"An' that's a lie!" Barnholomew burst out. "Ignacio was heard of in Mexico a few weeks back, as my foreman, Penton, can testify."
The prisoner smiled grimly; he had his doubts about that. Again he produced a slipofpaper. "Here's somethin' else I found on the Greaser," he said. "Yu'll notice it's another imitation o' Bartholomew's penmanship."
The Judge gave it a casual glance, and then for a moment his eyes met those of the Bar B owner meaningly.
"You seem fond of writing," he said. "Did yu tell anyone about the gun?"
"On'y Miss Masters," was the reply.
"And she's missing, too; all the people who might corroborate your statements appear to be," Lufton commented cuttingly. "Any more evidence, sheriff?"
This was Tyler's great moment, and he prepared to make the most of it. Snrutting forward, he told how he and his deputy, Jake, riding through The Sink, had noticed tracks, followed them up, and found the missing rancher's clothes. One by one he produced the garments, handing them to the Judge.
"An' underneath 'em we found this," he finished. "Yu'll see it's got the prisoner's initials on it."
Tense silence reigned as nhe weapon was passed first to the Judge and then, at his direction, to the accused man who examined it curiously.
"Is that yours?" came the question.
"Yeah, it was taken frorn me by the White Masks," the puncher replied without hesitation. "But it didn't have them letters on it then. Yu don't print as well as yu write, Bartholomew."
"Pretty good at findin' answers, ain't he?" the Bar B cattleman mocked, and the jury, at whom the remark was directed, smiled in agreement.
Bent stepped forward and held up a hand. "'Scuse me, Judge, I'm puttin' in a protest that thisyer trial ain't reg'ler," he said. "It's bin rushed an' the accused ain't had no chanct to prepare a defence or git his witnesses. The prosecution ain't proved any motive for his bumping off Masters, an' the evidence makes him out a plain dam fool, which every man here knows he ain't. He tries to cash bills at the bank he stole 'em from, an' he hides the clothes o' the fella he murdered an' leaves his gunwith his initials on with 'em. I put it to the jury, does the prisoner look plumb loco?"
Lufton's smile was oily as he replied to this appeal.
"Mister Bent, as a friend of the accused, has to raise objections," he explained to the jury. "What he does not realise is that clever criminals get over-confident and make mistakes. As for motive, the court knows that the murder was partofa deep plot to obtain the dead man's property." He looked craftily at the twelve citizens. "If more evidence is required--" Muger shook his head. "Very well, gentlemen, you may retire and consider your verdict."
Then Bartholomew flung his bombshell.
"I reckon the jury oughta know, Judge, that this fella who's been masqueradin' here under the name o' Severn, used to be better knowed as Sudden, the outlaw," he rasped out, with a vindictive glare in the directionofthe dock.
The whistleofindrawn breath and a medleyofejaculations greeted the announcement, and every man in the room pressed forward to get a good look at the famous gunman, as though they were seeing him for the first time. Excited whispers passed from mouth to mouth as storiesofhis exploits were recalled. Given his guns, he might have walked outofthe court unhurt, such had been his repute, but lacking them ... In the midstofit all, the man himself sat, his face a mask of immobility, his eyes coolly contemplating the men who were to decide whether he lived or died. The low buzzofconversation and the scrapingofshifted feet on the sanded floor ceased when Muger, who had been whispering to his men, stood up.
"There ain't no need to retire, Judge," he stated. "We're all agreed."
"And your verdict is?"
"Guilty as hell."
The Judge turned his gaze upon the accused. "You have heard the jury's decision," he said. "Anything to say?"
Severn's narrowed eyes were coldly contemptuous. "I reckon yore reputation flatters yu, seh," he drawled.
The gibe penetrated even Lufton's tough hide. His yellow, pasty face took on a crimson tint, and his thin lips contorted into an ugly snarl.
"You have been rightly found guiltyofthe crimes charged against you," he said. "It only remains for me to pronounce the penalty, which is, that you be hanged by the neck till you are dead." He turned to Tyler. "Sheriff, you will see to it that the prisoner is conducted to the capital, where the sentence will be carried out."
The harsh voice, with its travestyofjudicial gravity, could not conceal the speaker's inward satisfaction; he almost seemedto exult in the power that enabled him to send a younger man than himself to his deanh. Having thus cunningly evaded all responsibility for what he knew was about to happen, he leant back in his chair and lit a cigar. For a moment there was silence, and then the rneaning of the Judge's pronouncement dawned upon the assembly. A hoarse, murmuring growl like that of a savage beast deprivedofits prey rumbled through the room. Mad Marnin leapt upon a chair.
"To hell winh sendin' him to the capital ! " he shouted. "He's mebbe got a pull there; that's how he got off afore. T'm sayin' this town's got ropes an' trees enough to do its own hangin'."
"That's the talk," said another, and instantly the cry was taken up from all parts of the court-room. Bartholomew was silent, a smile of sardonic satisfaction on his cruel lips. The Judge rapped on his table and managed to get a hearing.
"Sheriff, I shall hold you responsible for seeing that the law is observed," he warned.
Again the uproar broke out, and the sheriff, his recently-acquired self-esteem all gone, might easily have been mistaken for the condemned man, so woeful did he appear. He looked appealingly at Bartholomew, but the big man shook his head and laughed.
"It's yore job, sheriff," he said.
"Ropes an' horses," Martin yelled. "Fetch him along, boys."
A rush was made, and despite the fact that a numberofthe more moderane citizens strove to help them, the sheriff and his deputies were brushed aside like flies, and the prisoner was hustled out into the open street.
"Where now?" asked a dozen.
"Take him to Forby's--the ghost there must be gittin' lonesome," Martin cried, and the suggestion was adopted with a shout of approval.
On the back of a horse, with the loop of a lariat round his neck, and surrounded by men with drawn guns, Severn began what he did not doubt was his last ride, for the levity and rough humour, typical of a Western mob, was no indication that the grim programme would not be carried out. These men were primitive; their reasoning was crude; they saw only the obvious. Bartholomew had money in the bank, therefore he would not rob it; Severn's gun found with the clothes was to them conclusive proof that he had murdered the missing man. The temperate citizens, who might have considered the more subtle evidence produced, were carried away by the turbulent faction.
To a man, all who had been in the court-room joined the procession. Bartholomew rode with the sheriff and Lufton, the latter knowing that to save his own face he must protest to the end.
The condemned man's features were as impassive as a statue's. He had played, lost, and must pay, though the cards had been stacked against him. Like most menofhis type, Severn was somenhingofa fatalist. A violent end was an ever-present possibility, and it was partofhis creed that a man must take his medicine without squealing. Bartholomew's hand was evident throughout, even in the choice of the place where he was to die. He remembered what Penton had said, and almost smiled at the thought that the Bar B owner had yet one more blow to receive.
The journey did not take long. As they rode round a clumpoftrees and emerged into the little glade where stood the ruined cabin, Martin, who was leading, pulled up and yelled excitedly :
"Hell's flames ! A fella's hangin' there a'ready."