at him dumbly. She supposed she should have to force him
to go, after all. Of course, you couldn't expect that a man who had
committed a crime will admit it to the first questioner; you couldn't
expect him to go back willingly and face the penalty. She would have to
use her gun; perhaps even call on Lite, since Lite had followed her.
She might have felt easier in her mind had she seen how Lite was
standing just within the glass-paneled door behind the dimity curtain,
listening to every word, and watching every expression on Art Osgood's
face. Lite's hand, also, was close to his gun, to be perfectly sure of
Jean's safety. But he had no intention of spoiling her feeling of
independence if he could help it. He had lots of faith in Jean.

"What has cropped up, anyway?" Art asked her curiously, as if he had
been puzzling over her reasons for being there. "I thought that affair
was settled long ago, when it happened. I thought it was all straight
sailing--"

"To send an innocent man to prison for it? Do you call that straight
sailing?" Jean's eyes had in them now a flash of anger that steadied
her.

"What innocent man?" Art threw away the stub of the splinter and sat
up straight. "I never knew any innocent man--"

"Oh! You didn't know?"

"All I know," said Art, with a certain swiftness of speech that was a
new element in his manner, "I'm dead willing to tell you. I knew
Johnny had been around knocking the outfit, and making some threats,
and saying things he had no business to say. I never did have any use
for him, just because he was so mouthy. I wasn't surprised to
hear--how it ended up."

"To hear! You weren't there, when it happened?" Jean was watching him
for some betraying emotion, some sign that she had struck home. She
got a quick, sharp glance from him, as if he were trying to guess just
how much she knew.

"Why should I have been there? The last time I was ever at the Lazy
A," he stated distinctly, "was the day before I left. I didn't go any
farther than the gate then. I had a letter for your father, and I met
him at the gate and gave it to him."

"A letter for dad?" It was not much, but it was better than nothing.
Jean thought she might lead him on to something more.

"Yes! A note, or a letter. Carl sent me over with it."

"Carl? What was it about? I never heard--"

"I never read it. Ask your dad what it was about, why don't you? I
don't reckon it was anything particular."