Just then--"Sheriff! sheriff!" (It was the widda, one hand helt out
towards him.)
A great idear come to me then. I put my best friend back into my pocket.
"I won't interfere fer a while yet," I says to myself. "Mebbe this
is where they'll be a show-down."
"Cupid," says Bergin, "what's the matter?"
I fit my way to him. "They think you throwed this rock, here," I
answers.
"The low-down, ornery, lay-in-the-sun-and-snooze good-fer-nothin's is
likely t' think 'most _any_ ole thing," he says. "Pedro, let go my
arm."
Just then, one of the cholos come runnin' up with a rope!
The section-boss seen things was gittin' pretty serious. He begun to
wrastle with the feller that had the rope. Next, all the women and kids
set up another howlin', Mrs. Bridger cryin' the worst. But I wasn't
ready to play my last card. I stepped out in front of the gang and helt
up my hand.
"Boys," I says; "_boys! Give_ the man a chanst t' talk. Why, this
rock ain't like the rocks on the Butte."
"You blamed idjits!" yells Bergin. "Use you' haids! How could _I_
'a' hefted the darned thing?"
"Aw, he _couldn't_ 'a' done it!" (This from the widda, mind
y',--hands t'gether, and comin' clost.)
"Thank y', little woman," says the sheriff.
(Say! that was _better_.)
[Illustration: "_He pulled his gun, they jerked it outen his
hand_"]
But the cholos wasn't a-foolin'--they was in dead earnest. Next minute,
part of 'em grabbed Bergin, got that rope 'round him, and begun
draggin' him towards a telegraph pole.