As they reached the street Lander broke into a hoarse, triumphant chuckle of satisfaction.

“They didn’t bluff us none, did they, Roddy, old chap?” he said. “You sure did poke it to old man Barker and his measly cub. It done me good to see you stand up to ’em that fashion. But say, what sort of a dirty rinktum has Berlin Barker been tryin’ to put up on you now? He’s the limit, that snake-in-the-grass. ’Twouldn’t surprise me if he shot his own dog so’s to lay it onto you.”

“No, Bunk, I hardly think he did that.”

“Well, you don’t take no stock in that handkerchief gag, do ye? He never found your handkerchief the way he claims he did.”

“I don’t know whether he did or not,” confessed Rod. “Not that I believe him any too good to try to throw the blame of this thing onto me by a trick of that sort, but I can’t quite come to think that Springer or Piper would back him up.”

“Mebbe he fooled ’em. P’r’aps he had the handkerchief in his pocket and jest flung it on the bush when they wasn’t lookin’. Then he could call their attention to it and make b’lieve he’d jest seen it.”

“I have thought of that myself, Bunk, and I’m going to ask Springer and Piper a few questions. In the meantime, however, I’m some anxious to interrogate another chap. I wonder where Davis is? He told me they had you up there in the lawyer’s office, and I left him out here.”

But Spotty had vanished, and he was not to be found anywhere in the vicinity.

“He’s a thin-blooded rat,” said Bunk. “I always knowed it, but he was the only feller who’d have anything to do with me arter I come back to Oakdale, so I picked up with him. I say, Rod, it ain’t done you much good chummin’ with us two; for we’re both marked, and it don’t make no difference what we do, folks is bound to say we’re tough nuts and can’t be any different. That’s what makes me raw all the way through. If a feller happens to make one bad mistake and gits into a tight box people never seem to forget it, and they’re always lookin’ for him to do the same thing over again, or worse. It’s discouraging, Rod. Why, even if I wanted to be a decent feller and tried to be, who’d give me any encouragement? Not a blame soul.”

“You’re mistaken, Lander, old chap; I would.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right; but then, you’re different from these narrer-laced, hide-bound muckers ’round here. If they could only catch me foul now, so they could put me down and out for good, it would make ’em bust wide open with glee. No, ’tain’t no use for a feller to try to be square and decent.”

“Don’t you believe it, Lander; the fellow who will try to be decent, and stick to it in spite of everything, is right sure to come out on top and win universal respect in the end. It’s only a matter of strength and resolution to fight to the finish, that’s all.”

“Mebbe so,” admitted the other boy, hunching his shoulders and shaking his head doubtfully; “but I ain’t never seen nothing to make me believe it. Do you think you’re goin’ to come out on top here in Oakdale? Have you got a notion that you’ll succeed, in spite of Barker and everybody else that’s turned against ye, in winnin’ the respect of the majority of folks ’round these parts? Say, old pal, forget it! You never will. It’s a losing game, and you might as well make up your mind to that fust as last. You ain’t obliged to stay here, and if I was in your place I own up I wouldn’t stay no longer’n I could pack my duds and catch a train bound for other parts.”

“Lander, my father sent me here to school because I have an aunt in this town with whom I can live, and unless he takes me away in opposition to my wishes you can safely bet I’m going to stay here and finish my course at Oakdale Academy. I’ll admit it’s not any too pleasant for me, but my blood is up, and I’m a Grant. I’ve never known a quitter by that name.”

Bunk peered admiringly at the speaker, even as he observed: “Funny the fellers ’round here should size you up as a quitter, but I cal’late you’re to blame for that by the way you sorter let Barker run over you to start with. Why you done it I can’t make out, for I’ve seen enough of ye to know that you ain’t no coward.”

“Thanks,” said Rod, with a short laugh. “Most persons have right good reasons for their acts, and this was true in my case. I’m going to look for Spotty at his home now. Will you come along?”

“Guess I will, though you’ve got me guessin’ why you want to see him so bad.”

“If I get a chance to talk with him to-night, perhaps you’ll find out.”

But at the home of Davis they were informed by the boy’s mother that he had not returned from the village. They waited a while outside the house, only to be disappointed by the failure of Spotty to put in an appearance. Finally Rod said:

“I’ll see him to-morrow; it will give me more time to think the matter over.”

Still wondering why Grant was so earnestly desirous to see Davis, Bunk bade him good night and they separated.

Ere Rod slept that night he spent a long time thinking the matter over and planning out a diplomatic method of handling Spotty and getting the exact truth from him; for somehow he felt strangely confident that the fellow could clear up the mystery connected with the shooting of Silver Tongue.

Shortly after nine o’clock Sunday morning the boy from Texas again knocked at the door of Davis’ home. Mrs. Davis, a thin, care-worn, slatternly woman, answered that knock and informed him that Spotty was still in bed.

“He ain’t very well this morning; he says he’s sick,” she explained. “He wouldn’t git up to eat no breakfast.”

“I’d like very much to see him for a few minutes, Mrs. Davis,” urged Rod. “Can’t I do so?”

“Well, I dunno. He won’t like to be disturbed; he gits awful cross and snappy when he is. Still, seein’s you and him is friendly, I guess you can go up to his room. It’s the open chamber straight ahead at the top of the stairs.”

Grant opened the door at the head of the stairs and walked into the barnlike, unfinished chamber beneath the roof. As he did so some one wrapped in several old quilts started up on a bed and looked at him. It was Spotty, who immediately sank down with a groan.

“What’s the matter, Spotty, old chap?” asked Rod kindly, as he stopped beside the bed. “Aren’t you feeling well this morning?”

“Oh, I’m sick—I’m sick!” moaned Davis. “Go ’way! I don’t want to see nobody.”

“What ails you?”

“I dunno, but I’m awful sick. My head aches terrible, and I feel rotten mean all over.”

“Perhaps you ought to have a doctor.”

“I don’t want no doctor. I guess I’ll be all right in a day or two. Don’t talk to me; it makes me worse.”

“But I want to talk to you a few minutes, Spotty,” said Rod, sitting down on a broken chair close by and putting out a hand to touch the fellow’s forehead, which caused him to shrink and grumble. “Your head doesn’t seem to be hot. Perhaps you’d feel better if you got up.”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t. Guess I know. How’d you git in, anyhow? I told the old lady I was feelin’ rotten and didn’t want nobody to bother me.”

“Your mother knew we were friends, and so she let me in to see you.”

“She’ll hear from me when I do get up. She ought to know better.”

“Oh, come, come, Spotty. Of course she reckoned I’d sympathize with you if you were sick. Have you heard about what happened to Barker’s dog?”

The body of the boy beneath the quilts twitched the least bit.

“Ain’t heard nothing,” he growled. “Don’t want to hear anything now.”

“Somebody shot Silver Tongue, and Berlin is pretty hot over it. You know how much I like Barker. It would do me good to find out who killed his dog.”

One of Davis’ hands crept up to the edge of the quilt, which he pulled down a bit, turning a foxy eye toward the visitor; but, immediately on meeting Rod’s gaze, he sank his head back beneath those quilts, like a turtle pulling into its shell.

“I don’t care,” he mumbled under the covers; “I don’t care about nothing now.”

“He thinks I shot Silver Tongue,” said Rod, as if it was something of a joke; “but I didn’t get the chance.”

No sound from Spotty.

“If I had,” Grant continued—“well, I won’t say what might have happened.”

Still the boy in the bed remained silent.

“You know he threatened to shoot old Rouser,” Rod pursued, “and there are some persons who might feel that he simply got a dose of his own medicine. Don’t you say so?”

“I’m sick,” persisted Spotty in a muffled tone. “I ain’t goin’ to talk.”

“I just thought I’d let you know about it, for I reckoned you’d be interested. Oh, here’s one of the neckties I gave you hanging on a hook. Do you know, I lost my red silk handkerchief. You didn’t borrow it, did you, Spotty?”

“Borrer it!” growled Davis. “You know I didn’t. What are you talkin’ about?”

“Oh, I didn’t know, seeing as we’re friends, but you took it for a joke, or something like that.”

“Well, I didn’t, and now I won’t talk no more if you set there and chin for a week.”

Nor could Rod get another word out of Spotty, and he was finally compelled to depart in some disappointment, although more than half satisfied that his suspicions concerning the fellow were well grounded.