A couple of citizens came dragging in another prisoner, a red-eyed and ferociously angry person, and I knew by Judge Kingsley’s expression that the round-up was complete.
“Who says I did it? Who says I—”
“I say so!” I told him. “You held me up and you asked me to buy twine and pencil for you.”
“That’s right,” stated the merchant. “The gent is right.”
“Of course it looked all square to me,” I said. “I never heard how claim-jumpers worked!” I told them. “I saw he had been drinking and I thought the string-and-pencil notion was only his bee buzzing!”
It was reckless lying, but that crowd was too much excited to bother with mere details.
“Why, you mutt-jawed smokestack, you, I never laid eyes on you in all my life!” raged Dawlin.
“I reckon my memory is a little better than yours, for I wasn’t drunk,” I reminded him.
The sheriff was obliged to assign two more men to the controlling of Mr. Dawlin, who was a husky chap. He was far too much occupied to pay any attention to the judge, who stood in a corner and goggled at me with plain and sure conviction that I had gone stark, staring crazy.
“I’ll bet you a thousand dollars,” roared Pratt, “that—”