smile.

“It can’t be helped,” he replied. “Guess things aren’t breaking my way.”

An embarrassing pause was broken by the Sheriff, who began:

“Say, Otis—are you goin’ to say anything about bein’ left handcuffed to that tree?”

“I don’t see why it’s necessary,” Otis replied. “Why?”

“I was just thinking,” Ogden went on, “that maybe I could throw a few favors your way that might help a lot when it comes time for the trial. I wish you’d just forget about that part of it, if you can. I don’t suppose you tried to advertise the fact that you was wearin’ handcuffs when you rode into town. Everybody knows you was caught in the flood, and that you came in and gave yourself up. It was mighty white of you, because I know you could have made a clean get-away. It took us longer than we thought to trail Radley, and he got away. But no one knows about the handcuff part except you and me and the boys in the office—and they’ll keep their mouths shut.”

Otis found that he could laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Sheriff. I tell you I don’t hold it against you that you arrested me. You were just doing your duty.”

Sterling Carr called at the jail in the afternoon to visit his son.

“It aint so bad that you shot the ranger, son,” said the old cattle man as he gripped Otis’ hand. “But I wish you’d tell me it aint true that you plugged him in the back.”

“But I tell you that I didn’t shoot him,” Otis protested. “I was fifteen miles away at Bernat’s cabin when it happened.”

“That’s all right to tell the jury,” the old man returned. “I’ll get you the best lawyer in Wyoming, and he’ll make ’em believe it. But I wish you’d tell it to me straight.”

Otis went through the story from the time he had left the Footstool ranch until his arrest. At its conclusion Sterling Carr shook his head sorrowfully.

“I’m sorry you feel that you can’t confide in your own father, Otis,” he said. “You ought to know I aint going to tell on you.”

“But I tell you it’s true—every word of it!”

“Son, as 

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