shal in some confusion. Those old, straight eyes of Pop troubled him.
He fenced with a new stroke for a confession.
"For my part, I've never had much heart in this work of mine,"
"He killed your brother, didn't he?" asked Pop with considerable dryness.
"Bill made the wrong move," replied Hal instantly. "He never should have ridden Lanning down in the first place. Should have let the fool kid go until he found out that Buck Heath wasn't killed. Then he would have come back of his own accord."
"That's a good idea," remarked the other, "but sort of late, it strikes me. Did you tell that to the sheriff?"
"Late it is," remarked Dozier, not following the question. "Now the poor kid is outlawed. Well, between you and me, I wish he'd gotten away clean-handed. As I said before, my heart isn't in this trail. But too late now."
"Who had him outlawed? Who put it up to the governor?" asked Pop shrewdly.
And Hal Dozier had to turn his head and cough, for he found his stroke parried and the point placed at his own breast.
"By the way," he went on, "I'd like to take a squint at your attic, too. That ladder goes up to it, I guess."
"Go ahead," said Pop. And once more he tamped his pipe.
There was a sharp, shrill cry from the boy, and Dozier whirled on him. He saw a pale, scared face, with the freckles standing out more rusty than ever, and the eyes painfully wide.
"What's the matter?" he asked sharply. "What's the
