“Introducing Steve Fraser, lieutenant in the Texas Rangers.”
He glanced up quickly. “You're not the Fraser that ran down Chacon and his gang of murderers?”
“Yes, I was on that job.”
Brandt shook hands heartily. “They say it was a dandy piece of work. I read that story in a magazine. You delivered the goods proper.”
The ranger was embarrassed. “Oh, it wasn't much of a job. The man that wrote it put in the fancy touches, to make his story sell, I expect.”
“Yes, he did! I know all about that!” the sheriff derided. “I've got to get you out of this hole somehow. Do you mind if I send for Hilliard, the prosecuting attorney? He's a bright young fellow, loaded to the guards with ideas. What I want is to get at a legal way of fixing this thing up, you understand. I'll call him up on the phone, and have him run over.”
Hilliard was shortly on the spot—a short, fat little fellow with eyeglasses. He did not at first show any enthusiasm in the prisoner's behalf.
“I don't doubt for a moment that you are the man this letter says you are, Mr. Fraser,” he said suavely. “But facts are stubborn things. You were seen carrying the gun that killed Faulkner. We can't get away from that just because you happen to have a letter of introduction to Mr. Brandt.”
“I don't want to get away from it,” retorted. Fraser. “I have explained how I got into the fight. A man doesn't stand back and see two people, and one of them a girl, slaughtered by seven or eight.”
The lawyer's fat forefinger sawed the air. “That's how you put it. Mind, I don't for a moment say it isn't the right way. But what the public wants is proof. Can you give evidence to show that Faulkner and his friends attacked Dillon and his daughter? Have you even got them on hand here to support your statement? Have you got a grain of evidence, apart from your bare word?”