“Thanks,” said Rod, with a short laugh. “Most persons have right good reasons for their acts, and this was true in my case. I’m going to look for Spotty at his home now. Will you come along?”
“Guess I will, though you’ve got me guessin’ why you want to see him so bad.”
“If I get a chance to talk with him to-night, perhaps you’ll find out.”
But at the home of Davis they were informed by the boy’s mother that he had not returned from the village. They waited a while outside the house, only to be disappointed by the failure of Spotty to put in an appearance. Finally Rod said:
“I’ll see him to-morrow; it will give me more time to think the matter over.”
Still wondering why Grant was so earnestly desirous to see Davis, Bunk bade him good night and they separated.
Ere Rod slept that night he spent a long time thinking the matter over and planning out a diplomatic method of handling Spotty and getting the exact truth from him; for somehow he felt strangely confident that the fellow could clear up the mystery connected with the shooting of Silver Tongue.
Shortly after nine o’clock Sunday morning the boy from Texas again knocked at the door of Davis’ home. Mrs. Davis, a thin, care-worn, slatternly woman, answered that knock and informed him that Spotty was still in bed.
“He ain’t very well this morning; he says he’s sick,” she explained. “He wouldn’t git up to eat no breakfast.”
“I’d like very much to see him for a few minutes, Mrs. Davis,” urged Rod. “Can’t I do so?”