“Jerry Simpson’s son, from down on Bent Brook.”
“That’s right, Mr. McAllister.”
“I know yer father well. Smart man, Jerry Simpson. You look like him. Now about the hurry I’m in. There’s a sick man out at the O’Dell house and I’ve got to get out to him with Doctor Scott. He’s the man poor Mel Lunt’s got the warrant out for. Mel’s crazy. I’ve got Mel cold—and old Hood too—for toting rifles and ball ca’tridges through the woods in close season. There’s nothing against Sherwood and Dave Brown is up in Quebec now, looking for the man who did the thing they’re chasing poor Sherwood for. Mel Lunt is making a fool of Sheriff Corker. You come along with me, Bill, and save the sheriff’s face—and maybe an innocent man’s life, too. Mel’s fool enough to drag Sherwood right out of bed, sick an’ all.”
“I’d sure like to do it, Mr. McAllister, but I dassint. I’m on duty in town all day. If I went with you I’d lose my job.”
“Now that’s too bad, but if you can’t, you can’t. The sheriff will wish you did when Dave Brown gets back from Quebec. I’ll have to go by myself, then.”
“Sorry, Mr. McAllister, but I got to keep you right here till the sheriff comes home. Rules is rules.”
“And reason is reason, Bill—and when a man can’t see reason it’s time to operate on his eyes.”
There was a brief, sharp scuffle in the sheriff’s front hall. Young Bill Simpson proved too quick for Jim McAllister. He didn’t hit any harder than he had to with his official baton—but it was too hard for Uncle Jim.
CHAPTER X
IN THE NICK OF TIME
By four o’clock, Richard Sherwood seemed to be as ill as when his friends had found him in the forest—as hot and dry with fever, as grievously tortured with pain, as blackly tormented of mind. That he was much stronger than he had been and that the mangled hand and inflamed arm looked better were just now the only indications of improvement.