Chapter VI: The Pride of Tom Clipperton

At that significant look from Clipperton, Matt's hopes went down. Apparently not even arrest, or the dubious prospect ahead of him, had shaken Tom Clipperton's resolve to hide his dealings with Pima Pete. Defiantly he turned to face the sheriff.

"You're in a bad hole, Clipperton," said McKibben, "and I've brought you here to see again if you won't tell us something that will make this look a little less dark for you. I want to be your friend, but I can't do anything if you're not perfectly frank with me."

"If you want to be my friend, look for the real robbers," answered Clip. "I didn't take Fresnay's money."

"Where did you get that gold, then?"

"I dug it up."

The sheriff looked incredulous, as well he might; Hogan muttered sarcastically, and Fresnay shook his head.

"It's a fact!" declared Clip angrily. "You can go and see the place. Look at that bag!" He whirled and pointed to the dingy canvas sack on the desk. "There's sand on it yet."

"It won't do, Clip," said McKibben. "Don't it strike you as mighty odd you should dig up just the amount of money that was taken from Fresnay, and all of the same kind? But, assuming that you did dig it up, who put the gold in the ground? And what had Pima Pete to do with it?"

"I can't tell you that," answered Clipperton stiffly.

Matt went over to Clip and whispered to him.

"For heaven's sake, Clip, don't you understand what this means to you? Make a clean breast of everything!"

"I'll go to prison for life first! You know how I've been treated here, and you know what would be said of me if they knew all about Pima Pete."

"Anyhow," pleaded Matt, "tell the sheriff it was Dangerfield's money. Dangerfield himself will bear you out in that."

"They wouldn't believe me, and they wouldn't believe Dangerfield. I'll tell them that much, though. Don't you forget! If you're a friend of mine you'll say nothing."

"Not to Chub?"

Clip hesitated.

"We're both of us going to help you out of this," went on Matt earnestly, "one way or another. But we can work better if Chub knows as much as I do."

"Tell him," said Clip. "But make him promise not to tell any one else. I'm not ashamed of my blood, but if they knew Pima Pete was my uncle they'd be more ready to fasten this onto me."

"That's a mistake, old fellow, and----"

"I've made up my mind!" The black eyes flashed. "If you and Chub find the real thieves, and get back the other ten thousand dollars, that would let me out. Nothing else will."

It was a terrible mistake Clip was making, but his nature had been so warped because of the treatment he had suffered on account of his Indian blood, that it was impossible for him to see the matter in the right light. Matt drew back, his face showing his intense disappointment.

"It was Dangerfield's money," said Clip to McKibben.

The sheriff did not believe the statement, and neither did Hogan nor Fresnay nor Leffingwell.

"Where did Dangerfield get all that money?" asked McKibben; "and why did he hide it like that?"

"Ask him," said Clip curtly. The looks on the faces of his inquisitors had brought his pride and defiance to the surface.

"Where is Dangerfield now, Mr. McKibben?" asked Matt.

"He has been taken to the government prison at Leavenworth," answered the sheriff.

"Can't you write him, tell what has happened, and ask him for a statement?"

"What's the use, Matt? The whole thing sounds too fishy."

"Do it for me, Mr. McKibben! I _know_ Clip's telling the truth. Why, Dangerfield wanted me to help dig up that gold----"

Matt stopped suddenly. Clip's eyes were on him and were telling him plainly he had said too much.

"Wanted _you_ to help dig it up?" queried the puzzled sheriff.

"Write and ask him about it," said Matt.

"I will," averred McKibben, "just because of what you say. My letter will go to the warden of the prison, however, and I'll have him question Dangerfield. It's too improbable a yarn, though, and I haven't any hopes."

He turned to Clip.

"What was in that note Pima Pete gave you?" he asked.

"Pete asked me to meet him last night and dig up the gold," replied Clip.

"Have you the note?"

"I burned it."

"Why did you do that?"

Clip was silent.

"Why did you disguise yourself when you went out to meet Pima Pete?"

Still Clip would not answer.

"Why did you grab Leffingwell's revolver and keep him from shooting the half-breed when he was running away?"

The use of the word "half-breed" was unfortunate. It reminded Clip how ready they were to think evil of him on account of his mixed blood.

"That's my business," said he curtly.

The sharp answer aroused the sheriff's resentment.

"Very well, if you're foolish enough to take that stand, Clipperton. You'll have an examination this afternoon, but you might as well waive it, if you're going to keep that attitude."

"He'll have a lawyer to look after his interests, Mr. McKibben," spoke up Matt.

"Who'll pay for the lawyer?" asked Clip, turning on Matt.

"I will! Dangerfield got you into this, and I'll spend every cent paid to me for his capture to get you clear."

Clip stretched out his hands quietly, the handcuffs rattling. Matt clasped his chum's palm loyally, and Clip turned away. McKibben motioned to Leffingwell, and the prisoner was led out of the room.

"You're certainly a mighty good friend of Clipperton's," said the sheriff to Matt, "but he don't deserve it."

"You don't know him as well as I do," said Matt. "He could explain a whole lot, if he would."

"Then why don't he do it?"

"Mistaken pride," flushed Matt, "and it comes from the scurvy way people have treated him here in Phoenix."

"Then that mistaken pride," said the sheriff gravely, "is going to land him in the penitentiary."

"Not if Chub and I can save him!"

"What have you and Chub got to work on?"

"The theory you won't accept--that the real thieves, with another lot of money, are hiding away somewhere, tickled to death to think that you're on the wrong track."

"Matt," and the sheriff came close to the boy and dropped a hand on his shoulder, "you're the clear quill, and I think a heap of you, but you're going it wrong. That Injun was never born who wouldn't steal, and there's enough Injun blood in Tom Clipperton to make him a thief. Come! There's no use beating about the bush; we might just as well call a spade a spade and be done with it. Let the law take its course with Clipperton--you can't stop it."

"I _will_ stop it," declared Matt; "McReady and I will prove that Clipperton is innocent."

"I wish I had a few friends like you," muttered the sheriff.

"Same here," spoke up Fresnay, stepping forward. "Ye don't hold any grouch ag'inst me, do you, Matt?"

"No; you only did what you thought was right. And that's all Tom Clipperton did. All of you will be next to that, one of these days."

"Well," said McKibben, "I know you've got nerve, and I know that when you make up your mind to a thing you hang to it tighter than a dog to a bone. But you listen to me Matt: If you spend all your money for Clipperton you'll be sorry."

"Anyhow, you're going to write to Leavenworth?" asked Matt.

"I'll do that at once."

That was about all Matt had gained by his interview in the sheriff's office. He and Chub went out, and Chub heaved a long breath as they went down the court-house steps.

"There's a hen on somewhere, Matt," said Chub. "I'm pretty thick-headed, but I can see that. What was you whisperin' to Clip about?"

"I was trying to get him to make a clean breast of everything," replied Matt gloomily.

"And he wouldn't?"

"No; but he said I could let you in on all I know, providing you'd agree to keep it to yourself."

"Sure I'll keep it to myself. That's all to the good. Fire away."

"Come over to breakfast with me at Mrs. Spooner's. I'll tell you as we go along."

Matt began by telling Chub how Dangerfield had asked him to help in some work or other which Pima Pete knew about; then he went on to tell about the note given to Clip by Pete, of the former's call the afternoon before, and about Clip's determination to see Pete and warn him away. Then Matt made the whole thing clear by explaining that Pima Pete was Clip's uncle.

Chub was so astounded he could only whistle. They were at Mrs. Spooner's before he could make any comment one way or another, and the landlady was waiting with a badly soiled envelope addressed to Matt.

"That there letter," explained Mrs. Spooner, "was left here by the worst-lookin' greaser I calculate I ever seen. He jest said that was fer you, Matt, an' left straight off. I didn't ask his name, or anythin' else, bein' glad enough to see his back, I can tell ye."

Matt tore open the envelope and drew out a folded sheet of paper. Grimy fingers had left marks all over the paper, but the writing--a mere lead-pencil scrawl--was legible enough.

"CoM PresKot tursda be Att brigs hous wait."

That was all. No signature, and nothing but the eight misspelled words.

Was it a clue that pointed to something worth while in Clip's case?