At the height of his vituperative oratory he suddenly crashed to earth when Skeeter Bill, handcuffed, threw the sheriff aside, grasped the prosecutor with both hands, kicked his feet from under him, and hurled him over the railing into the front row of sight-seeing humanity.
In an instant the courtroom was in an uproar, but Skeeter Bill backed up against the judge’s desk and made no further move. The prosecutor crawled back to his seat, torn of raiment and dazed of mind.
“All I ask for is a square deal,” stated Skeeter to the court. “That lawyer is a —— liar, tha’s all.”
“You’ll get a square deal,” declared the judge nervously, rapping on his desk. “Sit down, Sarg.”
“Where and when do I get this here square deal?” queried Skeeter Bill. “With all the witnesses ag’in’ me and a jury of cowpunchers, where do I get off? You’ve got me cinched f’r murder, judge—why let that ganglin’, horse-faced lawyer add t’ my crimes?”
The prosecutor got quickly to his feet and wailed an objection, but the judge ordered him to sit down.
“I do not think there is any use of reviling the prisoner,” declared the judge. “The evidence is plain enough, I think.”
Skeeter Bill got to his feet and faced the court.
“Just a moment, judge. I reckon yuh got me cinched f’r this killin’, but I’d like t’ ask a question before that jury decides t’ hang me, ’f I can.”
“I think you have that right, Sarg,” admitted the judge.