ebody."

"Who, Cal?"

The white face on the pillow turned a little and the eyes opened.

"I hain't keerin' none much erbout ther feller thet fired ther shot...."
went on the voice. "Ther man I aims ter git ... air ther one thet hired
him.... _He's_ goin' ter die ... _hard_!"

"What makes ye think"--the listener licked his lips furtively--"thar war
more'n one?"

"Because I knows who ... t'other one is."

Rowlett rose from his seat, and lifted a clenched fist. The miscreant's
thoughts were in a vortex of doubt, fear, and perplexity--but perhaps
Maggard suspected "Peanuts" Causey, and Rowlett went on with an
admirable bit of acting.

"Name him ter me, Cal," he tensely demanded. "He shot at both of us.
He's my man ter kill!"

"When ye lay thar ... by my house ... watchin' with me...." went on the
ambushed victim in a summarizing of ostensible services, "what made ye
discomfort yoreself, fer me, save only friendliness?"

"Thet war all, Cal."

"An' hit war ther same reason thet made ye proffer ter take away thet
letter an' seek ter diskiver who writ hit, warn't hit ... an' ter sa'rch
about an' find thet peanut hull ... an' ter come by hyar an' show me a
safe way home.... All jest friendliness, warn't hit?"

"Hain't thet es good a reason es any?"

The voice on the bed did not rise but it took on a new note.

"Thar couldn't handily be but jest ... one better one ... Bas."

"What mout thet be?"

"Ther right one. Ther reason of a sorry craven thet aimed at a
killin' ... an' sought ter alibi hisself."

Rowlett stood purple-faced and trembling in a transport of maniac fury
with which an inexplicable fear ran cross-odds as warp and woof. The
other had totally deluded him until the climax brought its accusation,
and now the unmasked plotter took refuge in bluster, fencing for time to
think.

"Thet's a damn lie an' a damn slander!" he stormed. "Ye've done already
bore witness afore these folks hyar thet I sought ter save ye."

"An' I plum believed hit ... then. Now I knows better. I sees thet ye
led me inter ambush ... thet ye planted them peanut hulls.... Thet ye
writ thet letter ... an' jest now ye stole hit outen my pocket."

"Thet's a lie, too. I reckon yore head's done been crazed. I toted ye in
hyar an' keered fer ye."

"Ye aimed ter finish out yore alibi," persisted Maggard, disdainfully.
"Ye didn't low I seed ye steal ther letter ... but I gives ye leave ter
tek hit over thar an' and burn hit up, Rowl