“We think this is your dynamiter, Dad,” Clem stated, calmly. He had had time to compose himself.
“Eh? What makes you think so?”
“Got a lot of reasons, Dad; a lot of evidence against this fellow.”
“So? But what’s the matter with him?”
“Donald shot him. He isn’t much hurt, I guess. But we don’t know. We just brought them along.”
“Hey, Mr. Strang, here, evidently, is a job for you! And we’d better have Doctor Richards here again.”
The town constable clambered out from among the wreckage of the office building where he had been searching for clues and approached. Amid the buzz of remarks and questions he paused long enough to consider and then to become somewhat nettled at what appeared like high-handed proceedings beyond his authority.
“What’s this? You kids make an arrest? Took a lot on yourselves, I’m thinkin’. Eh? Shot this fellow? Hello! You Shultz? Huh! This looks like pretty darned bold business to me. Put down that gun, young fellow!” This to Don.
“You go and sit down will you? Maybe you think I’ve had no use for this.” Don was still seeing red, but with all of his wits working. “Mr. Stapley, you get busy on this; you’re most interested. This gink,” indicating the constable, “couldn’t catch a mudturtle that had robbed a hen roost in the middle of the day. There’s just one thing to do: bring the watchman here.”
“Put up that gun, I tell you!” ordered Strang, starting toward Don.