"Come in, boys," he called. "Reckon you've heard that I'm a stage rustler and a murderer."
Joyce cried out at this, the wide, mobile mouth trembling.
"Just now. At the Gusher," said Bob. "They didn't arrest you?"
"Not yet. They're watchin' the house. Sit down, and I'll tell it to you."
He had gone out to see a homesteader about doing some work for him. On the way he had met Johnson and Purdy near the Bend, just before he had turned up a draw leading to the place in the hills owned by the man whom he wanted to see. Two hours had been spent riding to the little valley where the nester had built his corrals and his log house, and when Crawford arrived neither he nor his wife was at home. He returned to the road, without having met a soul since he had left it, and from there jogged on back to town. On the way he had fired twice at a rattlesnake.
"You never reached the Bend, then, at all," said Dave.
"No, but I cayn't prove I didn't." The old cattleman looked at the end of his cigar thoughtfully. "Nor I cayn't prove I went out to Dick Grein's place in that three-four hours not accounted for."
"Anyhow, you can show where you got the ten thousand dollars you paid the bank," said Bob hopefully.
A moment of silence; then Crawford spoke. "No, son, I cayn't tell that either."
Faint and breathless with suspense, Joyce looked at her father with dilated eyes. "Why not?"