“Mine!” Freel said. “What fool notion are you working on now?”
“I’m not working—just resting,” said Bart. “Here you come with all this patter about how you’ve befriended me by not having me jailed for something you did yourself. That’s real generosity. Maybe it’s never occurred to you that I recognized the four of you when you came riding up on me that night when Noll tried his damnedest to kill me.”
Freel’s apprehension increased but he remained silent until Bart had finished.
“If I start remarking broadcast about that little event just how long do you imagine it would take folks to divine where the four of you had come from?” Bart inquired. “A few minutes back you was reciting about what a high place you’d attained in human affairs. Keep right on mounting—only keep it in mind that some day when time hangs heavy and I’m craving entertainment I’ll pull out your props and let you down hard.”
He turned his back on Freel and retired to the house. Freel returned to Oval Springs and sought a hasty conference with the mayor and the president of the bank. He was palpably nervous as he recounted the details of this complication.
“Get hold of yourself!” Wellman ordered. “You’re jumpy. What does it signify anyhow? One man’s wild yarn about hearing your voice in the dark wouldn’t even shake that alibi. It’s water-tight.”
Crowfoot nodded agreement and chewed placidly at his cigar. He could face such a situation without turning a hair—as could Wellman.
“Bart’s in no shape to do any commenting,” Crowfoot amplified.
“But I tell you he will,” Freel insisted.
“Sit down,” Wellman instructed. “Plant yourself in a chair and quit prowling in circles. You’ll wear out the rug.”