Young Pat Finney was voluble in his indignation against Ike Blunt as they rode along, but Bert Cole was strangely silent. For some time Bert had been aware in a vague way that his people were held in low esteem, but this was the first time it had been brought home to him that it was a handicap personally.
“Just what was yore idee in not tellin’ ’em where we was?” Bert asked suddenly.
“Why, I figgered it’d turn out just like it did. They’d accuse you, too,” was the reply.
“On account o’ the gloves?”
“No; I didn’t think o’ the gloves, but—but—”
“On account of the reputation of the Coles,” Bert grimly finished for him.
“I guess so,” young Finney admitted. “It’s hell, Bert, for you to be blamed for what yore brothers do. I know yo’re square. Maybe yuh didn’t know it, but I seen yuh make
