"Mistaken pride," flushed Matt, "and it comes from the scurvy way people have treated him here in Phœnix."
"Then that mistaken pride," said the sheriff gravely, "is going to land him in the penitentiary."
"Not if Chub and I can save him!"
"What have you and Chub got to work on?"
"The theory you won't accept—that the real thieves, with another lot of money, are hiding away somewhere, tickled to death to think that you're on the wrong track."
"Matt," and the sheriff came close to the boy and dropped a hand on his shoulder, "you're the clear quill, and I think a heap of you, but you're going it wrong. That Injun was never born who wouldn't steal, and there's enough Injun blood in Tom Clipperton to make him a thief. Come! There's no use beating about the bush; we might just as well call a spade a spade and be done with it. Let the law take its course with Clipperton—you can't stop it."
"I will stop it," declared Matt; "McReady and I will prove that Clipperton is innocent."
"I wish I had a few friends like you," muttered the sheriff.
"Same here," spoke up Fresnay, stepping forward. "Ye don't hold any grouch ag'inst me, do you, Matt?"
"No; you only did what you thought was right. And that's all Tom Clipperton did. All of you will be next to that, one of these days."