Part 21 (1/2)
I--I don't see how you can SIT there and--and look at me that way.”
She stopped and braced herself. ”I don't want to argue about it. I came here to make you go back and face things. It's--horrible--” She was thinking of her father then, and she could not go on.
”Jean, you're all wrong. I don't know what idea you've got, but you may as well get one or two things straight. Maybe you do feel like killing me; but I don't know what for. I haven't the slightest notion of going back; there's nothing I could clear up, if I did go.”
Jean looked at him dumbly. She supposed she should have to force him to go, after all. Of course, you couldn't expect that a man who had committed a crime will admit it to the first questioner; you couldn't expect him to go back willingly and face the penalty. She would have to use her gun; perhaps even call on Lite, since Lite had followed her.
She might have felt easier in her mind had she seen how Lite was standing just within the gla.s.s-paneled door behind the dimity curtain, listening to every word, and watching every expression on Art Osgood's face. Lite's hand, also, was close to his gun, to be perfectly sure of Jean's safety. But he had no intention of spoiling her feeling of independence if he could help it. He had lots of faith in Jean.
”What has cropped up, anyway?” Art asked her curiously, as if he had been puzzling over her reasons for being there. ”I thought that affair was settled long ago, when it happened. I thought it was all straight sailing--”
”To send an innocent man to prison for it? Do you call that straight sailing?” Jean's eyes had in them now a flash of anger that steadied her.
”What innocent man?” Art threw away the stub of the splinter and sat up straight. ”I never knew any innocent man--”
”Oh! You didn't know?”
”All I know,” said Art, with a certain swiftness of speech that was a new element in his manner, ”I'm dead willing to tell you. I knew Johnny had been around knocking the outfit, and making some threats, and saying things he had no business to say. I never did have any use for him, just because he was so mouthy. I wasn't surprised to hear--how it ended up.”
”To hear! You weren't there, when it happened?” Jean was watching him for some betraying emotion, some sign that she had struck home. She got a quick, sharp glance from him, as if he were trying to guess just how much she knew.
”Why should I have been there? The last time I was ever at the Lazy A,” he stated distinctly, ”was the day before I left. I didn't go any farther than the gate then. I had a letter for your father, and I met him at the gate and gave it to him.”
”A letter for dad?” It was not much, but it was better than nothing.
Jean thought she might lead him on to something more.
”Yes! A note, or a letter. Carl sent me over with it.”
”Carl? What was it about? I never heard--”
”I never read it. Ask your dad what it was about, why don't you? I don't reckon it was anything particular.”
”Maybe it was, though.” Jean was turning crafty. She would pretend to be interested in the letter, and trip Art somehow when he was off his guard. ”Are you sure that it was the day before--you left?”
”Yes.” Some high talk in the street caught his attention, and Art turned and looked down. Jean caught at the chance to study his averted face, but she could not read innocence or guilt there. Art, she decided, was not as transparent as she had always believed him to be.
He turned back and met her look. ”I know it was the day before. Why?”
”Oh, I wondered. Dad didn't say-- What did he do with it--the letter?”
”He opened it and read it.” A smile of amused understanding of her finesse curled Art's lips. ”And he stuck it in the pocket of his chaps and went on to wherever he was going.” His eyes challenged her impishly.
”And it was from Uncle Carl, you say?”
Art hesitated, and the smile left his lips. ”It--it was from Carl, yes. Why?”
”Oh, I just wondered.” Jean was wondering why he had stopped smiling, all at once, and why he hesitated. Was he afraid he was going to contradict himself about the day or the errand? Or was he afraid she would ask her Uncle Carl, and find that there was no letter?
”Why don't you ask your dad, if you are so anxious to know all about it?” Art demanded abruptly. ”Anyway, that's the last time I was ever over there.”
”Ask dad!” Jean's anger flamed out suddenly. ”Art Osgood, when I think of dad, I wonder why I don't shoot you! I wonder how you dare sit there and look me in the face. Ask dad! Dad, who is paying with his life and all that's worth while in life, for that murder that you deny--”