The mob interrupted with hoots and a roar of abuse. Some of them pushed past Lafe and began to drag Bass forward once more. Others demanded to know what warrant the sheriff had for this extraordinary statement. They still called him "sheriff."
"Let's give him a trial," Lafe plead loudly; "let's try each of these men in turn. This man I've got here—"
He broke off, afraid to proceed further lest the swift rage of the mob include Baptismo also, and neither man secure justice. Once started, and two might swing as lightly as one.
"Why," bawled a man close to Johnson, "Bass, he done confessed. We done made him."
"You've made a mistake—" said Lafe, but they swept by him.
In the turmoil Baptismo edged off. Perceiving it, Johnson stuck a gun to his head and ordered him to ride in front or there would be no trial nor any chance for justice—simply a speedy arraignment before the Judgment Seat for Baptismo. Then he urged his horse into the thickest of the mob and, despite some rough handling, cut the rope by which the prisoner was being dragged.
"Men," he cried, "if you hang him, you've got to put me out of the way first. This man never killed Jerry Sellers."
Not one man in a hundred but would have been taken at his word. They hesitated, but the sheriff sat his horse coolly in the midst of it all, and the half-breed clung at his knee. It was impossible to argue against the outcry, or to obtain anything coherent from the medley of shouts.
In his agony of suspense Baptismo drew a pair of dice from the pocket of his chaps and began to click them in his hand. It was characteristic of the half-breed that he should be able to smile brilliantly upon the crowd even when most fearful. The sheriff saw the dice. His face lighted and he thrust forward again, shouting for quiet.
"You say that Bass is guilty. You say he's confessed. I say that I've got the murderer here. You want to hang Mordecai without a trial. I want a trial—a trial for both—and that's all we'll need. Let's throw dice."