the loss?" Gracie demanded. "Do you admit you're dishonest? If you had a clear constience, you'd not be afraid to face them."
"Afraid?" Lestrade blustered. "I ain't afraid. But I've got business in town. As for them homesteaders, they can cry over spilt milk as long as they want. It's no concern of mine. Better get yourself and your daughter fixed up and come along."
For all his vanity and puffiness, the judge was sound at heart. "I stay right here," he said. "I've done right as I saw it to be done. If they want to see me I'll be here on this porch. Gracie you come here. Mr. Lestrade, I bid you good day. You've caused us all trouble. I don't say you're not honest, but I can have nothing more to do with a man who is not a gentleman. Get out of my yard!"
Lestrade swept them both with a long, ugly glare.
"Then stay here and rot," he said, and went to his horse.
He got into the saddle, sawed at the reins and galloped away. Going back down the Snake River Road, he fought to regain composure.
I'm better off without a wife and a doddering father-in-law, he told himself. If they're so blessed stiff-necked they can suffer for it.
A mile from Powder, he left the road and cut across the open ground to enter the town on the far side. He meant to slip quietly through the back door of his office, pick up his papers and his bag and just as quietly leave again. The Orange Ball Limited passed the Junction within the hour, and on that train he aimed to make his departure from the troublous valley.
As he skirted the back of the buddings, he heard a rumbling of men's voices in such proportion that the first flash of alarm ran through him. And when he passed across the rear of a small alley he was astonished to see the size of the crowd milling through the streets. For a moment he debated whether or not it would be best to abandon his trip to the office and go straight to the Junction. But he had come this far and a small portion of pride forbade his scuttling away without his personal effects. So he reached the back of his place and stepped in. What he saw brought a distinct shock.
Confronting him was the man he cared least about seeing at that time—W. W. Offut. The cattleman's face was extremely sober. He came to the point without waste of words.
"You'll please accompany me to the courthouse, Jim."
"What for?" Lestrade said, prepared to argue. "I've got a lot of business on the ranch. Let's wait—"
"Come along," Offut said.
Lestrade's hands shuffled the papers on his desk while his mind shuffled a number of other things. In the end he nodded with the best Gracie possible.
"All right. What's the trouble?"
"We're having a meeting," Offut said. He followed Lestrade into the street and turned toward the courthouse.
The street was crammed and they had not gone a dozen yards before the foremost of the homesteaders spied Lestrade and began to move toward him. At this, Offut pulled back his coat to display his revolver belt and waded serenely through the vanguard. Lestrade comprehended the meaning of this and he felt the blood drain from his face. He began to hear a running fire of comment, all of which he ignored or tossed aside with a brief, "All right, boys, I'll be out to talk this over in a minute."
Offut shoved him inside the courthouse and led him down to the swinging doors that cloaked the judge's chambers. When these swung back James J. Lestrade stopped dead in his tracks and trembled from head to foot.
It was a strange, grim scene. Ranked around the room were most of the big cattlemen of the country, the members of the dreaded committee, and a dozen of W. W. Offut's ranch hands. Seated on one of the benches he found Nig Chatto, a tight-lipped figure who shot him a stony, bitter glance. Beside him was one of his own men, the shifty-eyed Tracy. And beyond Tracy stood Lin Ballou, somewhat pale and with a bandanna wrapped around one wrist.
Lestrade's attention darted from one corner of the chamber to another, and then his interest settled on the clerk's desk. He saw a man stretched full length on the desk, partly covered by a blanket. Lestrade saw the man's wool socks point rigidly toward the ceiling and then he grew cold all over as he recognized the face of Beauty Chatto staring, sightless and indifferent, into space.
Offut was speaking in a slow, solemn manner. "Here he is, boys. I guess we'd better put him upstairs in the cell and keep a good guard. The men outside are in a pretty high state of mind."
"I move," said another, "that we send a messenger after the judge, the prosecuting attorney and the sheriff. They've got no call to be roaming wild with this case unsettled."
"A good idea," Offut approved. "I'll have a man out this very hour."
Then Lcstrade recovered from his speechlessness. He said angrily, "You've railroaded a lot of men in this country to suit your politics, but you'll not railroad me What's all this about?"
The crowd remained silent, waiting for Offut to speak. The cattleman explained it in a few words. "Lin Ballou's been the agent of this committee for several months, trying to run down the unknown parties interested in cattle rustling. He finally connected with the Chattos. Last night he went to bring them back and had a fight in which he killed Beauty. Nig, here, has confessed under promise of leniency. Your foreman, Tracy, volunteered a great deal of information under the same promise. All things told, Jim, you are in for a long, long term of penitentiary life. Sorry. Thought you were a good neighbor."
Tracy stood up and pointed his long finger. He was a man absolutely without loyalty. Having seen how the current of opinion flowed, he had deserted his chief to procure safety for himself. Now he had something else to say.
"I got one more word, folks. Last night when all this gunplay was going on I had myself hid on the main street near Dan Rounds'. It was Jim Lestrade killed Dan. I saw it with my own eyes."
"You're a liar!" Lestrade yelled. "You're an ex-convict and your word ain't worth a penny!"
All eyes were turned on Tracy. Lestrade saw his chance. He jerked out his gun and threw his body forward. W. W. Offut's great arm fell like an axe across Lestrade's elbow. There was an explosion. A harmless shot tipped up the courtroom floor. Lestrade struggled like a wild man, suddenly surrounded by half a dozen ranch hands.
The shot evoked a sudden answer from the street. The courthouse trembled under a deluge of feet and the swinging doors flew open to let in a stream of settlers. Lin Ballou, running forward, saw Hank Colqueen—patient, hard-working Colqueen—in the lead. The man had become by force of voice and of circumstances the leader of the infuriated mob. He stood on a bench and waved his arms wildly, bellowing out his threat. "There's Lestrade! Every word he told us was a lie! Where's that money Steele got away with? Why was all the delay and the fire up at Lake Esprit? Why was Chinamen brought in to take away our bread and butter? Lestrade's a skin-game slicker—a tinhorn gambler. He's sharing that embezzled money, believe me!"
The in-rushing crowd roared approval. Colqueen swung like a dancing dervish. "But if you wait for the law to prove it you'll be old and busted. Let's give 'im a sample of valley justice! Pull him out—him and his whole damn crew!"
They kept surging inward, these settlers, forcing cattlemen and prisoners back until they were jammed against the wall. And still there were others clamoring to enter. Ballou and Offut jumped to the judge's rostrum at the same time. The cattleman raised his hand, speaking in a normal voice. The words were utterly lost, but the settlers saw him and something like quiet came into the room. This man was a symbol of honesty and justice.
"Wait
