“Judge” Charlie Slaughter called court in Gale’s saloon. All the boys were there, and most of the tramps—(they were not in on the joke). The station-agent was made counsel for the defense, and the trial began, with all the formalities that anybody could remember or invent.
A weird vision blew over from the hotel—a frock-coated, high-hatted, gold-eye-glassed, bold-faced man with an elbow crooked in latest fashion. He would have been a spectacle, ordinarily, but now we accepted him as a man and brother. We explained the situation to him, and that all the boys had blank cartridges.
McClusky and Jones testified to the killing. They made it wanton and deliberate murder. Ominous growls arose from Roman populace. Prisoner’s counsel cross-examined unmercifully, but they stuck.
The prisoner told his side—told it straight, too. He broke down, cried, and begged for mercy, said his life was sworn away, that Brown was the guilty man. Some of the fun departed.
The judge said witnesses for the prosecution were trustworthy men of high standing, and committed the prisoner to jail at Hillsboro to await action of the grand jury.
“Lynch him! Lynch him!” shouted Boucher, jumping up. The judge promptly fined him fifty dollars for contempt of court, which was as promptly paid, Boucher borrowing the money of Gale. Every one was as solemn as an owl.
“Any further advocacy of lynchin’ in this court,” said Slaughter sternly, “will get the offending man or men three months in jail. There is no doubt in my mind as to the prisoner’s guilt, but if he’s executed it will be by due process of law. Mr. Sheriff, swear in deputies to guard this prisoner. Take him to Hillsboro on the midnight train.”
So Mossman appointed his brother Dana, Kim Ki Rogers, Pink Murray, Frank Calhoun and Henry Street. Then Slaughter adjourned.
Mossman and his posse were about half-way to the depot when the whole crowd overtook him.
“Now, Burt,” said Boucher, “we don’t want any trouble with you—but we want that man, and we’re going to have him.”