The officer looked at him thoughtfully. “Bluff? I’m quite smart at it myself,” he said.
“No,” and Witham shook his head. “It’s a straight question. I want to know.”
“Well,” said the other, “it couldn’t do much harm if I told you. You were running whisky a little while ago, and, though the folks didn’t seem to suspect it, you had a farmer or a rancher for a partner—it appears he has mixed up things for you.”
“Witham?” and the farmer turned to roll the cigar which did not need it between his fingers.
“That’s the man,” said his companion. “Well, though I guess it’s no news to you, the police came down upon your friends at a river-crossing, and farmer Witham put a bullet into a young trooper, Shannon, I fancy.”
Witham sat upright, and the blood that surged to his forehead sank from it suddenly, and left his face grey with anger.
“Good Lord!” he said hoarsely. “He killed him?”
“Yes, sir,” said the officer, “Killing’s not quite the word, because one shot would have been enough to free him of the lad, and the rancher fired twice into him. They figured, from the way the trooper was lying and the footprints, that he meant to finish him.”
The farmer’s face was very grim as he said, “They were sure it was Witham?”
“Yes,” and the soldier watched him curiously. “Anyway, they were sure of his horse, and it was Witham’s rifle. Another trooper nearly got him, and he left it behind him. It wasn’t killing, for the trooper don’t seem to have had a show at all, and I’m glad to see it makes you kind of sick. Only that one of the troopers allows he was trailing you at a time which shows you had no hand in the thing, you wouldn’t be sitting there smoking that cigar.”