He shook his head. "No. They wanted to appoint some one,—a renegade lawyer from the States, Bill Brown,—but I declined him. He's taken the other side, now. It's lynch law, you know, and their minds are made up. They're bound to get me."
"I wish there were time to hear your side."
"But, Frona, I am innocent. I—"
"S-sh!" She laid her hand on his arm to hush him, and turned her attention to the witness.
"So the noospaper feller, he fight like anything; but Pierre and me, we pull him into the shack. He cry and stand in one place—"
"Who cried?" interrupted the prosecuting lawyer.
"Him. That feller there." The Scandinavian pointed directly at St. Vincent. "And I make a light. The slush-lamp I find spilt over most everything, but I have a candle in my pocket. It is good practice to carry a candle in the pocket," he affirmed gravely. "And Borg he lay on the floor dead. And the squaw say he did it, and then she die, too."
"Said who did it?"
Again his accusing finger singled out St. Vincent. "Him. That feller there."
"Did she?" Frona whispered.