"Shore he's all right!" said the first voice, "an' so's Bill Watson all right. But what's the use?"
"Loco, of course the Greaser's loco," broke in another speaker. "So's a mad dog loco. But about the best thing's to kill it, so'st it's safer to be roun'."
Silence fell upon the crowd. The Texan continued. "We always did," he said.
"Yes," said another voice. "That's right. We always did."
"Curly'll never let him go," said one irrelevantly. "Seems to me we better sen' this Greaser off to the States, put him in a 'sylum, er somethin'."
"Yes," said the tall Texan; "and I like to know ef that ain't a blame sight worse'n hangin' a man?"
"That's so," assented several voices. And indeed to these men, born and bred in the free life of the range, the thought of captivity was more repugnant than the thought of death.
"The lawyer feller, he ain't to blame," said one apologetically. "He made things look right plain. He ain't no fool."
"Well, I don't know as he helt no aidge over ole Claib Benson," said another argumentatively. "Claib puts it mighty powerful."
"Yes, but," said the other eagerly, "Claib means fer hangin' by the
Co'te."