“Well, I’ll tell you, Jim. They’d be afraid of Fisty’s friends, for one thing. Ross is an outsider, and there’s always a bunch glad to see an outsider get the worst of it. Besides, Fisty isn’t worth spending the money on to convict. He’s all in, and I’m going to prove it to you. But here comes Bill,” he said, as the clerk entered. “We’ll go up to my room.”
“Now,” continued the sheriff, as he closed the door of his sanctum-sanctorum above, “I’m going to hand it to you straight.”
Cameron, astride a chair, tilted back and forth expectantly.
“In the first place, Jim, you haven’t got anything against Fisty but the shooting, have you?”
“Nope—ain’t got no scrap with him aside of that.”
“All you’re itching for is to see justice administered, isn’t it?” The sheriff’s eyes twinkled in a preternaturally grave face.
“That’s it!” Cameron’s chair thumped to the floor.
“And now that Barney Axel’s over in Canada, you’d be the chief witness for the State?”
“That’s me.”
“And that’s why you want to see Fisty on trial.” Cameron’s hand was raised in expostulation, but the sheriff continued hurriedly. “I thought so. Now, Jim, there’s more ways than one of straightening a man out, and the law isn’t always the best or surest way. I’ve found out that.”