Dave strode forward, his eyes like great live coals. "What? Say that again!" he cried.
"Yessir. I did it—accidental—when Doble run forward in front of me. Tha's right. I'm plumb sorry I didn't tell the cou't so when you was on trial, Mr. Sanders. I reckon I was scairt to."
"Will you tell this of yore own free will to the sheriff down at Malapi?" asked Crawford.
"I sure will. Yessir, Mr. Crawford." The man's terror had swept away all thought of anything but the present peril. His color was a seasick green. His great body trembled like a jelly shaken from a mould.
"It's too late now," cut in Dave savagely. "We came up about this stage robbery. Unless he'll clear that up, I vote to finish the job."
"Maybe we'd better," agreed the cattleman. "I'll tie the rope to the trunk of the tree and you lead the horse from under him, Dave."
Miller broke down. He groveled. "I'll tell. I'll tell all I know. Dug
Doble and Shorty held up the stage. I don' know who killed the driver.
They didn't say when they come back."
"You let the water into the ditch," suggested Crawford.
"Yessir. I did that. They was shelterin' me and o' course I had to do like they said."
"When did you escape?"