Silas Rocket’s saloon was more than usually desirable just now. There was so much news of an exciting nature going about. Of course, fertile invention was brought to bear in its purveyance, but that only made it the more exciting.
On the morning that brought Jim Thorpe into Barnriff many of the men of the village were partaking of a general hash up of the overnight dish of news, to which was added the delectable condiment of Jim’s sudden advent in their midst. From the windows of the saloon his movements were closely watched, as, also, were they from many of the village houses. Speculation was rife. Curious eyes and bitter thoughts were in full play, while his meeting with Eve Henderson was sufficiently significant to the scandalous minds of the more virtuous women and the coarser men.
The saloon rang with a discordant blending of curses aimed at the head of the unconscious visitor, and ribald jests at the expense of the absent gold discoverer.
For the moment Anthony Smallbones had the floor. It was a position he never failed to enjoy. He loved publicity. And, in his secret mind, he firmly believed that, but for the presence of Doc Crombie in the village, he would undoubtedly have held place and power, and have been dictating the destiny of the village. 239 Thus it was that, just now, a considerable measure of his spleen was aimed at the absent doctor.
“It’s clear as day. That’s sure. Doc Crombie’s hangin’ back,” he was saying, in his curiously mean, high-pitched voice. “It ain’t for me to say he ain’t got grit. No, folks. But it’s easy to guess for why he hangs back.” He blinked truculently into the faces gathered about him, mutely daring anybody else to state that reason. But few cared to discuss the redoubtable doctor, so he was permitted to continue. “Doc’s a sight too friendly disposed toward sech a skunk as Jim Thorpe. We’ve clear enough proof that feller is a cattle-rustler. We’ve the evidence of our eyes, sure. There’s the cattle; ther’s his brand––and––running with his own stock, hidden away up in the foot-hills. Do we need more? Psha! No. At least no one with any savvee. I’ve see fellers strung up on less evidence than that, an’ I’ve bin on the–––”
“Rope?” inquired Gay, sarcastically.
“Not the rope, mister. Not the rope, but the committee as condemned ’em,” retorted Smallbones, angrily.
“Wuss!” exclaimed the baker with profound contempt.
“Eh?” snarled the little man with an evil upward glance at the other.
“Jest this,” cried Wilkes with heat. “The feller that hangs his feller man on slim evidence is a lousy, yaller skunk. Say he’d orter hev his belly tarred, an’ a sky-rocket turned loose in his vitals. I sez right here the evidence against Jim ain’t ’nuff to condemn a gopher. It’s positive ridiculous. Wot needs provin’ is, who set 240 that brand on McLagan’s cattle? That’s the question I’m astin’.”