“I never shot him!” Alex cried out. “I laid my gun down on a chair while I wrestled around with the dog, getting the bag off his head, and some one picked it up and fired! Next time I saw it, it was lying on the floor in front of the door to the side room, and I picked it up.”
“I saw you with it in your hand, a moment after Trumbull fell,” King said. “These men appeared in a moment, and must have seen you there, too.”
“Indeed we did,” Flint cut in.
“But you don’t believe he killed this man?” Clay appealed to King.
“It looks bad!” was the answer. “It looks bad, boys!”
“You’re prejudiced,” Clay said. “You’ve been sneaking around after us ever since we came on the river! You stole on board our boat, too, and tried to rob us. I believe you did the shooting yourself.”
Clay was angry and excited. His eyes flashed and his cheeks flamed as he accused King. The deputy made no direct reply, but stood looking at the revolver and at the prisoners.
“Well, we may as well take the boys to jail,” Ike suggested. “We’ve got a long climb to the top, and some distance to go after that.”
“If the people about here get wind of this cold-blooded murder,” Flint cut in, maliciously, “there may be a necktie party, so you’d better get them in a safe place as soon as possible.
He stared at Clay and Don as he spoke, and finally turned to the sheriff, who was moving closer to the boys, a triumphant look in his eyes.