“You can do your explaining in jail,” retorted the sheriff. “No big-town gunman is going to run another trick on me.”
The last words were said with grim determination and Bob saw the sheriff’s jaw muscles tighten.
“Turn up the lapel of my coat and you’ll find that you’re making a mistake,” pressed Bob. “I’m an agent of the bureau of investigation of the United States Department of Justice.”
“You’re just a kid,” scoffed the older officer.
“Turn up the lapel of my coat and see what’s there. This thing has gone far enough,” insisted Bob.
There was something in Bob’s voice which forced the sheriff to act and he reached over cautiously and turned up the lapel of Bob’s coat. The small badge which was revealed there brought an instant change in his attitude and he lowered the gun which he held in his hands.
“Looks like I’ve made a bad mistake,” he said. “I’m sorry, but after what I’ve been through you can’t blame me.”
The sheriff, who introduced himself as Abel McCurdy, handed the gun back to Bob and the federal agent, after breaking open the gun and looking at the chambers, returned it to his shoulder holster.
“What’s happened?” asked Bob, for he recalled that only a minute earlier the sheriff hinted at some trick of which he had been the victim.
“Oh, it’s kind of a crazy story and I don’t suppose it would interest a federal man,” replied the older officer.