CHAPTER 22A CELEBRATION
A lad came up on a running horse, and pitched out of the saddle as he reached the door of the shed. He came to look at the wounded man, but Blue Barry turned him back.
“He’s pretty sick,” said Barry Litton. “Back up, and give him air for a while.”
The boy jerked his shoulders.
“Here’s something for you from the sheriff,” he said.
It was the briefest of notes:
Dear Barry:
Come quick, and come by the back way. I got to see you. You needn’t make much noise.
Yours faithfully,
Dick Wilson.
Barry thanked the boy, slid a saddle on the mare, and cantered out of Holy Creek, turned behind the low hummocks to the right, then sped back down the side of the town, but hidden from it. In a close little grove of poplars, he left the horse, swung himself over a high board
