“I know I am; but that’s just the way I should have acted if I was him,” returned Elam, who began to see that he had made a mistake in claiming to know the man. “I said his name was Coyote Bill, an’ I struck centre when I did it.”
“Mr. Davenport gave us the secret history of that pocket-book, and wanted Tom and me to swear to what he told us,” I interposed, fearing that things were going a trifle too far. “That man tried to hire me to steal that pocket-book to-night, and that was the way Elam came to get a shot at him.”
“I didn’t get nary a shot at him,” exclaimed Elam. “I pulled onto him an’ he struck up my arm.”
“Let us go in and talk to Mr. Davenport about it,” said I, seeing that all I said was Greek to the cowboys. “He will tell you as much of the story as I can.”
“Did you know anything about this, Bob?” asked Frank.
“Not a word. I am as surprised as you are to hear it,” said Bob.
“Coyote Bill!” said Lem, gazing into the woods as if he had half a mind to go in pursuit of the man. “What reason have you for calling him that?”
“Because that’s the way I should have acted if I was him,” answered Elam.
“It wouldn’t pay to go after him,” said Frank. “He has laid down behind a tree and can see everything we do. Let’s go in and talk to the old man about it.”
All this conversation was crowded into a very short space of time. We hadn’t been out there two minutes before we decided that it would be a waste of time to pursue the outlaw, and that we had better go in and see what Mr. Davenport had to say about it, and I for one was very glad to get away from his bunk. Of course Bill was in ambush out there, and how did I know but that he had a bead drawn on me at that very moment? We followed the cowboys into the house, and we found Mr. Davenport sitting up on the edge of his bed.