I was unarmed.  He failed, and had to get you to help him.  You are not a bit better than he is.  I’m no coward.  I’ve got fighting blood in me.  Some of you’d acknowledge it if I was to tell you who my father was.  I have reason to believe there are men here to-night who fought side by side with him in the war, and were with him when he was shot down tryin’ to hold up the flag at the battle of Chickamauga.  One of the dirty cowards he once carried off the field when the whelp could hardly walk with a bullet in his leg!”

“What company wus that?” came from the edge of the crowd.  The voice was quivering.

“Forty-second Georgia.”

For a moment no one spoke, then the same voice asked: 

“Who wus your pa, young man?”

“Captain Alfred Stone Westerfelt, under Colonel Mills.”

The tall slender figure of the questioner leaned forward breathlessly and then pushed into the ring.  Without a word he stood near Westerfelt, unpinned the sheet that was round him, and slowly took off his mask.  Then he put a long forefinger into his mouth, pried a wad of cotton out of each cheek, and threw them on the ground.

It was old Jim Hunter.  He cleared his throat, spat twice, wiped his mouth with his hand, and slowly swept the circle with his eyes.

“I’m the feller he toted out,” he said.  He cleared his throat again, and went on: 

“Boys, if thar’s to be any whippin’, ur tarrin’ an’ featherin’ in this case, I’m agin it tooth an’ toe-nail.  Cap Westerfelt’s boy sha’n’t have a hair o’ his head fetched on sech flimsy evi_dence_ as we’ve had while I’m alive.  You kin think what you please o’ me.  I’ve got too much faith in the Westerfelt stock to believe that a branch of it ’u’d spy ur sneak.  This is Jim Hunter a-talkin’.”

Two others pushed forward, taking off their sheets and masks.  They were Joe Longfield and Weston Burks.

“We are t’other two,” said Longfield, dryly.  “The Yanks killed off too blame many o’ that breed o’ men fer us to begin to abuse one at this late day.  Ef Westerfelt’s harmed, it will be over my dead body, an’ I bet I’m as hard to kill as a eel.”

“Joe’s a-talkin’ fer me,” said Burks, simply, and he put his hand on his revolver.

“We’ve been too hasty,” began Jim Hunter again.  “We’ve ’lowed Toot to inflame our minds agin this man, an’ now I’ll bet my hat he’s innocent.  I’d resk a hoss on it.”

“Thar’s a gal in it, I’m a-thinkin’,” opined Weston Burks, dryly.

“Men,” cried the leader, “thar’s a serious disagreement; we’ve always listened to Jim Hunter; what must we do about the matter under dispute?”

“Send the man back to town,” cried a voice in the edge of the crowd.  “He’s the right sort to the marrow; I’ll give ‘im my paw an’ wish ’im well.”

“That’s the ticket!” chimed in the man with the rope, as he tossed it over the horn of his saddle.