f!"

It was recognized a good shot. Stillman retorted.

"It is wax--a breed unknown to this camp. I am ready to be searched for
the box. Are you?"

The guest was staggered this time--the dullest eye could see it. He
fumbled with his hands; once or twice his lips moved, but the words did
not come. The house waited and watched, in tense suspense, the stillness
adding effect to the situation. Presently Stillman said, gently,

"We are waiting for your decision."

There was silence again during several moments; then the guest answered,
in a low voice,

"I refuse to be searched."

There was no noisy demonstration, but all about the house one voice
after another muttered,

"That settles it! He's Archy's meat."

What to do now? Nobody seemed to know. It was an embarrassing situation
for the moment--merely, of course, because matters had taken such
a sudden and unexpected turn that these unpractised minds were not
prepared for it, and had come to a standstill, like a stopped clock,
under the shock. But after a little the machinery began to work again,
tentatively, and by twos and threes the men put their heads together and
privately buzzed over this and that and the other proposition. One
of these propositions met with much favor; it was, to confer upon the
assassin a vote of thanks for removing Flint Buckner, and let him go.
But the cooler heads opposed it, pointing out that addled brains in the
Eastern states would pronounce it a scandal, and make no end of foolish
noise about it. Finally the cool heads got the upper hand, and obtained
general consent to a proposition of their own; their leader then called
the house to order and stated it--to this effect: that Fetlock Jones be
jailed and put upon trial.

The motion was carried. Apparently there was nothing further to do now,
and the people were glad, for, privately, they were impatient to get out
and rush to the scene of the tragedy, and see whether that barrel and
the other things were really there or not.

But no--the break-up got a check. The surprises were not over yet. For
a while Fetlock Jones had been silently sobbing, unnoticed in
the absorbing excitements which had been following one another so
persistently for some time; but when his arrest and trial were decreed,
he broke out despairingly, and said,

"No! it's no use. I don't want any jail, I don't want any trial; I've
had all the hard luck I want, and all the miseries. Hang me now, and let
me out! I