“What have you to say to these charges?” asked the mining leader gravely.

“Say?  I say that man is mistaken.  I never saw him before in my life.”

“Well, that’s cheeky,” said Joshua, aghast at the man’s impudence.  “Why, I know you as well as if we’d been to school together.  You are the Rip-tail Roarer.  You are from Pike County, Missouri, you are.  You can whip your weight in wildcats.  That’s he, gentlemen.  I leave it to you.”

In giving the description, Joshua imitated the boastful accents of his old comrade with such success that the assembled miners laughed and applauded.

“That’s he!  You’ve got him!” they cried.

“Just hear that, old Rip-tail,” said Mr. Bickford.  “You see these gentlemen here believe me and they don’t believe you.”

“There’s a man in this here country that looks like me,” said the Pike man, with a lame excuse.  “You’ve met him, likely.”

“That won’t go down, old Rip-tail.  There ain’t but one man can whip his weight in wildcats and tell the all-firedest yarns out.  That’s you, and there ain’t no gettin’ round it.”

“This is a plot, gentlemen,” said the man from Pike, glancing uneasily at the faces around him, in which he read disbelief of his statements.  “My word is as good as his.”

“Maybe it is,” said Mr. Bickford.  “I’ll call another witness.  Joe, jest tell our friends here what you know about the gentleman from Pike.  If I’m lyin’, say so, and I’ll subside and never say another word about it.”

“All that my friend Bickford says is perfectly true,” said Joe modestly.  “This man partook of our hospitality and then repaid us by going off early one morning when we were still asleep, carrying off all our provisions and exchanging his own worn-out horse for my friend’s mustang, which was a much better animal.”

The man from Pike had not at first seen Joe.  His countenance fell when he saw how Mr. Bickford’s case was strengthened, and for the moment he could not think of a word to say.

“You are sure this is the man, Joe?” asked, the leader of the miners.

“Yes, I will swear to it.  He is not a man whom it is easy to mistake.”

“I believe you.  Gentlemen,” turning to the miners who were sitting or standing about him, “do you believe this stranger or our two friends?”

The reply was emphatic, and the man from Pike saw that he was condemned.

“Gentlemen,” he said, rising, “you are mistaken, and I am the victim of a plot.  It isn’t pleasant to stay where I am suspected, and I’ll bid you good evening.”

“Not so fast!” said the leader, putting his hand heavily on his shoulder.  “You deserve to be punished, and you shall be.  Friends, what shall we do with him?”

“Kill him!  String him up!” shouted some.

The Rip-tail Roarer’s swarthy face grew pale as he heard these ominous words.  He knew something of the wild, stern justice of those days.  He knew that more than one for an offense like his had expiated his crime with his life.