Then a door opened slowly, while Sinclair dropped his hand on the butt
of his gun and waited. The door moved again. A head appeared and
observed him.
"Pronto!" declared Riley Sinclair, and a little man slipped into full
view.
He was a full span shorter, Riley felt, than a man had any right to be.
Moreover, he was too delicately made. He had a head of bright blond
hair, thick and rather on end. The face was thin and handsome, and the
eyes impressed Riley as being at once both bright and weary. He was
wearing a dressing gown, the first Riley had ever seen.
"Get your hands out of those pockets!" He emphasized the command with a
jerk of his gun hand, and the arms of the schoolteacher flew up over
his head. Lean, fragile hands, Riley saw them to be. Altogether it was
the most disgustingly inefficient piece of manhood that he had ever
seen.
"Slide out here, Gaspar. They's some gents here that wants to look you
over."
The voice that answered him was pitched so low as to be almost
unintelligible. "What do they want?"
"Step lively, friend! They want to see a gent that lets a woman do his
fighting for him."
He had dropped his gun contemptuously back into its holster. Now he
waved the schoolteacher to the door with his bare hands.
Gaspar sidled past as if a loaded gun were about to explode in his
direction. He reached the door, his arms still held stiffly above his
head, but, at the sight of the masked faces, one arm dropped to his
side, and the other fell across his face. He slumped against the side
of the door with a moan.
It was Judge Lodge who broke the silence. "Guilty, boys. Ain't one look
at the skunk enough to prove it?"
"Make it all fair and legal, gents," broke in Larsen.
Buck Mason strode straight up to the prisoner.
"Was you over to Quade's house yesterday evening?"
The other shrank away from the extended, pointing arm.
"Yes," he stammered. "I--I--what does all this mean?"
Mason whirled on his companions, still pointing to the schoolmaster.
"Take a slant at him, boys. Can't you read it in his face?"
There was a deep and humming murmur of approval. Then, without a word,
Mason took one of Gaspar's arms and Montana took the other. Sally Bent
ran forward at them with a cry, but the long arm of Riley Sinclair
barred her way.
"Man's work," he said coldly. "You go inside and cover your head."
She turned to them with extended hands.
"Buck, Montana, Larsen--boys, you-all ain't going to let it happen? He
_couldn't_ have done it!"
They lowered their heads and returned no answer. At that she whirled
with a sob and ran back into the house. The procession moved on, Buck
and Montana in the lead, with the prisoner between them. The others
followed, Judge Lodge uncoiling a horribly significant rope. Last of
all came Bill Sandersen, never taking his eyes from the face of Riley
Sinclair.
The latter was thoughtful, very thoughtful. He seemed to feel the eyes
of Sandersen upon him, for presently he turned to the other. "What
good's a coward to the world, Sandersen?"
"None that I could see."
"Well, look at that. Ever see anything more yaller?"
Gaspar walked between his two guards. Rather he was dragged between
them, his feet trailing weakly and aimlessly behind him, his whole body
sinking with flabby terror. The stern lip of Riley Sinclair curled.
"He's going to let it go through," said Sandersen to himself. "After
all nobody can blame him. He couldn't put his own neck in the noose."
Over the lowest limb of a great cottonwood Judge Lodge accurately flung
the rope, so that the noose dangled a significant distance from the
ground. There was a businesslike stir among the others. Denver, Larsen,
the judge, and Sandersen held the free end of the rope. Buck Mason tied
the hands of the prisoner behind him. Montana spoke calmly through his
mask.
"Jig, you sure done a rotten bad thing. You hadn't ought to of killed
him, Jig. These here killings has got to stop. We ain't hanging you for
spite, but to make an example."
Then with a dexterous hand he fitted the noose around the neck of the
schoolteacher. As the rough rope grated against Gaspar's throat, he
shrieked and jerked against the rope end that bound his hands. Then, as
if he realized that struggling would not help him, and that only speech
could give him a chance for life, he checked the cry of horror and
looked around him. His glances fell on the grim masks, and it was only
natural that he should address himself to the only uncovered face he
saw.
"Sir," he said to Riley in a rapid, trembling voice, "you look to me
like an honest man. Give me--give me time to speak."
"Make it pronto," said Riley Sinclair coldly.
The four waited, with their hands settled high up on the rope, ready
for the tug which would swing Gaspar halfway to his Maker.
"We're kind of pushed for time, ourselves," said Riley. "So hurry it
on, Gaspar."
Bill Sandersen was a cold man, but such unbelievable heartlessness
chilled him. Into his mind rushed a temptation suddenly to denounce the
real slayer before them all. He checked that temptation. In the first
place it would be impossible to convince five men who had already made
up their minds, who had already acquitted Sinclair of the guilt. In the
second place, if he succeeded in convincing them, there would be an
instant gunplay, and the first man to come under Sinclair's fire, he
knew well enough, would be himself. He drew a long breath and waited.
"Good friends, gentlemen," Gaspar was saying, "I don't even know what
you accuse me of. Kill a man? Why should I wish to kill a man? You know
I'm not a fighter. Gentlemen--"
"Jig," cut in Buck Mason, "you was as good as seen to murder. You're
going to hang. If you got anything to say make a confession."
Gaspar attempted to throw himself on his knees, but his weight struck
against the rope. He staggered back to his feet, struggling for breath.
"For mercy's sake--" began Gaspar.
"Cut it short, boys!" cried Buck Mason. "Up with him!"
The four men at the rope reached a little higher and settled their
grips. In another moment Gaspar would dangle in the air. Now Riley
Sinclair made his decision. The agonized eyes of the condemned man,
wide with animal terror, were fixed on his face. Sinclair raised his
hand.
"Wait!"
The arms, growing tense for the jerk, relaxed.
"How long is this going to be dragged out?" asked the judge in disgust.
"The worst lynching I ever see, that's what I call it! They ain't no
justice in it--it's just plain torture." "Partner," declared Riley
Sinclair, "I'm sure glad to see that you got a good appetite for a
killing. But it's just come home to me that in spite of everything,
this here gent might be innocent. And if he is, heaven help our souls.
We're done for!"
"Bless you for that!" exclaimed Gaspar.
"Shut up!" said Sinclair. "No matter what you done, you deserve hangin'
for being yaller. But concerning this here matter, gents, it looks to
me like it'd be a pretty good idea to have a fair and square trial for
Gaspar."
"Trial?" asked Buck Mason. "Don't we all know what trials end up with?
Law ain't no good, except to give lawyers a living."
"Never was a truer thing said," declared Sinclair. "All I mean is, that
you and me and the rest of us run a trial for ourselves. Let's get in
the evidence and hear the witness and make out the case. If we decide
they ain't enough agin' Gaspar to hang him, then let him go. If we
decide to stretch him up, we'll feel a pile better about it and nearer
to the truth."
He went on steadily in spite of the groans of disapproval on every
side. "Why, this is all laid out nacheral for a courtroom. That there
stump is for the judge, and the black rock yonder is where the prisoner
sits. That there nacheral bench of grass is where the jury sits. Gents,
could anything be handier for a trial than this layout?"
To the theory of the thing they had been entirely unresponsive, but to
the chance to play a game, and a new game, they responded instantly.
"Besides," said Judge Lodge, "I'll act as the judge. I know something
about the law."
"No, you won't," declared Riley. "I thought up this little party, and
I'm going to run it." Then he stepped to the stump and sat down on it.
8
Denver Jim was already heartily in the spirit of the thing.
"Sit down on that black rock, Jig," he said, taking Gaspar to the
designated stone as he spoke, and removing the noose from the latter's
neck. "Black is a sign you're going to swing in the end. Jest a
triflin' postponement, that's all."
Riley placated the judge with his first appointment. "Judge Lodge," he
said, "you know a pile about these here things. I appoint you clerk.
It's your duty to take out that little notebook you got in your vest
pocket and write down a note for the important things that's said.
Savvy?"
"Right," replied Lodge, entirely won over, and he settled himself on
the grass, with the notebook on his knee and a stub of a pencil poised
over it.
"Larsen, you're sergeant-at-arms."
"How d'you mean that, Sinclair?"
"That's what they call them that keeps order; I disremember where I
heard it. Larsen, if anybody starts raising a rumpus, it's up to you to
shut 'em up."
"I'll sure do it," declared Larsen. "You can sure leave that to me,
judge." He hoisted his gun belt around so that the gun butt hung more
forward and readier to his hand.
"Denver, you're the jailer. You see the prisoner don't get away. Keep
an eye on him, you see?"
"Easy, judge," replied Denver. "I can do it with one hand."
"Montana, you keep the door."
"What d'you mean--door, judge?"
"Ain't you got no imagination whatever?" demanded Sinclair. "You keep
the door. When I holler for a witness you go and get 'em. And
Sandersen, you're the hangman. Take charge of that rope!"
"That ain't such an agreeable job, your honor."
"Neither is mine. Go ahead."
Sandersen, glowering, gathered up the rope and draped it over his arm.
"Buck Mason, you're the jury. Sit down over there on your bench, will
you? This here court being kind of shorthanded, you got to do twelve
men's work. If it's too much for you, the rest of us will help out."
"Your honor," declared Buck, much impressed, "I'll sure do my best."
"The jury's job," explained Sandersen, "is to listen to everything and
not say nothing, but think all the time. You'll do your talking in one
little bunch when you say guilty or not guilty. Now we're ready to
start. Gaspar, stand up!"
Denver Jim officiously dragged the schoolteacher to his feet.
"What's your name?"
"Name?" asked the bewildered Gaspar. "Why, everybody knows my name!"
"Don't make any difference," announced Sinclair. "This is going to be a
strictly regular hanging with no frills left marabout's your name?"
"John Irving Gaspar."
"Called Jig for short, and sometimes Cold Feet," put in the clerk.
Sinclair cleared his throat. "John Irving Gaspar, alias Jig, alias Cold
Feet, d'you know what we got agin' you? Know what you're charged with?"
"With--with an absurd thing, sir."
"Murder!" said Sinclair solemnly. "Murder, Jig! What d'you say, guilty
or not guilty! Most generally, you'd say not guilty."
"Not guilty--absolutely not guilty. As a matter of fact, Mr.
Sinclair--"
"Denver, shut him up and make him sit down."
One hard, brown hand was clapped over Jig's mouth. The other thrust him
back on the black rock.
"Gentlemen of the jury," said his honor, "you've heard the prisoner say
he didn't do it. Now we'll get down to the truth of it. What's the
witnesses for the prosecution got to say?"
There was a pause of consideration.
"Speak up pronto," said Sinclair. "Anybody know anything agin' the
prisoner?"