The rather spacious court-room was not filled. There were possibly fifty people in the room. Lonnie Myers stood near the doorway at the top of the stairs; Dan Leach was at the opposite corner, at the rear; while Nebrasky Jones sat in a front seat, very erect and very dignified.
Doctor Curzon had already selected a jury when Hashknife came in; and the six men, Curt Bellew, Eph Harper, Jimmy Black of the 3W3, Buck West, Fred Thornton, a feed-store keeper, and Jud Albertson, a blacksmith, were occupying the jury-box.
Fred Coburn, the prosecuting attorney, was the only lawyer in the room. Hashknife moved down to the front and took the only available seat. Across the aisle from him sat Ben Collins. Farther back and across the aisle sat Merrick and Angus McLaren, the Circle M owner on the outside seat.
Old Doctor Curzon conferred with the attorney for several moments before calling the inquest to order.
“I believe we will have the testimony of the sheriff first,” he said, looking around the room.
But neither the sheriff nor deputy were in evidence.
“Will some one call the sheriff?” asked Coburn.
Hashknife got slowly to his feet and half turned in the narrow aisle, while his glance swept the audience. His face seemed a little pale and his lips were shut tightly. Then—
“The sheriff won’t be here,” he said distinctly. “Neither will the deputy. Their evidence is locked up, and I’ve got the key in my pocket.”
For several moments the room was hushed.