They sat on a wagon tongue at some distance from where
the men were tearing down the menagerie tent. Dick Cronk puffed his
pipe thoughtfully during the recital. One might have imagined that he
was not listening.
"I don't believe he killed him," said he at the end of the story.
"Neither do I," said Braddock. "But it won't hurt to let him think
that we're all still a leetle bit doubtful."
"I heard all about the murder in Staunton. The sheriff was trying to
head the kid off if he came through that county. We were expectin' to
see him landed in jail any day. They had bloodhounds after him, I
hear." Dick Cronk's body quivered in a sharp spasm of dread.
"Say, Dick, listen here," said Braddock, leaning closer and dropping
his voice to a half-whisper. "I've been wantin' you to turn up ever
since he joined us. What will you say when I tell you he's got more 'n
two thousand dollars with him?"
Dick started. "What!"
"He has. I've seen it. He's lousy with it."
"Well, he came by it honestly," said Dick after a moment.
"How do you know?" demanded the other insinuatingly.
"Honest men are so blamed scarce, Brad, that I can always tell one
when I see him.
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