“I’m glad you confess,” Slocum said.
“I didn’t,” said Jimmie.
“Why, yes, you did,” insisted the other. “You admitted setting the fires.”
Jimmie made no reply. Far down in the cañon he saw a glint of flame. It was not a forest fire. It was not even the red light of a campfire or a lantern. The light was white, and the boy knew it for what it was—an electric searchlight, such as Ned always carried on his aeroplane trips.
Slocum did not seem to see the light. His eyes were fixed on the face of the boy he was talking with, although the features did not show very distinctly in the dim light of the night.
“Well, to tell you the truth, we’ve already captured this Ned Nestor,” Slocum added, maliciously, Jimmie thought, “and no doubt my men have also captured those at the camp. Nestor broke a leg in trying to get away, but when he was fairly cornered he confessed everything.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Jimmie.
There was nothing else the boy could say without putting himself in the way of a beating. If he had expressed his opinion of this story no doubt he would have been given physical punishment for his frankness.
“And so,” Slocum smiled, “you may as well continue the confession you began.”
Jimmie recognized this as clumsy work in the third degree, but he did not say so. He was watching the light below. Now it disappeared behind a great rock or tree. Now it came out in the opening again and moved about in a circle.