“You’re Rod Grant, old Aunt Kent’s nevvy, ain’t ye?” questioned the man, coming up.
“I am Rodney Grant, Miss Priscilla Kent’s nephew,” was the calm answer, although the man’s tone and Barker’s appearance forewarned the boy from Texas that something disagreeable was about to take place.
“I’ve got a few questions I want to ax ye, young man, and I advise ye to answer ’em truthfully.”
“Save your advice; I’m not in the habit of lying.”
Barker laughed shortly, sneeringly, and Rod was seized, as he had been scores of times before, by an intense and almost irresistible desire to lay hands on the fellow.
“All right,” said the man. “Now what I want to know fust is this: Did you go out gunnin’ early this morning?”
“Although I consider it none of your business, I’ll answer. I did not.”
“What? You didn’t? Now be keerful. Take keer. You’re li’ble to git yourself into a mess.”
“What’s the game, Mr. Man?” indignantly demanded Rod.
“You’ll find out purty quick. What did you do this morning, if you didn’t go out gunnin’?”