The two Justices arose and passed out, the few witnesses and onlookers drifting aimlessly in their wake.  Slavin lowered himself ponderously into the chair just vacated by the inspector, lit his pipe, and, whistling softly, commenced to fill out a legal form.  Yorke and Redmond also took the opportunity to indulge in a quiet smoke as they chatted together in low tones.  The former good-naturedly tossed a cigarette over to the prisoner, with the remark:  “Have a smoke, Windy—­it’s the last you’ll get for some time.”

Moran, slumped in a tipped-back chair, blew a whiff of smoke from a lop-sided mouth.  “Six months!” chanted he lugubriously, “an’ they call this a free country!—­free hell!—­

  “Oh, bury me out on th’ lone prair-ee,
  Where th’ wild ki-oot’ll howl over me,—­

“—­might as well an’ ha’ done with it!”

They all laughed unsympathetically. “’Tis mighty lucky for yuh thim sintences run concurrently instid av consecutively,” was the sergeant’s rejoinder, “or ut’d be eight months yez ud be doin’ stid av six.”

The front legs of Moran’s chair suddenly hit the floor with a crash.  “Lookit here, boys,” he said earnestly, “that ther big mag’strate—­him as you call Gully—­is that his real name?  Wher does he come from?  What countryman is he?”

“English!” answered Yorke shortly.  “Why?  D’ye think an Englishman has to run around with a blooming alias?”

“Well, now, yu’ needn’t go t’ git huffy with a man!” expostulated Moran, with an injured air.  “Th’ reason I’m askin’ yu’ is this”:  He paused impressively, with puckered, thoughtful eyes.  “That same man—­if it ain’t him—­is th’ dead spit of a man as once hit ——­ County, in Montana ’bout ten years back.  Dep’ty Sheriff—­I can’t mind his name now.  It was a hell of a tough county that—­then.  Th’ devil himself ‘ud ha’ bin scairt t’ start up in bizness ther.”  He shook his head slowly.  “But I tell yu’—­when Mr. Man let up with his fancy shootin’ it was th’ peaceablest place in th’ Union.  Th’ rough stuff’d drifted—­what was left above ground.  He dragged it too, later.  I never heered wher he went.”

“Ah!” remarked Slavin pityingly, knocking out his pipe.  “Th’ few shots av hootch ye had tu throw inta yu’ last night tu get ye’re Dutch up must be makin’ ye see double, me man.  If th’ rough stuff he run inta there was on’y th’ loikes av yersilf he must have shtruck a soft snap.”  He arose.  “Put th’ stringers on him agin, Ridmond, an’ take um upstairs an’ lock um up!  Yu’ll be escort wid um tu Calgary whin th’ East-bound comes in—­an’ see here, look! . . .  I want ye tu be back here agin as soon as iver ye can make ut back.  Tchkk!” he clucked fretfully, “I wish this autopsy an’ inquest was thru’, so’s we cud git down tu bizness.  Phew! this dive’s stuffy—­let’s beat ut out a bit!”

Standing on the sidewalk they gazed casually at the slowly approaching figures of Inspector Kilbride and Mr. Gully.  The two latter appeared to be engaged in a vehement, though guarded conversation—­stopping every now and again, as if to debate a point.