“That’s right,” said Lunt. “The O’Dells hev always been like that. If they tell anything, it’s true—but I ain’t sayin’ as they always tell all that they know. Now Ben here says the girl was alone when he found her, but he ain’t said that he knows she come all the way from French River alone by herself. How about that, Ben?”
“She told me that her father came part way with her,” said Ben.
“How far?” asked the deputy sheriff.
“She didn’t tell me.”
“Well, maybe she’ll tell me.”
“No, she won’t—because you won’t ask her that or anything like it,” said young O’Dell.
“What d’ye mean, I won’t ask her?”
“There you go again!” interrupted Jim McAllister. “Didn’t I tell you that Ben here’s an O’Dell?”
“Well, what about it? I’m the deputy sheriff of this county and O’Dells are nothing to me when I’m in the performance of my duty.”
“Let me try to explain,” said Ben, crimson with embarrassment and the agitation of his fighting blood. “I respect the laws, Mr. Brown, and I observe them. I was taught to respect them. But I was also taught to respect other laws—kinds that you have nothing to do with—officially. Laws of hospitality—that sort of thing. My father was a good citizen—and a good soldier—and I try to do what I think he would do under the same circumstances. So if you attempt to question that—that little girl—my mother’s guest—about her father—whom you’re hunting for a murderer—I’ll consider it my—unpleasant duty to knock the stuffing out of you!”