“He sure did!” said Sally.  “He said things that no gentleman would of said to a lady.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as that I was a flirt.  And he said, I swear to it, that he’d get Gaspar!” She stopped, panting with excitement.  “He wanted to murder John Gaspar!”

Riley Sinclair lifted his heavy brows.  “That’s a pretty serious thing to say, Sally Bent.”

“But, it’s the truth!  And I’ve even heard him threaten Gaspar!”

“But you tried to make them friends?  You tried to smooth Quade down?”

“I wouldn’t waste my time on a bully!  I just told John to get a gun and be ready to defend himself.”

“And he done it?”

“He done it.  But he never fired the gun.”

“What was the last time Quade seen you?”

“The day before yesterday.  He come up here and told me that he knew me and John Gaspar was going to get married, and that he wouldn’t stand still and see the thing go through.”

“But what he said was right, wasn’t it?  Gaspar had asked you to marry him?”

She dropped her head.  “No.”

“What?  You mean to say that Gaspar hadn’t told you he loved you?”

“Never!  But now that John’s in this trouble, I don’t care if the whole world knows it!  I love John Gaspar!”

What a voice!  What a lighted face, as she turned to the prisoner.  But, instead of a flush of happiness, John Gaspar rose and shrank away from the outstretched hands of the girl.  And he was pale—­pale with sorrow, and even with pity, it seemed to Sinclair.

“No, no,” said the soft voice of Gaspar.  “Not that, Sally.  Not that!”

Decidedly it would not do to let this scene progress.  “Take away the witness, Montana.”

Montana drew her arm into his, and she went away as one stunned, staring at John Gaspar as if she could not yet understand the extent of the calamity which had befallen her.  She had been worse than scorned.  She had been rejected with pity!

As she disappeared into the door of her house, Sinclair looked at the bowed head of John Gaspar.

“Denver!” he called suddenly.

“Yes, your honor.”

“The prisoner’s hands are tied.  Wipe the sweat off’n his face, will you?”

“Sure!”

With a large and brilliant bandanna Montana obeyed.  Then he paused in the midst of his operation.

“Your honor.”

“Well?”

“It ain’t sweat.  It’s tears!”

“Tears!” Riley Sinclair started up, then slumped back on his stump with a groan.  “Tears!” he echoed, with a voice that was a groan.  “John Gaspar, what kind of a man are you?”

He turned back to the court with a frown.

“Mr. Jury,” he said, “look at this prisoner we got.  Look him over considerable.  I say, did you ever see a man like that?  A man that ain’t able to love a girl like Sally Bent when she just about throws herself at his head?  Is he worth keeping alive?  Look at him, and then listen to me.  I see the whole of it, Mr. Jury.”