Smallbones’ triumph urged him on.
“Say, an’ where’s your neck-scarf? You allus wear one, sure. An’ mebbe you ain’t got your dandy white han’k’chief. I ’lows you’re ’bout the on’y man in these parts ’cep’ Abe Horsley as fancies hisself enough to wear one. Wher’s them things, I ask you? Say,” he went on after a moment’s pause, during which Jim still remained silent, “I accuse this lousy skunk publicly of murderin’ Will Henderson. He’s convicted hisself out o’ his own mouth, an’ he’s got the man’s blood on his hands. Jim Thorpe, you killed Will Henderson!”
The little man’s fervor, his boldness, his shrewd argument carried his audience with him, as he stood pointing dramatically at the accused but unflinching man. Doc Crombie was carried along with the rest even against his own judgment. Peter Blunt and Angel Gay, with Jake Wilkes, were the only men present who were left unconvinced. Peter’s eyes were sternly fixed on the beady 362 eyes of Smallbones. Gay, too, in his slow way, was furious. But Jake would not have believed Jim had committed the murder even if he had seen him do it, he detested Smallbones so much.
But everybody was waiting for Jim’s reply to the challenge. And it came amidst a deathly silence. It came with a straightforwardness that carried conviction to three of his hearers at least, and set the redoubtable doctor wondering if he were dreaming.
“You’re quite right I usually wear all those things you say, but I haven’t got them with me now, because”––he smiled into the little man’s eyes, “the particular articles I spoke of were all mine, and, apparently, now they’ve been stolen.”
“Guilty, by Gad!” roared Smallbones.
And some one near him added––
“Lynch him! Lynch him!”
How that cry might have been taken up and acted upon, it needs little imagination to guess. But quick as thought Doc Crombie came to Jim’s rescue. He silenced the crowd with a roar like some infuriated lion.
“The first man that moves I’ll shoot!” he cried, behind the brace of leveled pistols he was now holding at arm’s length.