“Yes, but it’s the truth,” cried Dallas firmly. “Hands off, gentlemen. We shall not try to run away.”
“Now, then: these three gentlemen say they have been robbed on the road.”
“And I say it is false. That man is a liar and a thief—a would-be murderer.”
“Well,” cried the red-bearded man again. “Did you ever, mates?”
“No,” cried one of the others. “Why, he talks like a play actor.”
“Look here, gentlemen,” cried the third excitedly, and he rose, planted a foot on the bench, and bared his bound-up leg, “here’s that tall un’s shot as went through my calf here. I’m as lame as a broken-kneed un.”
A murmur of sympathy ran through the place, and Dallas spoke out again as Abel looked quietly round at the grim faces lowering through the smoke.
“Look here, gentlemen, I can prove my words,” cried Dallas.
“Very well, then,” said the dark, square-looking man, “prove them; you shall not be condemned unheard.”
A chill ran through the young man at the other’s judicial tone, and the name of Judge Lynch rose to his mind. But he spoke out firmly.