“You are no party to this accusation, Mr. Thurston?” the lieutenant enquired. “I am sorry for the blow that has fallen on you. But you can’t seriously believe that Dick Willoughby’s the man who fired that shot.” As he spoke he pointed at the dead rigid form.
Thurston raised his eyes. There was a dull glare of fury in them, a savage snarl on his parted lips.
“Mind your own business, young man. He killed my boy, and by God he’ll hang for it.” While speaking he rose to his feet, holding forth a denouncing arm toward Willoughby, “Yes, he’ll hang for it,” he growled again with savage determination, turning round to the open door.
With a gesture to the cowboys standing nearest, he bade them carry the body within. He stood aside to let them pass with their burden, then followed and slammed the door behind him with an angry bang.
Despite the tragedy of it all, a little smile went round the group of onlookers. It meant to say that that was just Ben Thurston all over—irascible and vindictive. But some faces looked grave.
“May go mighty hard with Willoughby,” murmured one voice, that of the old grey-headed man, the blacksmith at the rancho for twenty years or more. “I wouldn’t like to feel the weight of the old devil’s hand.”
But just then the automobile came round the house, piloted by Jack Rover. Sharkey began to make his dispositions for the journey.
“Do you want to take anything with you, Willoughby?” he asked in a considerate manner.
“Nothing,” was the prompt reply.
“Well then, you’ll ride with me on the front seat. Lieutenant, you can share the tonneau with Mr. Thurston.” There was a slight grin on the sleuth’s face as he signified the arrangement.