"Are you broke?"
"N—no! I wasn't yesterday. I am now." In a few sentences Pierce made known the facts of his recent loss, and pointed to Jim McCaskey's bandaged head.
When the elder brother had concluded, the Countess again addressed the meeting. "You men take it for granted that Phillips did the stealing because he needed grub," said she. "As a matter of fact he wasn't broke, he had a thousand dollars, and—"
"Say! Who hired you to argue this case?" It was Jim McCaskey speaking.
He had edged his way forward and was scowling darkly at the woman.
"What's the idea, anyhow? Are you stuck on this kid?"
The Countess Courteau eyed her interrogator coolly, her cheeks maintained their even coloring, her eyes were as icy blue as ever. It was plain that she was in no wise embarrassed by his insinuation.
Very quietly she said: "I'll tell you whether I am if you'll tell me who got his thousand dollars. Was it your brother?" Jim McCaskey recoiled; his face whitened. "Who hit you over the head?" the woman persisted. "Did he?"
"That's none of your business," Jim shouted. "I want to know what you're doing in this case. You say the kid was in Linderman last night. Well, I say—you're a—! How d'you know he was there? How d'you know he didn't steal that rice before he left, for that matter?"
"I know he was in Linderman because I was with him."
"With him? All night?" The speaker grinned insultingly.
"Yes, all night. I slept in the same tent with him and—"