A COMPROMISE
MURDER in the first-degree.
Not a muscle of the prisoner’s face moved as the clerk of the court read the verdict. He gave no sign whatever of emotion. Since Silcott’s testimony he had expected nothing less. Now his grave eyes rested on the face of the clerk with steady composure.
The reporters, watching him for copy, would have been disappointed if they had had to depend upon him for it. But into the dead silence of the courtroom was lifted the low, sobbing wail of a woman. Ruth had collapsed into the ample bosom of Mrs. Flanders.
The face of the convicted man twitched, but he did not look around. Without the evidence of his eyes he knew who had broken down under the strain, whose game will had weakened at the blow. In that moment he thought wholly of her, not at all of himself.
A grizzled old cattleman pushed his broad shoulders through the crowd toward the condemned raider. “This ain’t the end, boy. We’ll work like sixty to get you a new trial. This will never go through—never in the world!” His strong arm fell with frank affection across the shoulders of his friend. “It don’t matter what names they call you, son. You’re the same old Mac to all of us.”
“This is when a fellow finds out who his friends are, Roswell,” answered Rowan simply.
He had many of them. They rallied to him by scores—long, loose-jointed, capable men with leathery brown faces, men who had fought with him against Wyoming blizzards for the lives of driven cattle, men who had slept beside him under the same tarp by many a campfire. From Rawlins and Casper and Cheyenne, and even far-away Denver, came words of good cheer. They stressed the point that the fight for his life was just beginning and that the verdict of the jury would not be accepted as final.
A telegram from Pendleton, Oregon, touched him deeply. It was signed by four bronco busters whom he had beaten for the championship at Bad Ax:
Stick to the saddle, Mac. Don’t you pull leather, old scout. We’re here hollering our heads off for the best rider that ever slapped a saddle on an outlaw. Clamp your knees and hang on tight. Say, Mac, we got a little pile of chips to shove into the game any time you’re shy of blues.