The gunfighter looked rather sheepish.
"I'm sort of superstitious," he confessed, "and when I seen that in your office the other day, Bob, I stuck it inside my shirt."
A murmur swept over the court-room and beat against the walls.
Coroner.—"You've killed six men, ain't you?"
"No, sir; you're wrong. Only four," Thomas corrected, licking his dry lips.
"Gen'l'men," said the coroner, not without sternness toward Thomas, "this hits me like so plain a case of shooting in self-defense, that I reckon we don't need to bother no more about the evidence."
"Hold on," the sheriff said. "Hold on, there; I'd like for to say something."
Being duly sworn, he started off like this: "Gentlemen, this wasn't a killing. It was a murder."
Everybody waited open-mouthed to hear more. Thomas turned on him a quick, startled glance. Then someone said: "What's the matter with you, Lafe?"
"It's just what I done said. Murder."