Aunt Mira laid down her work and stared at Westy. Ira removed his pipe and looked at him keenly yet somewhat amusedly. Aunt Mira’s look was one of blank incredulity. Ira could not be so easily jarred out of his accustomed calm.
“Where’d yer shoot ’im?” he asked.
“In the woods,” said Westy; “in—in—do you mean where—what part of him? In his head.”
“Plunked ’im good, huh? Ye’ll have Terry after you, then you’ll have ter give ’im ten bucks to hush the matter up. Just couldn’t resist, huh?”
“Ira, you keep still,” commanded Aunt Mira, concentrating her attention on Westy. “What do you mean tellin’ such nonsense?” she questioned.
“I mean just that,” said Westy; “that I killed a deer and I did it because I wanted to. Then I went through the woods to Barrett’s because I decided to go to Chandler that way, and while I was talking to a man there the game warden and another man came along because they must have been—they must have known about it or something.
“Anyway, I told them I did it—killed the deer. So then I got arrested and they took me to Chandler and the judge or justice of the peace or whatever they call him, he said I had to pay a hundred dollars, so I did. I’ve got enough left to get home with, all right. But anyway, I didn’t want you to hear about it because I wanted to tell you myself. I’ve got to stand the blame because I killed him and so that’s all there is to it.”
It was fortunate for Westy that Aunt Mira was too dumfounded for words. As for Ira, his face was a study during the boy’s recital. He watched Westy shrewdly, now and then with a little glint of amusement in his eye as the young sportsman stumbled along with his boyish confession. Only once did he speak and that was when the boy had finished.
“Who was the man you was talkin’ with in Barrett’s, kid?”
“His name is Meadows,” Westy answered.