"Very natural! I must see him. From what you said already, he doesn't strike me as a fool. Well, I don't think you need worry too much, Mr. Ormesby."
Dixon had resumed his careless manner before he left me, and, for no particular reason, I felt comforted. We had several more interviews before the trial began, and I can vividly remember the morning I was summoned into court. It was packed to suffocation, and the brilliant sunshine that beat in through the long windows fell upon faces that I knew. Their owners were mostly poor men, and I surmised had covered the long distance on horseback, sleeping on the prairie, to encourage me. There was, indeed, when I took my stand a suppressed demonstration that brought a quicker throb to my pulses and a glow into my face. It was comforting to know that I had their approbation and sympathy. If the life I had caught brief glimpses of at Bonaventure was not for me, these hard-handed, tireless men were my equals and friends—and I was proud of them.
So it was in a clear, defiant voice I pleaded "Not guilty!" and presently composed myself to listen while Sergeant Mackay detailed my arrest. Bronzed faces were turned anxiously upon him when he was asked: "Did the prisoner volunteer any statement, or offer resistance?"
Mackay looked down at the men before him, and there was a significant silence in the body of the court. Then, with a faint twinkle in his eyes, he answered: "There was a bit demonstration at the station in the prisoner's favor, but he assisted us in maintaining order. The charge, he said, was ridiculous."
This I considered a liberal view to take of what had passed and my own comments, and, though I knew that Mackay was never addicted to unfairly making the most of an advantage, I remembered Dixon's opinion. If he were actuated by any ulterior motive, I had, however, no inkling of what it might be.
Nothing of much further importance passed until the man who had preferred the charge against me took his stand; when, watching him intently, I was puzzled by his attitude. He appeared irresolute, though I felt tolerably certain that his indecision was quite untinged with compunction on my account. He had also a sullen look, which suggested one driven against his will, and, twice before he spoke, made a slight swift movement, as though under the impulse of a changed resolution.
"I am the owner of the lands and remains of the homestead known as Gaspard's Trail," he said. "I bought them at public auction when sold by the gentleman who held the prisoner's mortgage. Twice that day the latter threatened both of us, and his friends raised a hostile demonstration. He told me to take care of myself and the property, for he would live to see me sorry; but I didn't count much on that. Thought he was only talking when naturally a little mad. Have had cause to change my opinions since. I turned in early on the night of the fire and slept well, I and my hired man, Wilkins, being the only people in the house. Wilkins wakened me about two in the morning. 'Get up at once! Somebody has fired the place!' he said.
"I got up—in a mighty hurry—and got out my valuables. One end of the house was 'most red-hot. There wasn't much furniture in it. The prisoner had cleared out 'most everything, whether it was in the mortgage schedule or whether it was not; but there was enough to keep me busy while Wilkins lit out to save the horses. Wind blew the sparks right on to the stable. I went out when I'd saved what I could, and as Wilkins had been gone a long time, concluded he'd made sure of the horses. Met the prisoner when I was carrying tools out of a threatened shed. Asked him to help me. 'I'll see you burned before I stir a hand,' he said. Noticed he was skulking round the corner of a shed, and seemed kind of startled at the sight of me, but was too rattled to think of much just then. Didn't ask him anything more, but seeing the fire had taken hold good, sat down and watched it. Yes, sir, I told somebody it wasn't insured.
"By-and-by the prisoner came back with a dozen ranchers. Didn't seem friendly, or even civil, most of them, and there was nothing I could do. Then I got worried about Wilkins, for he'd been gone a long time, and the stable was burning bad. One of the ranchers said he'd make sure there were no beasts inside it, and the prisoner and the rest went along. They found Wilkins with some bones broken, and got him and the horses out between them. Then, when the place was burnt out, Sergeant Mackay rode up. I was homeless; but none of the ranchers would take me in. Somebody said he wasn't sorry, and I'd got my deserts. Believe it was the prisoner; but can't be certain. That's all I know except that before I turned in I saw all the lamps out and fixed up the stove. Am certain the fire didn't start from them.
"I was hunting among the ruins with Wilkins a little while ago when I found a flattened coal-oil-tin under some fallen beams in the kitchen. I never used that oil, but heard at the railroad store that the prisoner did. Mightn't have taken the trouble to inquire, but that I found close beside it a silver match-box. It was pretty well worn, but anyone who will look at it close can read that it was given to H. Ormesby. Considering the prisoner must have dropped it there, I handed both to the police."