The old prospector paused, and regarded his wide-eyed audience. “Well, mister,” he continued. “An’miss—I come away. What else was there to be done? It was no affair o’mine, an’I wasn’t hungerin’fer no courtroom an’all that. Jest slip away into the night, I tells myself, the good old night that’s been yer friend these many years. Slip away an’let others worry. I runs to the barn an’gits my pack, an’when I comes out, a car is drivin’into the yard. I crawls through the fence an’moseys down the road. I thought I was out o’it an’safe, an’how you got on to me is a mystery. But I’m decent, an’I ain’t hidin’anything. That’s my story—the truth, s’help me.”
Bob Eden rose and paced the sand. “Man alive,” he said, “this is serious business.”
“Think so?” inquired the old prospector.
“Think so! You know who Madden is, don’t you? One of the biggest men in America—”
“Sure he is. And what does that mean? You’ll never git him fer what he done. He’ll slide out o’it some way—Self-defense—”
“Oh, no, he won’t. Not if you tell your story. You’ve got to go back with me to Eldorado—”
“Wait a minute,” cut in Cherry. “That’s something I don’t aim to do—go an’stifle in no city. Leastways, not till it’s absolutely necessary. I’ve told my story, an’I’ll tell it ag’in, any time I’m asked. But I ain’t goin’back to Eldorado—bank on that, boy.”
“But listen—”
“Listen to me. How much more information you got? Know who that man was, layin’behind the bed? Found his body yet?”
