right here and now. Why did you cut the posts of our special corral? Answer me that!"
"I didn't cut any posts!" was the sullen answer.
"You didn't; eh? Well, I think you did, and I'll prove it too, sooner or later. What are you hanging around here for now?"
"Isn't this a free range? Haven't I a right to ride it if I want to?"
"Yes, you have, but you must have some object in it, and I believe you want to see our cattle stampede. But I fooled you that time, Len Molick, and I'll fool you again. Now I want to know something else. Is Whitey Wasson the only one who told you I—that I wasn't Mr. Carson's son?"
For the life of him Dave could not help the falter that crept into his voice.
"Yes; he's the only one who told me," was Len's sullen answer.
"How did he find out about it?"
"Huh! How should I know? Ask him!"