“Sure you’ve got him right now?” the sheriff asked, smiling.
“Far as this business goes, I have. I’ll admit he’s got no cause to like me, but I’ve got a hunch he’s white.”
“I’d rather have facts than hunches.”
The owner of the Diamond Bar K was a new convert to the opinion he was giving voice to, and he was therefore a more eager advocate of it. “Look at this from my point of view, Frank. I thrash him till he can’t stand, and he pays me back by lookin’ out for Bess when she’s in trouble. One of my men hauls him back here at the end of a rope. He settles that score by tramping five or six miles to help us again. I’d be a poor sort if I didn’t come through for him now.”
“Well, I’ll not push on my reins, Clint,” the officer promised. “Very likely you’re right, and I’m sure not aimin’ to make trouble for any innocent man. This tramp of yours will have every chance in the world to show he’s straight. I’ll not arrest him unless I’ve got the goods on him.”
Dr. Rayburn, ready for business, came forward fussily. “You quit exciting my patient, Sheriff. Quit it. And move on out of this sick-room. I don’t want any one here but Miss Bessie and Bridget and Lon Forbes.”
The sheriff laughed. “All right, Doc. It’s yore say-so.”
He walked out of the room, the vagrant by his side.
“Am I under arrest?” the latter asked.
“You’re not under arrest, but I’d like yore word that you’ll stick around till I’ve had a chance to size this thing up.”