“Sure not,” came several voices in chorus.
Hollis laughed. “But you took the surest way of making me appear so,” he returned.
He saw Norton’s face flush and he knew that the latter had already grasped the significance of his words. But the others, simpler of mind, reasoning by no involved process, looked at him, plainly puzzled. He would have to explain more fully to them. He did so. When he had shown them that in hanging the rustler he would be violating the principle that he had elected to defend, they stood before him abashed, thoroughly disarmed. All except Ace. The poet’s mind was still active.
“I reckon you might say you didn’t know nothin’ about us hangin’ him?” he suggested.
“So I might,” returned Hollis. “But people would not think so. And there is my conscience. It wouldn’t be such a weight upon it–the hanging of this man; I believe I would enjoy standing here and watching him stretch your rope. But I would not be able to reconcile the action with the principle for which I am fighting. I believe none of you men would trust me very much if I advocated the law one day and broke it the next. The application of this principle would be much the same as if I stole a horse to-day and to-morrow had you arrested for stealing one.”
“That’s so,” they chorused, and fell silent, regarding him with a new interest.
“But what are you goin’ to do with the cuss?” queried one man.
“We have a sheriff in Dry Bottom, I expect?” questioned Hollis.
Grins appeared on the faces of several of the men; the prisoner’s face lighted.
“Oh, yes,” said one; “I reckon Bill Watkins is the sheriff all right.”