“So we’ll jist have to do without ’em,” said Hashknife. “Yuh see, I’m playin’ safe, folks.”
His lips twisted to a grin, but his eyes were cold, mirthless.
“This is an inquest over the body of a murdered man, a man who was shot down in the performance of his duty, and he was killed at a time when the lives of a lot of folks might have been at stake.
“You’ve merely met here as a matter of form to make it legal to hunt down and destroy Joe Rich. Ain’t I right?”
“Perfectly!” snapped the attorney.
“Uh-huh. Well, how would it be to git a little of that testimony from a real interested party?” Hashknife glanced toward the doorway.
“C’mon in,” he said loudly.
The crowd surged around in their seats, gasping in amazement. Joe Rich was limping down the aisle. He was clad in an old gray shirt and pair of bib-overalls, old misfitting shoes; his unshaven face, dirty; hair matted. A gasp went up from the crowd as Joe halted beside Hashknife and turned to look at them. He appeared years older, weak. His eyes were bloodshot, and the wrists below the shirt-sleeves were scored from rope burns.
“The main witness,” said Hashknife. “Look him over, folks. Does he look like a man who had killed and robbed?”
Still the crowd did not move. They seemed content to sit still and gaze at the man. Then a man strangled, a chair rattled. It was Ed Merrick the owner of the Circle M. He had whirled in his chair and started for the door, running like a drunken man, but his way was blocked by Sleepy, Slim Coleman and Lonnie Myers and three guns were shoved in his face.