Being simple-hearted, Collins was imposed on for the time being by Shirley's argument, and while he was listening to it he really believed that it might be true; but as he slowly returned to the dugout, his good sense asserted itself and he saw the utter falsity of the fellow's reasoning.
Knowing how deeply troubled Mr. Willett was by the uncertain fate of his beloved son, Collins said nothing to him about the decision of the vigilantes till the following morning.
After breakfast Collins repeated the talk at the saloon the night before, and added:
"I hope the feller's right 'bout the boy's safety."
"Ah, I wish he were," sighed Mr. Willett. "But if my dear boy were living, and he could get to me, sleep would not touch his eyes till he was again at my side."
"Thar's one thing in partiklar I'd like to git out of this scrape for," said Hank, and on being asked by Brill what that thing was, he continued:
"I'd like to lick that lyin' slanderin' cowardly Shirley. Only to think of a critter like him accusin' young Sam Willett of doin' a low, mean trick. Ah, he's a dirty dog, if one ever came west of the Sierra Madres."
Up to this time Mr. Willett had not explained to Collins and Si Brill, Shirley's reasons for desiring to see his son dead and himself out of the way. He did so now.
"Wa'al!" exclaimed Brill, "that thar explanation shows the culled pusson in the wood-pile, as clar as daylight. Ah, I only wish Bob Sturgis—he was a lawyer—didn't leave camp when he did; but I'll see that you have a show to defend yourself, if we've got to fight for it?"
While the sturdy miner was speaking, two rough looking men—they were the worst element in the vigilance committee—appeared in the doorway and one of them called out: