“I don’t know why the sheriff thinks I can identity the thief.”
“Ther feller claims ter be a pard o’ your’n.”
“My pards are not drawn from that class.”
“That’s what we all reckoned, but the feller insists that you come over an’ see him.”
“I’ll go, of course,” said the scout, “but I haven’t the least idea I’ll be able to establish the thief’s identity. He’s bluffing, for some reason or other.”
The scout followed the deputy into the hotel, down the stairs, and out upon the street. Nomad and Little Cayuse trailed along behind.
Across the street was Court-house Square. The little party crossed the square, passed along a graveled walk bordered with oleanders and overhung with the branches of pepper-trees, and presently reached the court-house steps.
The sheriff’s office was in the front of the building.
As the scout and his friends entered the office they beheld a little group of men consisting of Rising, the sheriff, McGowan, the mine-owner, and two other white men, all grouped about some one who was sitting in a chair.
“Hello, Cody,” called Rising, stepping forward and grasping the scout’s hand.