“This here is a necktie party, maybe?” asked Riley Sinclair.

“It is, partner,” said big Larsen, with his continual smile.

“Sinclair, you come over the mountains,” went on Sandersen.  “You come to find Quade.  You ride down off’n the hills, and you come up to Quade’s house.  You call him out to talk to you.  You’re sitting on your horse.  All at once you snatch out a gun and shoot Quade down.  We know!  That bullet ranged down.  It was shot from above him, plain murder!  He didn’t have a chance!”

Throwing out his facts as he saw them, one by one, there was a ring of conviction in his voice.  The six accusing faces grew hard and set.  Then, to their astonishment, they saw that Sinclair was smiling!

“He don’t noways take us serious, gents,” declared the judge.  “Let’s take him out and see if a rope means anything to him.  Sinclair, d’you figure this is a game with us?”

Riley Sinclair chuckled.  “Gents,” he said easily, “you come here all het up.  You want a pile of action, but you ain’t going to get it off’n me—­not a bit!  I’ll tell you why.  You gents are straight, and you know straight talk when you hear it.  This dead man—­what’s his name, Quade?—­was killed by a gent that had a reason for killing him.  Wanted to get Quade’s money, or they was an old grudge.  But what could my reason be for wanting to bump off Quade?  Can any of you figure that out?  There’s my things.  Look through ’em and see if I got Quade’s money.  Maybe you think it’s a grudge?  Gents, I give you my word that I never been into this country before this trip.  How could there be any grudge between me and Quade?  Is that sense?  Then talk sense back to me!”

His mirth had disappeared halfway through his speech, and in the latter part of it his voice rang sternly.  Moreover he looked them in the eye, one by one.  All of this was noted by Sandersen.  He saw suddenly and clearly that he had lost.  They would not hang this man by hearsay evidence, or by chance presumption.

Sinclair would go free.  And if Sinclair went free, there would be short shrift for Bill Sandersen.  For a moment he felt his destiny wavering back and forth on a needle point.  Then he flung himself into a new course diametrically opposed to the other.

“Boys, it was me that started this, and I want to be the first to admit it’s a cold trail.  Men has been hung with less agin’ them than we got agin’ Sinclair.  We know when Quade must have been killed.  We know it tallies pretty close with the time when Sinclair came down that same trail, because that was the way he rode into Sour Creek.  But no matter how facts look, nobody seen that shooting.  And I say this gent Sinclair ain’t any murderer.  Look him over, boys.  He’s clean, and I register a vote for him.  What d’you say?  No matter what the rest of you figure, I’m going to shake hands with him.  I like his style!”

He had turned his back on Riley while he spoke, but now he whirled and thrust out his hand.  The fingers of Sinclair closed slowly over the proffered hand.