nown. What d'you know?"

The Swede's smile did not alter in the slightest, but his voice became
blunter, more acrid. From that moment he made up his mind firmly that
he wanted to see John Irving Gaspar, otherwise Jig, hanged from the
cottonwood tree above them.

"I was over to Shorty Lander's store the other day--"

His honor raised his hand in weary protest, as he smiled apologetically
at the court. "Darned if I didn't plumb forget one thing," he said. "We
got to swear in these witnesses before they can chatter. Is there
anybody got a Bible around 'em? Nope? Montana, I wished you'd lope over
to that house and see what they got in the line of Bibles."

Montana strode away in the direction of the house, and quiet fell over
the unique courtroom. Larsen, so pleasant of face and so unbending of
heart, was the first to speak.

"Looks to me, gents, like we're wasting a lot of time on a rat!"

The blond head of Cold Feet turned, and his large, dark eyes rested
without expression upon the face of the Swede. He seemed almost
literally to fold his hands and await the result of his trial. The
illusion was so complete that even Riley Sinclair began to feel that
the prisoner might be guilty--of an act which he himself had done! The
opportunity was indeed too perfect to be dismissed without
consideration. It was in his power definitely to put the blame on
another man; then he could remain in this community as long as he
wished, to work his will upon Sandersen.

Sandersen himself was a great problem. If Bill had spoken up in good
faith to save Sinclair from the posse that morning, the Riley felt that
he was disarmed. But a profound suspicion remained with him that
Sandersen guessed his mission, and was purposely trying to brush away
the wrath of the avenger. It would take time to discover the truth, but
to secure that time it was necessary to settle the blame for the
killing. Cold Feet was a futile, weak-handed little coward. In the
stern scheme of Sinclair's life, the death of such a man was almost
less than nothing.

"Wasting a lot of time on a rat!"

The voice of Larsen fell agreeably upon the ear of his honor. Behind
that voice came a faraway murmur, the scream of a hawk. He bent his
head back and looked up through the limbs of the cottonwood into the
pale blue-white haze of the morning sky.

A speck drifted across it, the hawk sailing in search of prey. Under
the noble arch of heaven floated that fierce, malignant cre