He went on steadily in spite of the groans of disapproval on every side.  “Why, this is all laid out nacheral for a courtroom.  That there stump is for the judge, and the black rock yonder is where the prisoner sits.  That there nacheral bench of grass is where the jury sits.  Gents, could anything be handier for a trial than this layout?”

To the theory of the thing they had been entirely unresponsive, but to the chance to play a game, and a new game, they responded instantly.

“Besides,” said Judge Lodge, “I’ll act as the judge.  I know something about the law.”

“No, you won’t,” declared Riley.  “I thought up this little party, and I’m going to run it.”  Then he stepped to the stump and sat down on it.

8

Denver Jim was already heartily in the spirit of the thing.

“Sit down on that black rock, Jig,” he said, taking Gaspar to the designated stone as he spoke, and removing the noose from the latter’s neck.  “Black is a sign you’re going to swing in the end.  Jest a triflin’ postponement, that’s all.”

Riley placated the judge with his first appointment.  “Judge Lodge,” he said, “you know a pile about these here things.  I appoint you clerk.  It’s your duty to take out that little notebook you got in your vest pocket and write down a note for the important things that’s said.  Savvy?”

“Right,” replied Lodge, entirely won over, and he settled himself on the grass, with the notebook on his knee and a stub of a pencil poised over it.

“Larsen, you’re sergeant-at-arms.”

“How d’you mean that, Sinclair?”

“That’s what they call them that keeps order; I disremember where I heard it.  Larsen, if anybody starts raising a rumpus, it’s up to you to shut ’em up.”

“I’ll sure do it,” declared Larsen.  “You can sure leave that to me, judge.”  He hoisted his gun belt around so that the gun butt hung more forward and readier to his hand.

“Denver, you’re the jailer.  You see the prisoner don’t get away.  Keep an eye on him, you see?”

“Easy, judge,” replied Denver.  “I can do it with one hand.”

“Montana, you keep the door.”

“What d’you mean—­door, judge?”

“Ain’t you got no imagination whatever?” demanded Sinclair.  “You keep the door.  When I holler for a witness you go and get ’em.  And Sandersen, you’re the hangman.  Take charge of that rope!”

“That ain’t such an agreeable job, your honor.”

“Neither is mine.  Go ahead.”

Sandersen, glowering, gathered up the rope and draped it over his arm.

“Buck Mason, you’re the jury.  Sit down over there on your bench, will you?  This here court being kind of shorthanded, you got to do twelve men’s work.  If it’s too much for you, the rest of us will help out.”

“Your honor,” declared Buck, much impressed, “I’ll sure do my best.”

“The jury’s job,” explained Sandersen, “is to listen to everything and not say nothing, but think all the time.  You’ll do your talking in one little bunch when you say guilty or not guilty.  Now we’re ready to start.  Gaspar, stand up!”