“How do ye figure that?” he said at last.
Bud was silent a few moments, and in each one of these he became more angry. Finally, he burst out in his indignation.
“I ain’t blamin’ Lafe,” he said, “but he talked pretty raw to Mrs. Zecatacas last night, and she handed it right back. An’ gypsy-like she talked about hard luck and trouble and things like that ’til Lafe kind o’ got cold feet on reskin’ anything to-day. That’s what I think anyway. Now he’s home in bed, sick or scared or both. An’ when he told his father about what took place out here, the Judge didn’t do a thing but fake up this complaint just to get even. He’s sore because I’ve got the chance an’ Lafe ain’t. I didn’t expect to do no knockin’, but that’s just the way it’ll all figure out. You can take it right straight from me.”
The Chief looked knowingly at Bud, and then closed one eye.
“Bein’ an officer o’ the law, I ain’t takin’ sides an’ I don’t have no opinion. But I heerd what you said. Come on, old lady.”
Madame Zecatacas straightened up and glared at the policeman. Bud stepped over and patted her on the shoulder.
“You can’t get out of it—now—Mrs. Zecatacas. Go along quietly, and if you want me for a witness or any of the men who were here last night, you tell Mr. Marsh. I’ll come and testify for you.”
The gypsy caught his hands in hers, pressed them, and then with a swift movement laid two brown fingers on Bud’s forehead. With another swift motion, she pointed to the aeroplane and exclaimed:
“The Gypsy Queen gives you good luck.”