“Well, gentlemen, what shall we do with the prisoner?” asks Watson.
“We’re waiting for you,” said a tall Ten Miler, who had been a pleased witness of the knife-throwing and its results.
“Well, you need not,” retorted Mr. Watson, as he made a fling at Yankee’s other eye, and with very good success. “You know my sentiments, gentlemen. I was opposed to bringing the prisoner here. We might have fixed up the matter all at one time, and saved a heap of diggin’.”
“It—might—have—done,” said the tall Miler, doubtfully; “but I wouldn’t like to see the two together. It would spoil all my enjoyment of the occasion.”
“Bet yer ten to one ye don’t swing him!” cried Watson, springing to his feet with sudden inspiration, and mounting the bench he had been whittling. “Twenty to one Jack Borlan don’t choke this heat! Who takes me? who? who?”
No one seemed disposed to take him.
“Bosh! you Ten Milers are all babies. Now, if this had happened up at Quit Claim, Borlan would have had a beautiful tombstone over him long ago. What do you say, Borlan?”
The prisoner, thus addressed, cut short some remark he was making, and turned to Watson. “There have been cases where the prisoner had the benefit of a trial, Mr. Watson.”
“Which is so, Mr. Borlan. Obliged to you fur reminding me. Let’s have one, gentlemen. I’ll be prosecuting attorney, if no one objects; now, who’ll defend the prisoner at the bar?”
“I’ll make a feeble attempt that way,” was the reply that came from the doorway. All eyes turned, and recognized Tom Ruger.