"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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sembly, "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."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

AFTER THE VERDICT

Peter Blunt stared helplessly up at the eastern sky. His brain was whirling, and he stared without being conscious of the reason.

He breathed heavily, like a man saturating his lungs with pure air after long confinement in a foul atmosphere. Then it almost seemed as if his great frame shrank in stature, and became suddenly a wreck of itself. As if age and decay had suddenly come upon him. As if the weight of his body had become too heavy for him, and set his great limbs tottering under it as he walked.

The excitement, the straining of thought and nerve had pa.s.sed, leaving him hopelessly oppressed, twenty years older.

The din and clamor of the final scenes in the saloon were still ringing in his ears. It was all over. The farce of Jim Thorpe's trial had been played out. But the shouts of men, hungering for the life of a fellow man, still haunted him. The voice of the accuser was still shrieking through his brain. The memory of the stern condemnation of Doc Crombie left his great heart crushed and helpless.

His brain was still whirling with all the strain he had gone through, his pulses were still hammering with the consuming anger which had raged in him as he stood beside his friend defending him to the last.

And it had all proved useless. Jim Thorpe had been condemned by the ballot of his fellow citizens. Death--a hideous, disgraceful death was to be his, at the moment when the gray dawn should first lift the eastern corner of the pall of night.

The saloon was behind Peter now. Its lights were still burning. For the condemned man was to remain there with his guards until the appointed time.

Peter remembered Jim's look when he finally bade him leave him. Could he ever forget it? He had seen death in many forms in his time. He had seen many men face it, each in his own way. But never in his life had he seen such calmness, such apparent indifference as Jim Thorpe had displayed.

When the ballot was taken and the doctor p.r.o.nounced sentence, there was never a tremor of an eyelid. There was not even one quick-drawn breath. Nor was there a suggestion of any emotion--save that of indifference.

Then when the doctor had named the manner of his death--a rawhide rope on the bough of a tree--Jim had turned with a smile to Peter.

"I'd prefer to be shot," he said quietly. "But there, I s'pose this thing must proceed by custom."

So Jim received the p.r.o.nouncement of the final penalty for a crime of which Peter was convinced he was innocent.

It had suddenly set his loyal heart longing with a mad, pa.s.sionate longing to have his great hands about the mean throat of the man Smallbones. It had set him wild with rebellion against the merciless customs which permitted such an outrage upon justice. He had even challenged the doctor in his fury, on his right to administer justice and accept the condemnation of the men gathered there for the purpose.

In his desire to serve his friend he pa.s.sed beyond the bounds of all discretion, of all safety for himself. He threatened that he would move the whole world to bring just retribution upon those who had partic.i.p.ated in that night's work. And his threats and violence had been received with a tolerant laughter. A derision more stinging and ominous than the most furious outbreak.

The work would go on. The death penalty would be carried out. He knew it. He knew it.

Then when it was all over, and the prisoner's guards had been appointed, Jim had begged him to leave him.

"Thanks, Peter, old friend," he said. And then added with a whimsical touch: "I'm tired to death of hearing your dear old voice. You've said such a heap to-night. Get along. I don't want you any more. You see you're too big, and you sure take up too much room--in my heart. So long."