But Westy Martin’s impulse was still quicker. Before the little child was down upon the ground again he spoke, and his own voice sounded strange to him as he saw the gaping loiterers all about, and the astonished gaze of Terry, the game warden. In the boy’s trousers pocket (which is the safe deposit vault pocket with boys) his sweaty palm clutched the hundred and three dollars which he was taking home to save for his trip to the Yellowstone He had kept one hand about it almost ever since he left the farm, till his very hand smelled like the roll of bills. But he clutched it even more tightly now. His voice was not as sure as that unseen clutch. “If you’re hunting for the fellow who killed the deer over in the woods,” he said, “then here I am. I’m the one that killed the deer and—and if—if you’re going to take—arrest—anybody you’d better arrest me—because I’m the one that did it. I killed the deer—I admit it. So you better arrest me.” For a few seconds no one spoke. Then, and it seems odd when you come to think of it, the dog pulled the leash clean out of Terry the game warden’s hand, and began climbing up on Westy and licking his hand.... CHAPTER XII GUILTY He took his stand upon the simple confession that it was he who had killed the deer. He knew that he could not say more without saying too much. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not make him say more. Fortunately, he did not have to say more, or much more, because Farmer Sands availed himself of the occasion to preach a homily on the evil of boys carrying firearms. “Who you be, anyways?” he demanded shrewdly. Westy’s one fear was that Luke would speak and spoil everything. For a moment, he seemed on the point of speaking. Probably it was only the sight of his little daughter that deterred him from doing so. It was a moment fraught with peril to Westy’s act. Then, it was too late for Luke to speak and Westy was glad of that. He was on his way to Chandler between the game warden and the farmer. “Well, who you be, anyways?” Farmer Sands repeated. It was Terry, the game warden, who answered him across Westy’s shoulder. “Why, Ezrie, he’s jus’ one of them wild west shootin’, Indian huntin’, dime novel readin’ youngsters what oughter have some sense flogged inter him. I’d as soon give a boy of mine rat poison to play with as one of these here pesky rifles. It’s a wonder he hit him, but that’s the way fools allus do. What’s your name, kid? You don’t b’long round here?” Westy, albeit somewhat frightened, was self-possessed and shrewd enough not to beguile his escort with an account of himself.