Peter had been talking.  Now he paused listening.  Jake and Gay turned their eyes toward the swing doors.  Silas Rocket, who had availed himself of the respite to wipe a few glasses, paused in his work.  He, too, was listening.  But the almost mechanical process of cleaning glasses was resumed at once.  Not even life or death could long interfere with his scheme of money-making.  He had seen too much of the forceful side of his customers in his time to let such a thing as a simple murder interfere with his long established routine.

It was Jim who now spoke.  He was the calmest of those present, except perhaps Silas Rocket.  He appeared to have no fear of the consequences of this affair to himself.  Perhaps it was the confidence of innocence.  Perhaps it was the great courage of a brave man for whom death even a disgraceful death has no terrors.  Perhaps it was the knowledge of what he was saving the woman he loved, which served to inspire him.  His eyes were even smiling as he looked into Peter’s.

“They’re coming along,” he said, with one ear turned toward the door.

Peter nodded.

“It’s them, sure,” he said.

“I ken hear the buckboard.  It’s movin’ slow,” said Gay solemnly.

“Which means they got him,” added Jake conclusively.

“We’ll have a drink first,” said Jim.  Then he added whimsically, “Maybe we’ll need it.”

The silent acceptance of his invitation was due to the significance of their host’s position.  And afterward the glasses were set down empty upon the counter, without a word.  Then Jim turned to Peter, and his manner was a trifle regretful.  But that was all.  An invincible purpose shone in his dark eyes.

“They’ll be here in a minute, Peter,” he said, with a shadowy smile.  “I’ve got a word to say before they get around.  We’ve been good friends, and now, at the last, I’d hate you to get a wrong notion of things.  I call God to witness that I did not kill Will Henderson.  It’s because we’re friends I tell you this, now.  It’s because these folk are going to hang me.  You can stake your last cent on that being the truth, and if you don’t get paid in this world, I sure guess you will in the next.  Well here they are.”

As he finished speaking the doors were pushed open and men began to stream in.  It was a curiously silent crowd.  For these men a death, even a murder, had little awe.  They understood too well the forceful methods of the back countries, where the laws of civilization had difficulty in reaching.  They had too long governed their own social affairs without appeal to the parent government.  What could Washington know of their requirements?  What could a judge of the circuit know of the conditions in which they lived?  They preferred their own methods, drastic as they were and often wrong in their judgments.  Yet, on the whole, they were efficacious and salutary.  Life and death were small enough matters to them, but the career of a criminal, and its swift termination, short, sharp and violent, was of paramount importance.  It was the thought that they believed there was justice, their own justice, to be dealt out to a criminal that night, that now depressed them to an awed silence.

Three or four men placed several of the small tables together, forming them into a sort of bier.  Then they stood by while others pushed their way in through the swing doors.  Finally, two men stood just inside, holding the doors open, while two of the ranchmen carried in their ominous, silent burden.  Doc Crombie was the last but one to enter.  The man who came last was the evil-minded hardware dealer.  His eyes were sparkling, and his thin lips were tightly compressed.  Now he had an added score to pay off.  Nor was he particular to whom he paid it.

The body of the murdered man was laid upon the tables, and Silas Rocket provided a shroud.

Jim Thorpe watched these proceedings with the keenest interest.  Never for a moment did he remove his eyes from the dead man, until the dirty white tablecloth had been carelessly thrown over him.  He had in his mind many things during those moments.  At first he had looked for his own telltale knife.  But evidently it had been removed.  There was no sign of its hideous projecting handle as he had last seen it.  Neither had he noticed any one bearing his blood-stained handkerchiefs.  He thought that Doc Crombie had possessed himself of these things, and expected he would produce them at the proper moment.

Somehow he felt a curious regret that Will was dead.  It was not a mawkish sentimentality; he made no pretension, even to himself, that the regard that had once been his for Will still existed.  But he was sorry.  Sorry that the man’s road had carried him to such disaster.  He remembered Peter’s definition of the one-way trail.  Will’s path had certainly been a hard one, and he had traveled every inch of it with well, he had traveled it.

Then came the thought, the ironical thought, that after all their paths were not so very wide apart now.  They had grown up together, and now, at the end, in spite of everything, death was bringing them very near together again.

But his reflections were cut short by the sharp voice of the doctor.  His authority was once more undisputed.  He stood out in the centre of the room, a lean, harsh figure.  His eagle face, with its luminous eyes, was full of power, full of a stern purpose.

“Folks,” he began, “murder has been done sheer, bloody murder.  When fellers gits busy with guns, an’ each has his chance, an’ one of ’em gits it bad, we call that killing.  Fair, square killing, an’ I guess we treat it accordin’.  But this is low-down murder.  We was told it was a stabbing, but I’ve cast my eyes over the body, an’ I seem to see a different story.  Judging by what I found, I’d say Will Henderson was hit a smashin’ blow by something heavy, which must sure ‘a’ knocked him senseless, an’ then the lousy skunk did the rest of his work with a knife.  Gents, I allow this murder was the work of a dirty, cowardly, mean-spirited skunk who hadn’t the grit to face his enemy decently with a gun, and who doesn’t need a heap of mercy when we get him.  That’s how I read the case.  All of you have seen the body, so I need say no more on this.”

Then he turned his keen eyes on Jim Thorpe, who had listened closely.

“You, Jim Thorpe, brought us word of this doing.  An’ in the interests of justice to his widow, to your feller citizens, your duty’s clear.  You got to tell us right here everything you know about Will Henderson’s death.”

There was an ominous pause when the doctor finished speaking, while all eyes were focused upon Jim’s face.  There was no doubt but that the majority were looking for signs of that guilt which in their hearts they believed to be his.

But they were doomed to disappointment.  They certainly saw a change of expression, for Jim was puzzled.  Why had Doc Crombie not produced the knife and the handkerchiefs?  But perhaps he wanted his story first, and then would confront him with the evidence against him.  Yet his manner was purely judicial.  It in no way suggested that he possessed damning evidence.

He looked fearlessly around, and his gaze finally settled upon the doctor’s face.

“I’m puzzled, Doc,” he said quietly.  “There’s certainly something I can’t make out.  I told you all I had to tell,” he went on.  “I was out on the south side of that bluff, for reasons which I told Anthony Smallbones were my own business, when I found Will Henderson lying dead in the grass, a few feet from some bushes.  I did not at first realize he was dead.  I saw the wound on his jaw, and, touching it, discovered the bone was broken.  Then I discovered that his clothes were torn open, his chest bare, and a large knife, such as any prairie man carries in his belt, was sticking in his chest, plunged right up to the hilt.”  There was a stir, and a murmur of astonishment went round the room.  “Wait a moment,” he continued, holding up his hand for silence.  “I discovered more than that.  I found two handkerchiefs, a white one, ripped into a rough bandage, and a silk neck scarf, such as many of us wear, was folded up into a sort of pad.  Both were blood-stained, and looked as though they had been used as bandages for his face.  They were lying a yard away from the body.  Have you got those things, because, if so, they ought to be a handsome clue for sure?”

But by the expression of blank astonishment, even incredulity on the doctor’s face, and a similar response from most of the onlookers, it was obvious that this was all news to them.

Doc shook his head.

“Ther’ was no knife no scarves.  But say,” he asked sharply, “why didn’t you speak of ’em before?”

“It didn’t occur to me.  I thought you’d sure find ’em.  So I guess they’ve been removed since.  Probably the murderer thought them incriminating ”

“A hell of a fine yarn.”  It was Smallbones’ voice that now made itself heard.  “Say, don’t you’se fellows see his drift?  It’s a yarn to put you off, an’ make you think the murderer’s been around while he’s been in here.  Guess him an’ his friend Peter’s made it up while I ”

“After I threw you out of here,” interjected Peter coldly.  “Keep your tongue easy, or I’ll have to handle you again.”

But Smallbones’ fury got the better of him, and he meant to annoy Peter all he could.

“Yes, I dessay you would.  But you can’t blind us like a lot of gophers with a dogone child’s yarn like that.  If those things had been there they’d ha’ been there when Will was found by Doc Say,” he cried, turning with inspiration upon Jim, “wher’s your knife?  You mostly carry one.  I see your sheath, but ther’ ain’t no knife in it.”

He pointed at the back of Jim’s waist, which was turned toward him.  Every eye that could see the sheath followed the direction of the accusing finger, and a profound sensation stirred those who beheld.  The sheath was empty.

Smallbones’ triumph urged him on.

“Say, an’ where’s your neck-scarf?  You allus wear one, sure.  An’ mebbe you ain’t got your dandy white han’k’chief.  I ’lows you’re ’bout the on’y man in these parts ‘cep’ Abe Horsley as fancies hisself enough to wear one.  Wher’s them things, I ask you?  Say,” he went on after a moment’s pause, during which Jim still remained silent, “I accuse this lousy skunk publicly of murderin’ Will Henderson.  He’s convicted hisself out o’ his own mouth, an’ he’s got the man’s blood on his hands.  Jim Thorpe, you killed Will Henderson!”

The little man’s fervor, his boldness, his shrewd argument carried his audience with him, as he stood pointing dramatically at the accused but unflinching man.  Doc Crombie was carried along with the rest even against his own judgment.  Peter Blunt and Angel Gay, with Jake Wilkes, were the only men present who were left unconvinced.  Peter’s eyes were sternly fixed on the beady eyes of Smallbones.  Gay, too, in his slow way, was furious.  But Jake would not have believed Jim had committed the murder even if he had seen him do it, he detested Smallbones so much.

But everybody was waiting for Jim’s reply to the challenge.  And it came amidst a deathly silence.  It came with a straightforwardness that carried conviction to three of his hearers at least, and set the redoubtable doctor wondering if he were dreaming.

“You’re quite right I usually wear all those things you say, but I haven’t got them with me now, because” he smiled into the little man’s eyes, “the particular articles I spoke of were all mine, and, apparently, now they’ve been stolen.”

“Guilty, by Gad!” roared Smallbones.

And some one near him added

“Lynch him!  Lynch him!”

How that cry might have been taken up and acted upon, it needs little imagination to guess.  But quick as thought Doc Crombie came to Jim’s rescue.  He silenced the crowd with a roar like some infuriated lion.

“The first man that moves I’ll shoot!” he cried, behind the brace of leveled pistols he was now holding at arm’s length.

He stood for a few seconds thus till order was restored, then he quietly returned one of his guns to its holster, while the other he retained in his hand.  He turned at once to Jim.

“You’re accused of the murder of Will Henderson by Smallbones,” he said simply.  “You’ve got more of this story back of your head.  You’ve now got your chance of ladlin’ it out to clear yourself.  You’d best speak.  An’ the quicker the better.  You say the knife that killed him was yours.  Yes?”

The man’s honest intention was obvious.  He wanted to give Jim a chance.  He was doing his utmost.  But he knew the temper of these men, and he knew that they were not to be played with.  It was up to the accused man to clear himself.

Peter Blunt anxiously watched Jim’s face.  There was something like despair in his honest eyes.  But he could do nothing without the other’s help.

Jim looked straight into the doctor’s eyes.  There was no defiance in his look, neither was there anything of the guilty man in it.  It was simply honest.

“I’ve told you all I have to tell,” he said.  “The knife that killed Will Henderson was my knife.  But I swear before God that I am innocent of his death!”

The doctor turned from him with an oath.  And curiously enough his oath was purely at the man’s obstinacy.

“Fellers,” he said, addressing the assembly, “I’ve been your leader for a goodish bit, an’ I don’t guess I’m goin’ back on you now.  We got a code of laws right here in Barnriff with which we handle sech cases as this.  Those laws’ll take their course.  We’ll try the case right here an’ now.  You, Smallbones, will establish your case.”  Then he turned to Jim.  “If there’s any feller you’d like ”

“I’ll stand by Jim Thorpe,” cried Peter Blunt, in a voice that echoed throughout the building.

Doc Crombie nodded.

“Gentlemen, the court is open.”