The Sheriff's Son
She held it out to him upside down, the leather pad lifted by her finger so that the letters stood out.
The rigor of her eyes was a challenge. For a moment, before he caught sight of the initials, he was puzzled at her stiffness. Then his heart lost a beat and hammered wildly. His brain was in a fog and he could find no words of explanation.
"It is your hat, is n't it, Mr.—Street?"
"Yes." He took it from her, put it on, and gulped "Thanks."
She waited to give him a chance to justify himself, but he could find no answer to the charge that she had fixed upon him. Scornfully she turned from him and went to the house.
Miss Rutherford found her father reading a week-old newspaper.
"I 've got fresher news than that for you, dad," she said. "I can tell you who this man that calls himself Cherokee Street is n't."
Rutherford looked up quickly. "You mean who he is, Boots."
"No, I mean who he is n't. His name is n't Cherokee Street at all."
"How do you know?"
"Because he is wearing a hat with the initials
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