“Jezebel!” roared the judge, in a passion of rage.
“Ca'm's the word, or you'll get 'em started!” whispered the sheriff. The judge looked fearfully around. At his side stood Mahaffy, a yellow pallor splotching his thin cheeks. He seemed to be holding himself there by an effort.
“Speak to them, Solomon—speak to them—you know how I came by the money! Speak to them—you know I am innocent!” cried the judge, clutching his friend by the arm. Mahaffy opened his thin lips, but the crowd drowned his voice in a roar.
“He's his partner—”
“There's no evidence against him,” said the sheriff.
A tall fellow, in a fringed hunting-shirt, shook a long finger under Mahaffy's aquiline nose.
“You scoot—that's what—you make tracks! And if we ever see your ugly face about here again, we'll—”
“You'll what?” inquired Mahaffy.
“We'll fix you out with feathers that won't molt, that's what!”
Mr. Mahaffy seemed to hesitate. His lean hands opened and closed, and he met the eyes of the crowd with a bitter, venomous stare. Some one gave him a shove and he staggered forward a step, snapping out a curse. Before he could recover himself the shove was repeated.