Thurston raised his eyes. There was a dull glare of fury in them, a savage snarl on his parted lips. “Mind your own business, young man. He killed my boy, and by God he’ll hang for it.” While speaking he rose to his feet, holding forth a denouncing arm toward Willoughby, “Yes, he’ll hang for it,” he growled again with savage determination, turning round to the open door. With a gesture to the cowboys standing nearest, he bade them carry the body within. He stood aside to let them pass with their burden, then followed and slammed the door behind him with an angry bang. Despite the tragedy of it all, a little smile went round the group of onlookers. It meant to say that that was just Ben Thurston all over—irascible and vindictive. But some faces looked grave. “May go mighty hard with Willoughby,” murmured one voice, that of the old grey-headed man, the blacksmith at the rancho for twenty years or more. “I wouldn’t like to feel the weight of the old devil’s hand.” But just then the automobile came round the house, piloted by Jack Rover. Sharkey began to make his dispositions for the journey. “Do you want to take anything with you, Willoughby?” he asked in a considerate manner. “Nothing,” was the prompt reply. “Well then, you’ll ride with me on the front seat. Lieutenant, you can share the tonneau with Mr. Thurston.” There was a slight grin on the sleuth’s face as he signified the arrangement. “Mr. Thurston?” queried Munson, taken somewhat aback. “Does he come, too?” “Sure,” replied Sharkey. “Who’s going to make the charge, I’d like to know? Willoughby, I just need your promise that you won’t move from this verandah till I return.” Dick nodded assent. “You have my word,” he said with quiet dignity. “Then I’ll be back in a minute,” added the sleuth, his hand on the door knob. Ben Thurston was standing alone in the centre of the living room, the body with its bearers having passed to an inner apartment. His arms were folded across his breast in an attitude of deep dejection. But it was with the scared look of a hunted beast that he started away at the touch of Leach Sharkey’s hand upon his shoulder. The sleuth smiled understandingly. “You don’t want to be left here all alone, do you?” “No, no. For God’s sake, no. I had forgotten that.” “Then you’ve got to come with me to Bakersfield. In any case you will be wanted to swear the information. And you can also make arrangements for the funeral. So get your hat and overcoat. We are all ready outside.” “Yes, yes, I’m coming,” faltered Thurston. “Wait for me, Sharkey,” he added, as with nervous fingers he detached his overcoat from a rack on the wall. And a few minutes later the automobile, with Sharkey at the wheel, the handcuffed prisoner by his side, and Thurston and the lieutenant seated frigidly apart in opposite comers of the tonneau, was spinning through the gathering dusk of evening on its way to the county town of Bakersfield. CHAPTER XIV—Entanglements