Once more Barker laughed, this time triumphantly, exultantly, for he felt sure that Rodney Grant had trapped himself by that admission.

“I think that’s sufficient, Mr. Pickle,” he said, addressing the man. “You’ve done very well.”

“Jest wait a minute,” advised the man, holding up his hand; “I ain’t quite through yet.” He turned, with a manner intended to be impressive and awesome, upon Rod. “My name is William Pickle,” he announced, “and I’m the deputy sheriff of this town.”

If he expected that this statement would cause the young Texan to quail or betray alarm, disappointment was his portion, for Rod remained wholly self-possessed and undisturbed.

“Permit me, Mr. Pickle,” he said earnestly, “to inquire how my handkerchief came into your possession. I sure think it’s about time you answered a few of my questions.”

“You sometimes wear that handkercher tied round your neck when you’re out gunnin’—or fishin’—don’t ye?”

“I may have done so,” admitted Rodney; “but you haven’t answered my question. How did you come to have it?”

“’Twas found this mornin’ over on Andrew Dodd’s land, back of Turkey Hill. I guess you must have lost it there, didn’t ye?”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m right certain I did not, for I don’t remember having it with me to-day. I don’t know precisely where Andrew Dodd’s land is located, but unless it takes in the swamp west of Turkey Hill I was not on his land to-day. I’m right curious to know what you’re driving at, Mr. Pickle, and I opine it’s about time for you to come out open and frank, so that I may get your drift.”

“I cal’late, young feller, you’d better come down to Lawyer Frances’ office with us and settle up with young Barker for killin’ his hound which you shot this mornin’.”

It was out at last. Grant, still completely self-possessed, looked the officer straight in the eyes.

“You’ve sure got another think coming to you,” he retorted indignantly. “Not knowing anything whatever about this matter you mention, I’ll not come to Lawyer Frances’ office and settle. I do not own a gun, and I haven’t had one in my hands to-day. If Barker’s dog was shot, somebody else did it, and you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Of course he’ll say that,” cried Berlin; “but he caught himself foul when he owned up that the handkerchief was his. I found it hanging from a bush while, with Springer and Piper, I was following his tracks after he shot Silver Tongue. Phil and Sleuth both saw me pick the handkerchief off the branch, and they’ll swear to it.”

Grant’s steady, unflinching eyes were fixed on Barker now, and he seemed to be trying to read the thoughts and motives of this fellow, who since his arrival in Oakdale had so persistently and venomously harassed him. The limits of his endurance had about been reached; the strain was too much, and something threatened to snap. Nevertheless, he still struggled to maintain a desperate hold on himself—struggled to restrain and master the cyclonic Grant temper, which invariably wrought havoc when it broke loose. In his ears at that very moment seemed to echo his father’s words of warning, but the hammering of his outraged heart promised to drown those echoes into silence. Despite his outward appearance of self-control, his voice shook a little as he said:

“You’ve never let up on me an instant, have you, Barker? Well, you sure have no idea of the dangerous ground you’re treading on. I tell you now I can account for every minute of my time since leaving my aunt’s house this morning, and I can prove that I didn’t shoot your dog.”

“How will you prove it?”

“By Lander. He met me at the house, and we were together all the time until we returned from his camp after the storm began.”

“By Lander!” scoffed Barker. “Why, he’s the biggest liar I know—excepting you.”

“If you say I shot your dog, you’re a liar!”

Teeth set, fists clenched, Barker started; but Pickle’s gnarled hand gripped his collar, and the deputy sheriff snapped:

“Hold on, my boy! Go slow.”

Grant had dropped his shovel, and now his face was almost as white as the snow beneath his feet.

“Let him come,” he begged. “He may as well have it now as any time, and it’s plain he’ll never be satisfied till he gets it.”

“There won’t be no fightin’ here,” asserted Mr. Pickle, thrusting Bern back.

“If there’s any law, I’ll make him settle!” snarled Barker. “If the law isn’t sufficient, I’ll take the matter into my own hands!”

“You’ve been piling up a right stiff account, Barker,” Rod flung back; “and on settlement day you may get all that’s coming to you in a lump sum, which possibly will be some more than you’re looking for.”

“So you refuse to come down to Lawyer Frances’ office, do ye?” questioned the deputy sheriff. “Well, you’ll be li’ble to land in the lockup when I have the warrant to serve on ye. Come on, Barker, we’ll go see Frances and fix things up. That’s the proper way to proceed, now that you’re dead sartain of your ground.”

They turned back toward the village, leaving the boy from Texas gazing after them. As their dark figures melted into the fast deepening darkness, Grant spoke in a low, hard tone.

“Yes, settlement day draws near, Mr. Barker, and when it arrives there’ll be a clean wipe-out of the account between us.”