“Oh, Ben!” sobbed Jerry, likewise sitting up. “Oh, Ben!”
In a moment Pilot bristled and barked savagely at the men, who, however, betrayed no shade of alarm over this demonstration.
“If I hadn’t spied that yaller cur,” said the shorter man of the two, “we might never located them to-day. Nobody we questioned ’round here had seen anything of ’em. You’ve got to give me the credit, sheriff.”
“That’s all right, Hubbard; you’ll git all the credit that’s comin’ to ye, don’t worry.”
Ben had seen both men in Oakdale. The taller was William Pickle, a deputy sheriff; the other Abel Hubbard, a constable. The deputy stooped and fastened a strong hand on Ben’s shoulder.
“Come on,” he ordered. “You took a long walk last night; we’ll give ye a ride to-day.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Goin’ to take ye back to Oakdale, of course.”
“What for? What have I done?”
“I ruther guess you know. You’re a slippery rascal, and you’ve left a record behind ye everywhere you’ve been. Gimme the irons, Hubbard.”