“I’m not!” objected the fat boy indignantly.
“So? Mebby he is your horse, eh?”
Stacy admitted that it was not his horse.
“Where did you get him?” snapped the rancher.
“I helped myself to him—took him because I wanted to get away from a bunch of ruffians.”
“Where was that?”
Stacy said he didn’t know, but that it was in the mountains on the edge of a red gulch, and further admitted that he didn’t know much about the country there and would feel fully as well satisfied if he didn’t know as much as he did.
“What’s your name?”
“Name’s Brown. What’s yours?”
“I am William Crawley, the owner of this ranch, and the pony you are on is my property. I don’t suppose there is any use in questioning you, for a fellow who will rustle horses will lie as well as steal. I’ll hear what you have to say, however.”