Pete stumbled out of the bank and down the steps to the sidewalk. He was rich—worth twenty-four thousand dollars! But why had The Spider left this money to him? Surely The Spider had had some other friend—or some relative…?
"Step right in," said Sheriff Owen. "You look kind of white. Feeling shaky?"
"Some."
"We want to go to the General Hospital," said the sheriff.
Pete listened to the deliberate plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk of the white mare's large and capable feet as the cab whirred softly along the pavement. "I suppose you'll be takin' me over to Sanborn right soon," he said finally.
"Well, I expect I ought to get back to my family," said the sheriff.
"I didn't kill Sam Brent," asserted Pete.
"I never thought you did," said the sheriff, much to Pete's surprise.
"Then what's the idee of doggin' me around like I was a blame coyote?"
"Because you have been traveling in bad company, son. And some one in that said company killed Sam Brent."