“What was you doin’ in that tree?”
“Come!” cried Denton, and he produced a revolver. “I know who you are, all right. You’re not from the town, and that’s proof to me that you’re one of Panther Pete’s men. Admit it, or I put a bullet through you.”
Hatfield squirmed; then said, with seeming reluctance:
“Well, what you goin’ to do about it? I am one o’ them fellers, but——”
“Ah, I knew it! And you were doing what, up in that tree?”
“I seen ye comin’, and jest shinned up there ter keep ye frum seein’ me. And say”—he turned to Deland—“what was that thing you shot at me, anyhow?”
“That was a rain bomb,” said Deland proudly. “Young man, I didn’t shoot it at ye, but you were permitted to see then a marvelous exhibition; an effort to bring rain from rainless clouds, and a successful one, too; for, see!” He held out his hand. “It’s sprinkling; and it’s been dry as a bone in this country since about the year one. Now, ain’t that so?”
Denton still held the revolver ready cocked, and again he pointed it at the rascal’s head.
“You know where Panther Pete has his lair. You’ll tell us, or down you go.”
The rascal wriggled and squirmed. Yet this was the thing he wanted.