Happily, such cries as “String him up!” “Burn the doggoned ‘lubricator’!” and other equally pleasant phrases fell unheeded upon his Spanish ear.
A jury, upon which they forced my friend, was quickly gathered in the street, and, despite refusals to serve, the crowd hurried them in behind the bar.
A brief statement of the case was made by the ci-devant advocate, and they shoved the jury into a commodious poker-room, where were seats grouped about neat, green tables. The noise outside in the bar-room by and by died away into complete silence, but from afar down the cañon came confused sounds as of disorderly cheering.
They came nearer, and again the light-hearted noise of human laughter mingled with clinking glasses around the bar.
A low knock at the jury door; the lock burst in, and a dozen smiling fellows asked the verdict.
A foreman promptly answered, “Not guilty.”
With volleyed oaths, and ominous laying of hands on pistol hilts, the boys slammed the door with, “You’ll have to do better than that!”
In half an hour the advocate gently opened the door again.
“Your opinion, gentlemen?”
“Guilty!”