“What about the Swede?” asked the doctor.
“I reckon the sheriff ought to apologize to him for puttin’ him in jail at all.”
Blue scowled, but said nothing.
“It’ll be the reg’lar verdict, Doc,” nodded one of the jury. “We finds that Quinin Quinn demises at the hands of a party, or parties, unknown. And,” he added, “that sure as —— ain’t settin’ no new example around here.”
The jury nodded and got to their feet.
“You’re free, Swede,” grunted Blue savagely.
“Das goot,” nodded Swede Sam, getting to his feet. “Now Ay buy drink—for me.”
Blue hurriedly left the room ahead of the rest, and went straight to the War-Bonnet. Spot Easton was near the door evidently waiting for news, but Blue silently headed straight for the private room, and Easton followed him.
Blue flopped down in a chair and bit savagely into a plug of tobacco. His jaws fairly quivered as he spat out the twisted piece of metal—the trademark on the plug.
“Hook it on to ’em, Jake?” asked Easton, easing himself into a chair.