"Well, anyway," resumed Billy, "I've got my choice of hitting the trail or being arrested."
Tip shook his head. "You haven't any choice—none."
"Huh?" Surprisedly.
"Yeah. You see, we talked it over again while you were asleep a while back, and we decided if you couldn't see our way of it and be sensible like we want, that we'd better just put you where you won't be mislaid. Givin' you your choice of ridin' away or bein' arrested like I said at first would be a bad move. If you chose to hit the trail— You're a sport with ideas, Bill, and you might think up one to put the kybosh on us. But if you're in jail, your ideas won't help you much. See?"
"I see I ain't gonna get a chance for my alley a-tall. Who'll arrest me—my own deputies?"
"No, we'll do that. Here's the story: Your horse gave out and Sam caught you trying to rustle a pony out of his corral. Sam threw down on you, held you up and when we, Sam, Crafty and I, y'understand searched you, we found on you a couple of pocketbooks and Jerry Fern's watch. See?"
"I see, all right. I see you haven't been quite open with our friend Mr. Craft."
"How do you make that out?"
Billy hunched his shoulders. He was observing the marked unease that spread upon the countenance of Sam Larder. Tip was forced to repeat his question.
Billy gazed at him vacantly. "Huh? How—uh—oh, you want to know how, do you? Is that it? Yeah. Well, I'll tell you. Here you knew alla time that Jerry Fern was going to drive the stage this trip and yet you didn't tell Crafty. He didn't know who was the driver when I asked him, remember? You should have told him, Tip. Skin game not to."