He took his stand upon the simple confession that it was he who had killed the deer. He knew that he could not say more without saying too much. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not make him say more. Fortunately, he did not have to say more, or much more, because Farmer Sands availed himself of the occasion to preach a homily on the evil of boys carrying firearms.

“Who you be, anyways?” he demanded shrewdly.

Westy’s one fear was that Luke would speak and spoil everything. For a moment, he seemed on the point of speaking. Probably it was only the sight of his little daughter that deterred him from doing so. It was a moment fraught with peril to Westy’s act. Then, it was too late for Luke to speak and Westy was glad of that.

He was on his way to Chandler between the game warden and the farmer.

“Well, who you be, anyways?” Farmer Sands repeated.

It was Terry, the game warden, who answered him across Westy’s shoulder.

“Why, Ezrie, he’s jus’ one of them wild west shootin’, Indian huntin’, dime novel readin’ youngsters what oughter have some sense flogged inter him. I’d as soon give a boy of mine rat poison to play with as one of these here pesky rifles. It’s a wonder he hit him, but that’s the way fools allus do. What’s your name, kid? You don’t b’long round here?”

Westy, albeit somewhat frightened, was self-possessed and shrewd enough not to beguile his escort with an account of himself.

“I told you all I’m going to,” he added. “I was going through the woods and I saw the deer and killed him. Then, I went through to Barrett’s and I was going to come along this road to Chandler. If I have to be taken to a judge, I’ll tell him more if he makes me. Please take your hand off my shoulder because I’m not going to try to run away.”

“Yer been readin’ Diamond Dick?” asked Farmer Sands, squinting at him with a look of diabolical sagacity.

“No, I haven’t been reading Diamond Dick,” said Westy.

“Wasn’t yer stayin’ up ter Nelson’s place?” the game warden asked.

“Yes, he’s my uncle,” said Westy.

“He know yer got a gun?”

“Sure, he does.”

“Well, you’d better ’phone him when you get to Chandler if you don’t want ter spend the night in a cell.”

Westy balked at the sound of this talk, but he only tightened his sweaty palm in his pocket and said, “He didn’t kill the deer. Why should I ’phone to him?”

Farmer Sands poked his billy-goat visage around in front of Westy’s face and stared but said nothing.

In Chandler, the trio aroused some curiosity as they went through the main street and Westy felt conscious and ashamed. He wished that Mr. Terry would conceal his flaunting badge. As they approached the rather pretentious County Court House, he began to feel nervous. The stone building had a kind of dignity about it and seemed to frown on him. Moreover in the brick wing he saw small, heavily barred windows, and these were not a cheerful sight.

What he feared most of all was that once in the jaws of that unknown monster, the law, he would spoil everything by saying more than he meant to say. He was probably saved from this by the dignitary before whom he was taken. The learned justice was so fond of talking himself that Westy had no opportunity of saying anything and was not invited to enlarge upon the simple fact that he had killed a deer. Probably if the local dignitary had known Westy better he would have expressed some surprise at the boy’s act but since, to him, Westy was only a boy with a gun (always a dangerous combination) there was nothing so very extraordinary in the fact of his shooting a deer. Fortunately, he did not ask questions for Westy would not have gone to the extreme of actually lying.

He stood before the desk of the justice, one sweaty palm encircled about his precious fortune in his pocket, and felt frightened and ill at ease.

“Well, my young friend,” said the justice, “those who disregard the game laws of this state must expect to pay the penalty.”

“Y-yes, sir,” said Westy nervously.

“It’s an expensive pastime,” said the justice, not unkindly.

“Yes, sir,” said Westy.

“I can’t understand why you did it, a straightforward, honest-looking boy like you.”

Westy said nothing, only set his lips tightly as if to safeguard himself against saying too much or giving way to his feelings.

“A boy that is honest enough to speak up and confess—to do such a thing—I can’t understand it,” the justice mused aloud, observing Westy keenly.

“It’s lettin’ ’em hev guns that’s to blame,” observed the game warden.

“It’s dressin’ ’em all up like hunters an’ callin’ ’em scaouts as duz it,” said Farmer Sands. “They was wantin’ me ter contribute money fer them scaouts, but I sez—I sez no, ’tain’t no good gon’ ter come of it, dressin’ youngsters up ’an givin’ ’em firearms an’ sendin’ ’em out ter vialate the laws.”

“They seem to know how to tell the truth,” said the justice, apparently rather puzzled.

“He was gon’ ter hide in Luke Meadows’ place when we catched him red-handed an’ he wuz sceered outer his seven senses an’ that’s why he confessed,” said Farmer Sands vehemently.

“Nobody can scare me into doing anything,” said Westy, defiantly. “I told because I wanted to tell and the reason you didn’t give money to the boy scouts was because you’re too stingy.”

This was the second time on that fateful day that Westy had shot and hit the mark. It seemed to amuse both the judge and the game warden.