"Ah!" Bill breathed. It was like Jim to play the trump card.
Bud Hardy lifted the revolver to his nose. It was as clean and fresh-smelling as a bit of cold steel. There could be no doubt that it had not been used, and Jim had all these men as witnesses to prove it. It would be useless to try to make a case of this. Bud knew when he was beaten. He took the revolver and handed it to Jim.
"Well, who did it, then?" He glanced at Jim's men. "Would you's all oblige me by giving me a sniff of your guns?"
The relief was so great that the men hysterically crowded Bud, and almost as one man they thrust their revolvers into Bud's face.
"Here's my smoke," said one.
Bud drew back. "One at a time—one at a time," he gasped—"if you please."
Then one by one the men filed past him as each held his revolver to Bud's nose.
"Here's my smoke-machine," Bill said. It was passed by Bud without a word.
"Und mine," said Andy.
Grouchy jerked his into Bud's face with the words, "Here's mine, and not a notch on it." And Bud could not deny the truth of the assertion.