“What is it?” asks Sillman.
“To whom it may concern,” reads Sol Vane kinda slow-like. “The undersigned hereby declares that Buddy Sillman is sole owner of the ranch where his folks lived and he owns everything on that ranch. His dad’s name was Eph Sillman and he was killed by Cale Ames on June 3, when Eph was trying to get medicine for his sick wife.
“We also admits that the folks of Willer Crick wouldn’t let Eph Sillman have a doctor for his wife and that they ain’t no better than murderers, ’cause she died. We hereby agree to see that the ranch is run right and the money turned over to Buddy. We hereby agree to abolish all our old laws and live like the rest of the world. We hereby sign our names.”
“You’re crazy!” wails Sim Sellers from where he sets in the street. “We’ll never sign that.”
The rest of ’em shake their heads.
“Yuh can’t get away with nothin’ like that,” says Sol. “We aims to live as we please. Yuh can’t set there and keep us rounded up forever.”
“Sleepy,” says Hashknife, “go up into the hall and see if yuh can’t find some Willer Crick records.”
They has that room fixed up like a court-room, with kind of a place for the judges and all that kind of thing. Cale Ames is setting on the floor near a window, holding onto the side of his head. I looked him over for weapons, but he’s harmless.
On the judge’s desk is a pile of books and papers. I takes a look at the biggest book, and it’s labeled—