“Then a fella’s got to pay to prove he didn’t do somethin’ that he’s arrested for, and never done?”

“Often enough.  And he’s lucky if he has the money to do it.  Think it over—­and let me know how you are getting along.  Miss Gray will be interested also.”

“All right.  Thanks, Doc.  I ain’t forgittin’ you folks.”

Andover waved his hand as he swung the car round and swept out of town.  Pete watched him as he sped out across the mesa.

Sheriff Owen was standing in the livery-stable door across the street as Pete turned and started toward him.  Midway across the street Pete felt a sharp pain shoot through his chest.  It seemed as though the air had been suddenly shut from his lungs and that he could neither speak nor breathe.  He heard an exclamation and saw Owen coming toward him.  Owen, who had seen him stop and sway, was asking a question.  A dim blur of faces—­an endless journey along a street and up a narrow stairway—­and Pete lay staring at yellow wall-paper heavily sprinkled with impossible blue roses.  Owen was giving him whiskey—­a sip at a time.

“How do you feel now?” queried the sheriff.

“I’m all right.  Somethin’ caught me quick—­out there.”

“Your lungs have been working overtime.  Too much fresh air all at once.  You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“I reckon you won’t have to set up and watch the front door,” said Pete, smiling faintly.

“Or the back door.  You’re in the Sanborn House—­room 11, second floor, and there’s only one other floor and that’s downstairs.  If you want any thing—­just pound on the floor.  They’ll understand.”

“About payin’ for my board—­”

“That’s all right.  I got your money—­and your other stuff that I might need for evidence.  Take it easy.”

“Reckon I’ll git up,” said Pete.  “I’m all right now.”

“Better wait till I come back from the office.  Be back about six.  Got to write some letters.  Your case—­called next Thursday.”  And Sheriff Owen departed, leaving Pete staring at yellow wallpaper sprinkled with blue roses.

CHAPTER XLII

“OH, SAY TWO THOUSAND”

Just one week from the day on which Pete arrived in Sanborn he was sitting in the witness chair, telling an interested judge and jury, and a more than interested attorney for the defense, the story of his life—­“every hour of which,” the attorney for the defense shrewdly observed in addressing the court, “has had a bearing upon the case.”

Pete spoke quietly and at times with considerable unconscious humor.  He held back nothing save the name of the man who had killed Brent, positively refusing to divulge Brevoort’s name.  His attitude was convincing—­and his story straightforward and apparently without a flaw, despite a spirited cross-examination by the State.  The trial was brief, brisk, and marked by no wrangling.  Sheriff Owen’s testimony, while impartial, rather favored the prisoner than otherwise.