“Well, Luke,” said the game warden, “seems like you got some explainin’ to do this time. What was you doin’ in the woods? Killin’ another deer, hey? When was you goin’ back to get him, Luke? Better get your hat, Luke, and come along with us. Farmer Sands here seen you comin’ out through the back fields——”
Then the little girl interrupted the game warden’s talk by rushing pell-mell to her father. Luke put his big, brown hand about her and then Westy noticed that his forearm was tattooed with the figure of a buffalo.
“You run along over t’ Missie Ellis,” said Luke, “and she’ll show yer them pictur’ books; you run like——”
Here he arose, slowly, deliberately, as if with the one action to dismiss her and place himself in the hands of the law. Then, suddenly, he lifted her up and kissed her. In all the long time that Westy was destined to know Luke Meadows, this was the only occasion on which he was ever to see him act on impulse.
But Westy Martin’s impulse was still quicker. Before the little child was down upon the ground again he spoke, and his own voice sounded strange to him as he saw the gaping loiterers all about, and the astonished gaze of Terry, the game warden. In the boy’s trousers pocket (which is the safe deposit vault pocket with boys) his sweaty palm clutched the hundred and three dollars which he was taking home to save for his trip to the Yellowstone He had kept one hand about it almost ever since he left the farm, till his very hand smelled like the roll of bills. But he clutched it even more tightly now. His voice was not as sure as that unseen clutch.
“If you’re hunting for the fellow who killed the deer over in the woods,” he said, “then here I am. I’m the one that killed the deer and—and if—if you’re going to take—arrest—anybody you’d better arrest me—because I’m the one that did it. I killed the deer—I admit it. So you better arrest me.”
For a few seconds no one spoke. Then, and it seems odd when you come to think of it, the dog pulled the leash clean out of Terry the game warden’s hand, and began climbing up on Westy and licking his hand....
CHAPTER XII
GUILTY
He took his stand upon the simple confession that it was he who had killed the deer. He knew that he could not say more without saying too much. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not make him say more. Fortunately, he did not have to say more, or much more, because Farmer Sands availed himself of the occasion to preach a homily on the evil of boys carrying firearms.
“Who you be, anyways?” he demanded shrewdly.