Westy’s one fear was that Luke would speak and spoil everything. For a moment, he seemed on the point of speaking. Probably it was only the sight of his little daughter that deterred him from doing so. It was a moment fraught with peril to Westy’s act. Then, it was too late for Luke to speak and Westy was glad of that.
He was on his way to Chandler between the game warden and the farmer.
“Well, who you be, anyways?” Farmer Sands repeated.
It was Terry, the game warden, who answered him across Westy’s shoulder.
“Why, Ezrie, he’s jus’ one of them wild west shootin’, Indian huntin’, dime novel readin’ youngsters what oughter have some sense flogged inter him. I’d as soon give a boy of mine rat poison to play with as one of these here pesky rifles. It’s a wonder he hit him, but that’s the way fools allus do. What’s your name, kid? You don’t b’long round here?”
Westy, albeit somewhat frightened, was self-possessed and shrewd enough not to beguile his escort with an account of himself.
“I told you all I’m going to,” he added. “I was going through the woods and I saw the deer and killed him. Then, I went through to Barrett’s and I was going to come along this road to Chandler. If I have to be taken to a judge, I’ll tell him more if he makes me. Please take your hand off my shoulder because I’m not going to try to run away.”
“Yer been readin’ Diamond Dick?” asked Farmer Sands, squinting at him with a look of diabolical sagacity.
“No, I haven’t been reading Diamond Dick,” said Westy.
“Wasn’t yer stayin’ up ter Nelson’s place?” the game warden asked.