"No," spoke up Keller quickly.
The old man nodded agreement. "No—they didn't hang Menendez."
"Your sheep herder died—if he died at all, and we have no proof of it—with a gun in his hands," Larrabie said.
"That's right," admitted Phil quickly. "That's right. We got to give him a chance."
"What sort of a chance would you like to give him?" Sanderson asked of the boy.
"Let him fight for his life. Give him a gun, and me one. We'll settle this for good and all."
The eyes of the old Confederate gleamed, though he negatived the idea promptly.
"That wouldn't be a square deal, Phil. He's our prisoner, and he has killed one of our men. It wouldn't be right for one of us to meet him on even terms."
"Give me a gun, and I'll meet all of you!" cried Weaver, eyes gleaming.
"By God, you're on! That's a sporting proposition," Sanderson retorted promptly. "Lets us out, too. I don't fancy killing in cold blood, myself. Of course we'll get you, but you'll have a run for your money first, by gum."