It was impossible for Rod wholly to conceal his disturbed state of mind from his aunt, but he skillfully evaded answering her questions, by which she sought to learn what was the trouble. If the implicating handkerchief had been found by Barker, Springer and Piper, as stated, he wondered how it had come to be where it was discovered, and slowly a suspicion and a possible solution crept into his mind. Nevertheless, he was not yet satisfied that a “job” had not been put up on him by Barker, and he felt a strong desire to question Springer and Piper. Later, if they persisted in corroborating Barker’s words, he would find the fellow on whom his suspicions had turned and give him a taste of the “third degree.”

Unable to remain inactive while his enemy was at work, and really dreading the reappearance of Deputy Sheriff Pickle with a warrant for his arrest, Rod made an excuse to go for the mail and set his feet toward the village. He was hesitating about entering the postoffice when some one called to him from the shadows between two buildings.

“Davis!” he breathed. “Perhaps this is as good a time as any.”

“’St!” hissed Spotty. “Come here, Rod, old feller. Something doin’.”

Grant joined him. “What is it, Davis? What’s up?”

“I don’t know just what’s up,” answered Spotty; “but there’s something in the air, you bet. See that light in the winder over there?” He pointed to a lighted window over one of the stores across the street.

“Yes.”

“That’s old Shyster Frances’ office. They’ve got Bunk up there, and I guess they’re goin’ for him. Wonder what he’s done now?”

“Got Lander up there, have they? Who’s got him?”

“Old Pickle marched him up the stairs, and I see Berlin Barker and his father foller. Can’t be they’re doin’ anything about that old affair, and I’m guessin’ what Bunk’s been into lately.”

“I reckon I know what they’re trying to do,” growled Rod, “and I judge it’s about time I strolled in on them myself.”

He started, and Davis, springing forward, grabbed his arm.

“What are you goin’ to do, Rod?” palpitated Spotty. “It ain’t nothin’ to you. You better keep away.”

The boy from Texas shook him off. “Let go! Bunk stood by me when I was in a right bad scrape. Perhaps you’d better come along, too.”

“Not on your life!” said Spotty, hurriedly retreating in great alarm. “They don’t get me into no mess.”

Rodney crossed the street and unhesitatingly mounted the stairs leading to the door of Lawyer Frances’ office. Perhaps William Pickle was prepared with the warrant for his arrest, but that did not lead him to hesitate or falter for a second. He saw the lawyer’s name lettered in black on the ground glass of the door, through which the light from within faintly shone, and his steady hand found the knob.

The lawyer was sitting at his desk with his swivel chair turned sidewise so that he could face Lander, who, wearing a sullen look of defiance, stood a few feet away. Berlin Barker’s father was also seated, with Berlin standing beside his chair. Deputy Sheriff Pickle was posted within four feet of the office door. As that door swung open and the new arrival stepped boldly in, every eye switched from Lander, and Bunk, seeing Rod, uttered an exclamation of relief and satisfaction.

“Here he is!” he cried. “Now you can question him yourselves. This bunch has been trying to force me into lying about what was done this morning, Rod. Somebody shot Barker’s hound, and——”

“Be quiet, Lander!” ordered the lawyer, bringing his knuckles down sharply on the edge of his desk. “Close the door, Pickle. It is rather fortunate this young man chose to come here at this time. Perhaps he has decided to make a confession, which is certainly the wisest course he can pursue.”

“I haven’t anything whatever to confess, Mr. Frances,” said Rodney boldly. “Hearing that Lander had been brought here, I knew well enough what you were trying to do with him, and so——”

“And so he come running, for fear Lander would peach,” interrupted Berlin Barker.

“I didn’t have nothing to tell, and if I had I wouldn’t ’a’ told it,” said Bunk.

“You can see the disposition of the boy, Mr. Frances,” said Berlin’s father. “He brazenly acknowledges that he wouldn’t tell under any circumstances.”

“But,” put in Rod at once, “he states the truth when he says he has nothing to tell. Where are Springer and Piper? I’d like to ask them if they saw Berlin Barker find my silk handkerchief, as he claimed he did, somewhere back of Turkey Hill.”

“They have already made such a statement in my presence,” announced the lawyer. “The evidence is against you, young man, and the easiest way out of your trouble is to own up and settle for that valuable dog which you maliciously slaughtered.”

“I object to your language, sir. I know nothing whatever about the shooting of Barker’s dog.”

“Will you explain how your handkerchief came to be found where it was?”

“I can’t explain that—at present,” confessed Rod. “All I have to say is that somebody must have stolen it from me and lost it there.”

Berlin sneered, and his father, pulling a grieved and indignant countenance, said:

“Such a subterfuge is palpably puerile. According to all reports, young Grant, since appearing in this town, has plainly shown himself to be a vicious and undesirable character—such a boy as must contaminate those with whom he associates. He has likewise shown what he is by choosing as companions the worst boys of Oakdale.”

“Got your hammer out, old man,” growled Lander. “You’re one of the kind that don’t want to give a feller no show, and there’s plenty of ’em ’round here. Mebbe you think your own son is a little white saint, but——”

“Silence, you young reprobate!” cried Mr. Barker, rising to his feet. “You’ve been watched since you came back here, and——”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been watched—I know it. Give a chap a black name and then kick him is the way they do hereabouts.”

Grant’s calm defiance had stiffened Lander’s backbone, and he was not at all terrified by the aspect of Mr. Barker.

“Without no cause,” he went on, “your son’s tried to soak Rod Grant, and it’s made him madder’n a hornet ’cause he ain’t come out of his tricks with flying colors. If I’d been in Rod’s place, he’d found himself up against something hot long ago.”

“Never mind taking up my battle, Lander,” said Rodney. “I reckon I can take care of myself. All I ask of you is that you stick to the straight truth and don’t let any one frighten you into lying.”

“That’s what they was tryin’ to do. They was even callin’ up that old scrape and tryin’ to make me believe something would be done if I didn’t go back on you and tell a mess of stuff that wasn’t true. They can’t prove anything against ye, Rod; the straight facts make an alibi, as they call it in law, and they’ll never git only straight goods from me.”

Satisfied now that, in spite of the seeming incriminating evidence of the handkerchief, his enemy could prove nothing, Grant uttered a bold defiance:

“I’m here. If they want to arrest me let them do so. Have you a warrant for me, Mr. Pickle?”

“Not yet,” acknowledged the deputy sheriff; “but I’m reddy to serve it as soon’s it’s placed in my han’s.”

“Do you wish to swear out a warrant, Barker?” asked the lawyer.

Mr. Barker cleared his throat, his manner plainly indicating an uncertain state of mind.

“Why, I—I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary to-night, Frances. The fellow won’t be likely to get away, and we may obtain further evidence bearing on the case. That hound was a valuable dog. I paid a fancy price for him, in order that Berlin might have a good rabbit dog, and I’m naturally intensely outraged and highly indignant over the action of this boy in shooting——”

“I object to your language, also, sir,” cried Rod. “You must plainly realize that the proof on which you base such a malicious charge is worthless, and your persistence in it is plain slander.”

“We’ll get him yet,” declared Berlin savagely—“we’ll get him unless he runs away.”

“I’m not even going to run away as far as Clearport,” returned the boy from Texas cuttingly. “You won’t find me imitating your example, Mr. Barker.”

“If he should run away,” said Berlin’s father, “it might be a good thing for the town; it can spare him and his well chosen companions.”

“Don’t you reckon on it,” advised Rod. “I’m going to stay right here in Oakdale and see this thing through. Maybe when the straight truth comes out you’ll owe me an apology; but, if you’re like your son, I don’t opine I’ll get one. Come, Bunk, let’s pike along.”

“Sure,” said Lander, starting with great willingness.

Pickle stepped in front of the door, giving Mr. Barker a questioning glance.

“Let them go,” said the man; and Rod passed out, with Lander, grinning, at his heels.