What he was endeavoring to do was make up his mind whether he should tell his daughter how he had captured Billy Gee, confess his perfidy, and send for Mrs. Liggs, or object flatly to her and, thereby, throw himself on the tender mercies of some clerk trained in the subtle art of selling goods; for he realized only too well, that were their little old friend to come, she would lose no time in telling Dot about the sensational capture of the bandit, and how he, Lemuel, had been lionized by the population of Geerusalem. Under other circumstances he would have rather welcomed this, but to have his daughter learn how treacherously he had acted, was something he dreaded. He felt that she would not be able to understand his object back of the act. Again, Mrs. Liggs’ unaccountable treatment of him that morning when he rode into Geerusalem rankled considerably. Of course, he told himself, there was always the possibility that she had not recognized him, for her eyes were not as keen now as he had once known them to be.
So, after finding himself being slowly convinced by Dot almost against his will that they were absolutely dependent on Mrs. Liggs to solve the wardrobe problem for them, he finally yielded to his half-formed notion to tell his daughter everything—except the fact that Billy Gee had threatened his life; for he would not awaken unnecessary fears in her lest she might refuse to attend school.
He cleared his throat presently and said: “I’m goin’ to tell you somepn, Dot—because I’d ruther you heard it from me than an outsider—an’ I want you to forgive me for carin’ more for yore future than for yore opinion of yore old dad.” He paused and glanced anxiously at her. “I ketched Billy Gee as he was leavin’ the barn that night, an’—an’ I c’llected the ten thousand dollars reeward.”
She had been sitting on the arm of his chair, smoothing his thin, gray hair, idly. Now she started suddenly, and a hard gasp escaped her. Rising from her seat, she came around in front of him and stood looking sharply down into his face.
“You turned him over—over to Sheriff Warburton?” she asked hoarsely.
“I did, Dot—to git the money to give you an edjucation. I had to lie to you, much as it hurt. But—but he got away. He jumped off the train an’ they ain’t bin able to find hide or hair of him,” he added, grinning expectantly at her.
“He got away! He got away—again—from Sheriff Warburton!”
“Yeh. An’ plumb disappeared. I bin watchin’ the papers. Poor Bob was so bruck up over losin’ him, he quit the sheriff job.”
She stared intently at him a moment, then threw back her head and laughed aloud—a silvery, daring laugh.
“I’m glad! Oh, I’m so glad!” she cried, a catch in her throat.