Pete thrust out his hand. "That goes, Jim."
"Now you're talking sense, Pete. Reckon you better run along and see what the Doc wants. He's waving to you."
Andover sat in his car, drawing on his gloves. "I've arranged to have the horse shipped to me by express. If you don't mind, I wish you would see that he is loaded properly and that he has food and water before the car leaves—that is"—and Andover cleared his throat—"if you're around town tomorrow. The sheriff seems to allow you a pretty free hand—possibly because I assured him that you were not physically fit to—er—ride a horse. Since I saw that bank-book of yours, I've been thinking more about your case. If I were you I would hire the best legal talent in El Paso, and fight that case to a finish. You can pay for it."
"You mean for me to hire a lawyer to tell 'em I didn't kill Sam Brent?"
"Not exactly that—but hire a lawyer to prove to the judge and jury that you didn't kill him."
"Then a fella's got to pay to prove he didn't do somethin' that he's arrested for, and never done?"
"Often enough. And he's lucky if he has the money to do it. Think it over—and let me know how you are getting along. Miss Gray will be interested also."
"All right. Thanks, Doc. I ain't forgittin' you folks."
Andover waved his hand as he swung the car round and swept out of town. Pete watched him as he sped out across the mesa.
Sheriff Owen was standing in the livery-stable door across the street as Pete turned and started toward him. Midway across the street Pete felt a sharp pain shoot through his chest. It seemed as though the air had been suddenly shut from his lungs and that he could neither speak nor breathe. He heard an exclamation and saw Owen coming toward him. Owen, who had seen him stop and sway, was asking a question. A dim blur of faces—an endless journey along a street and up a narrow stairway—and Pete lay staring at yellow wall-paper heavily sprinkled with impossible blue roses. Owen was giving him whiskey—a sip at a time.