“Aw, yuh needn’t pin no hopes on Bill Wilson!” came a heavy, malicious voice through the tent wall.  “All hell can’t save yuh, Jack Allen!  You’ve had a ride out to the oak comin’ to yuh for quite a while, and before sundown you’ll get it.”

“Oh!  Is that so, Shorty?  Say, you’re breaking the rules, you old pirate; you’re talking to the prisoners without permission.  As the Captain’s most faithful dog Tray, you’d better shoot yourself; it’ll save the town the trouble of hanging you later on!” He smoked calmly while Shorty, on guard without, growled a vilifying retort, and the other guards snickered.

“Ah, brace up!” he advised his quaking companion again.  “If my company doesn’t damn you beyond all hope, you may get out of the scrape.  You didn’t have a gun, and you’re a stranger and haven’t said naughty things about your neighbors.  Cheer up.  Life looks just as good to me as it does to you.  I love this old world just as well as any man that ever lived in it, and I’m not a bit pleased over leaving it—­any more than you are.  But I can’t see where I could better matters by letting myself get wobbly in the knees.  I’m sorry I didn’t make a bigger fight to keep my guns, though.  I’d like to have perforated a few more of our most worthy Committee before I quit; our friend Shorty, for instance,” he stipulated wickedly and clearly, “and the Captain.”

If he were deliberately trying to goad Shorty to further profanity, the result should have satisfied him.  The huge shadow of Shorty moving back and forth upon the front wall of the tent, became violently agitated and developed a gigantic arm that waved threateningly over the ridge pole.  The other guards laughed and checked their laughter with a suddenness which made Jack’s eyes leave the dancing shadow and seek questioningly the closed tent flaps.

“If I’m any good at reading signs, we are now about to be tried by our peers—­twelve good men and true,” he announced ironically.  “Brace up, old man!  The chances are you’ll soon be out of this mess and headed for home.  Don’t be afraid to tell the truth—­and don’t act scared; they’ll take that as a sure sign you’ve got a guilty conscience.  Just keep a stiff upper lip; it won’t take long; we do things in a hurry, out here!”

“Say, you’re a brick, Mr. Allen!” the boy burst out, impulsively gripping the hand of his champion.

Jack jerked his hand away—­not unkindly, but rather as if he feared to drop, even for an instant, his flippant defiance of the trick fate had played him.  The jerk sent a small, shining thing sliding down to the floor; where it stood upright and quivered in the soft sand.

“Lord!” he ejaculated under his breath, snatching it up as a thief would snatch at his spoils.  He looked fearfully at the closed flaps, outside which the trampling of many feet sounded closer and closer; and with a warning shake of his head at the other, slid the dagger into his sleeve again, carefully fastening the point in the stout hem of the buckskin.