They pointed out just where Bud Fisher had laid when they found him; and close beside him was a smooth white stone with blood marks on it. The Friar examined the lay o’ the ledge; but it didn’t tell nothin’, so finally he got down on his knees an’ studied the blood-stained stone.
Presently he nodded his head and straightened up. “Examine that stone,” he said, pointin’ with his fingers. We all crowded about an’ studied it. The’ was finger an’ thumb prints all over it; but if you looked close, you could make out the rude image of a man pullin’ up a gun which had exploded on the edge of a ledge. It was a smudgey, shakey affair, but if ya looked just right you could make it out. Yet, even this didn’t floor Badger-face.
“The Swede there did that himself,” he growled; “and this makes him out sneakier ’n we thought him. Let’s hang him, and get rid o’ this foolishness.”
“Flannigan,” sez the Friar in cold, hard tones, “you have gone too far this time. If you had hung Olaf at first, you might have done it from a proverted sense o’ justice; but to do it now would be murder; and your own men wouldn’t help. Do any of you men chew tobacco?”
If he had asked for a can o’ face-paint, we wouldn’t ’a’ been more surprised; but to show the hold the Friar had gained over that crowd, every feller there but Badger-face held out his plug to him.
“Make some tobacco juice, Olaf,” he said.
Olaf bit off a hunk the size of a walnut from his own piece, an’ proceeded to make juice, as though his life depended upon the amount of it. “Wet your thumb and fingers with it, and make marks on the white stone,” commanded the Friar.
Olaf did so; and when we saw the difference in size and shape, we savvied the game.
“Olaf took Bud’s hand and made the marks with Bud’s own blood,” sez Badger-face.
“Did any one here ever try to handle a dead man’s hand?” asked the Friar; and that settled it. We all nodded our heads, except Badger-face, an’ he had sense enough to see ’at he had lost the deal, so he didn’t say nothin’.