A CRY FOR HELP


Together, Dave and Pocus Pete examined the posts of the corral fence.
There was no doubt but that some of them had been partly sawed through, in
order to weaken them so that only a moderate pressure was required to
break them off short, close to the ground.

"So that was his game; eh?" exclaimed Dave in a justifiably angry voice.

"Whose game?" asked Pocus Pete.

"Len's! That's why he wouldn't stop to help me. He had been here sawing
through the posts so our best bunch of cattle would get out and be
spoiled. The hound! Wait until I get hold of him!"

"Better go a bit slow," advised Pocus Pete, in his drawling tones.

"Slow! What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean it isn't a good thing t' go around makin' accusations like
that, without somethin' t' back 'em up. In this country you've got t' back
up what you say, Dave."

"I know that, but--"

"An' what evidence have you got that Len did this mean trick? For mean
trick it is, as shore as guns is guns. What evidence have you?"