"I do not acknowledge the jurisdiction of Judge Lynch," said the man; "you are a tribunal of assassins."
"As you please," replied the Canadian; "but your silence will be treated as a confession of guilt."
The accused shuddered.
"Why, instead of leaving me to die in the prairie, was I brought here?" he asked; "Is hospitality a mere trick?"
"The man is right," cried George; "I cannot suffer such things to pass under my roof. I protest, in the name of humanity, against all that is being done. You dishonour me by acting in this manner here."
"The jurisdiction of Judge Lynch is universal in the desert," was the cold reply; "none can check it. This man is an outlaw of the prairies, a man of blood and crime. Louis Querehard, Paul Sambrun, Tom Mitchell, and half a dozen aliases—you see we know you well—eleven days ago you basely attacked an old man in charge of a young girl; you killed the old man from behind at the Elk's Leap. Where is the young girl?"
"Base calumny," cried the wounded man, sitting up suddenly; "I know not what you mean. I killed no old man."
"I repeat that you killed the old man and stole away the girl. I have the proofs," he answered.
The wounded man sat biting his lips with rage.
"This morning," continued Bright-eye, "you quarrelled with one of your accomplices, while crossing this valley, and fell from the treachery of your fellow bandit."