“I think that’s sufficient, Mr. Pickle,” he said, addressing the man. “You’ve done very well.”
“Jest wait a minute,” advised the man, holding up his hand; “I ain’t quite through yet.” He turned, with a manner intended to be impressive and awesome, upon Rod. “My name is William Pickle,” he announced, “and I’m the deputy sheriff of this town.”
If he expected that this statement would cause the young Texan to quail or betray alarm, disappointment was his portion, for Rod remained wholly self-possessed and undisturbed.
“Permit me, Mr. Pickle,” he said earnestly, “to inquire how my handkerchief came into your possession. I sure think it’s about time you answered a few of my questions.”
“You sometimes wear that handkercher tied round your neck when you’re out gunnin’—or fishin’—don’t ye?”
“I may have done so,” admitted Rodney; “but you haven’t answered my question. How did you come to have it?”
“’Twas found this mornin’ over on Andrew Dodd’s land, back of Turkey Hill. I guess you must have lost it there, didn’t ye?”
“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m right certain I did not, for I don’t remember having it with me to-day. I don’t know precisely where Andrew Dodd’s land is located, but unless it takes in the swamp west of Turkey Hill I was not on his land to-day. I’m right curious to know what you’re driving at, Mr. Pickle, and I opine it’s about time for you to come out open and frank, so that I may get your drift.”
“I cal’late, young feller, you’d better come down to Lawyer Frances’ office with us and settle up with young Barker for killin’ his hound which you shot this mornin’.”
It was out at last. Grant, still completely self-possessed, looked the officer straight in the eyes.