“Yes, sir. It comes up right vivid before me. There was you a-trainin’ your guns on me—”
“I wasn’t,” broke in Scotty, falling into the trap.
“That’s right. How come I to make such a mistake? Of cou’se you carried the sack and York Neil held the guns.”
The man cursed quietly, and relapsed into silence.
“Always buy your clothes in pairs?”
The sheriff’s voice showed only a pleasant interest, but the outlaw’s frightened eyes were puzzled at this sudden turn.
“Wearing a bandanna same color and pattern as you did the night of our jamboree on the Limited, I see. That’s mightily careless of you, ain’t it?”
Instinctively a shaking hand clutched at the kerchief. “It don’t cut any ice because a hold-up wears a mask made out of stuff like this.”
“Did I say it was a mask he wore?” the gentle voice quizzed.
Scotty, beads of perspiration on his forehead, collapsed as to his defense. He fell back sullenly to his first position: “You can’t prove anything.”