Star Toter by Al Cody Page A

account for the strangeness in Ray, his subdued manner when they had first questioned him, perhaps even his admissions that he might be a thief.
    "I've been doing a lot of thinking, lately," his father went on. "I've had lots of time for that, and I began to realize that I'd been blinded by prejudice, which is a lot worse than not being able to see the sun. It came to me, when I really thought about matters, that a lot of things that I sort of took for granted just didn't fit. I guess I never did give you a square deal, Orin. You always were a good boy, and I want you to know that I remember. Tonight I've been lyin' here, praying that you'd come, so that I could tell you—before it was too late."
    Locke was deeply moved. "It's all right, Pa," he muttered. "Don't blame yourself. I understand."
    "I'm glad you do, Orin. Ray sure fooled me. I guess he more or less fooled himself, too. Sometimes that's easy to do. He ain't all bad—there's some good in him. I heard you were back, and that you were the new sheriff. Folks wouldn't give you a job like that unless they thought you were a good man and had a good record. So I got to wondering, and tonight I asked Ray. I told him I wanted the truth, and what I had figured out."
    Old Ray Locke was silent awhile, a shadow of pain across his face. Then, gathering strength, he went on, "Ray gave it to me finally—said it was the way I'd guessed. He admitted that he'd gambled and stolen that money, not you. You paid the debt and took the blame, partly for him, but mostly for me, didn't you? I never guessed that you thought as much of your old dad as all that."
    "You always meant a lot to me," Locke said huskily, thinking of the days when a real comradeship had existed between them.
    "I sure was a fool to believe such things about you, Orin, and to treat you the way I did. I wanted you to know that. I've been tryin' to fight down the pain around my heart—to keep alive until I could tell you—"
    His voice faltered. The fingers clutched convulsively at Locke's hand, then grew abruptly lax. Startled, Locke looked closer, feeling for the pulse. There was none, but there was a look of peace on the wasted face.
    Locke moved back. For the moment he had almost forgotten Ray. Now the problem was intensified. There was still no sound of any of the crew returning, no one to help. But the need was ever greater.
    There was no noticeable change in Ray's condition. He lay unconscious, almost like a dead man. Orin would have to leave him, have to ride and find Bannon. Since Ray had been man enough finally to admit the truth, to clear Orin in their father's eyes, it was easier to think kindly of him.
    Locke blew out the light and turned toward the door, then stopped at a sound. Were some of the crew returning at last?
    There was no repetition of the sound, nothing to break the stillness of the night. Standing, his muscles tense, Locke had a feeling something was wrong. Then he caught the smell of smoke, followed by the crackle of flames. The drift of smoke came from the rear of the house. Crimson-tinted light made sudden eerie shadows against a window, and in the reflection he saw a pile of brush, stacked on the porch against the door, now burning with sudden violence. That indicated that the wood must have been soaked with coal oil.
    Locke raced along a dark hallway toward the front of the house, but even before he reached it another growing patch of light indicated what he would find. A second pile of brush had been shoved against the door and also lit. A third blaze was at the side of the house, all three spreading with terrifying speed.
    Rage threatened to choke him, but Locke fought it down, for this was the time for a cool head. Was this the work of that self-styled vigilance committee, or was another bunch responsible? In any case, the perpetrators didn't intend that anyone should leave here alive.
    There was just one thing to be thankful for. His father, ill and blind moments before, was