"You'd ought to go to Congress. You got the gift," said Dinsmore with dry irony. Five minutes earlier he had been, as Roberts said, a man with a rope around his neck. Now he was free, the wide plains before him over which to roam. He was touched, felt even a sneaking gratitude to this young fellow who was laying up trouble for himself on his account; and he was ashamed of his own emotion.
"I'll go to jail; that's where I'll go," answered Jack grimly. "But that's not the point."
"I'll say one thing, Roberts. I didn't kill Hank. One of the other boys did. It can't do him any harm to say so now," muttered Dinsmore awkwardly.
"I know. Overstreet shot him."
"That was just luck. It might have been me."
Jack looked straight and hard at him. "Will you answer me one question? Who killed Rutherford Wadley?"
"Why should I?" demanded the bad-man, his eyes as hard and steady as those of the other man.
"Because an innocent man is under a cloud. You know Tony didn't kill him. He's just been married. Come clean, Dinsmore."
"As a favor to you, because of what you're doin' for me?"
"I'm not doin' this for you, but to satisfy myself. But if you want to put it that way—"