“All right,” said I, waxing interested in the point. “Let’s say that Long Buck was wrong. Let’s say that that gang⸺”
“They were no gang,” Tom shot back at me; “they were there to protect the wild life—for you and for me!”
“For me too,” said Brent.
“All right,” I said, undaunted. “Let’s say that Barney Wythe and his associates didn’t knock Mink Havers on the head and get the money. Where is the money, then? It isn’t there in the well. Where is it? What became of it?”
“Did you look under the Victrola when you were up there?” Brent asked soberly.
“How about Havers?” Tom suggested.
“You mean he put something over on his partner?” I shot back. “Let me tell you, if you can defend your game wardens, I can defend my woodsmen; they weren’t that kind and you can chalk that up on your score-board.”
“Maybe we don’t know the whole story,” Tom said. “Three thousand bucks was a lot⸺”
“Oh, it was payment for much stock and service, I suppose,” I said. “I dare say those old hunters let their accounts run up. You don’t think old Buck was a highwayman, do you? They had a lot of rugged honesty, that old race.”
“Law one, a scout is trustworthy,” said Brent.