“Write my name?”

“Yes, your full name, here.”

“And I git twenty-four thousand dollars for this?”

“If you want to carry that much around with you.  I’d advise you to deposit the draft and draw against it.”

“If it’s mine, I reckon I’d like to jest git it in my hands onct, anyhow.  I’d like to see what that much money feels like.”

Pete slowly wrote his name, thinking of The Spider and Pop Annersley as he did so.  Hodges took the draft, pressed a button, and a clerk appeared, took the draft, and presently returned with the money in gold and bank-notes of large denomination.

When he had gone out, Hodges turned to Pete.  “What are you going to do with it?  It’s none of my business—­now.  But Jim and I were friends—­and if I can do anything—­”

“I reckon I’ll put it back in—­to my name,” said Pete.  “I sure ain’t scared to leave it with you—­for The Spider he weren’t.”

Hodges smiled grimly, and pressed a button on his desk.  “New account,” he told the clerk.

Pete sighed heavily when the matter had been adjusted, the identification signature slips signed, and the bank-book made out in his name.

Hodges himself introduced Pete at the teller’s window, thanked Pete officially for patronizing the bank, and shook hands with him.  “Any time you need funds, just come in—­or write to me,” said Hodges.  “Good-bye, and good luck.”

Pete stumbled out of the bank and down the steps to the sidewalk.  He was rich—­worth twenty-four thousand dollars!  But why had The Spider left this money to him?  Surely The Spider had had some other friend—­or some relative . . . ?

“Step right in,” said Sheriff Owen.  “You look kind of white.  Feeling shaky?”

“Some.”

“We want to go to the General Hospital,” said the sheriff.

Pete listened to the deliberate plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk of the white mare’s large and capable feet as the cab whirred softly along the pavement.  “I suppose you’ll be takin’ me over to Sanborn right soon,” he said finally.

“Well, I expect I ought to get back to my family,” said the sheriff.

“I didn’t kill Sam Brent,” asserted Pete.

“I never thought you did,” said the sheriff, much to Pete’s surprise.

“Then what’s the idee of doggin’ me around like I was a blame coyote?”

“Because you have been traveling in bad company, son.  And some one in that said company killed Sam Brent.”

“And I got to stand for it?”

“Looks that way.  I been all kinds of a fool at different times, but I’m not fool enough to ask you who killed Sam Brent.  But I advise you to tell the judge and jury when the time comes.”

“That the only way I kin square myself?”

“I don’t say that.  But it will help.”

“Then I don’t say.”