The section-boss seen things was gittin' pretty serious. He begun to wrastle with the feller that had the rope. Next, all the women and kids set up another howlin', Mrs. Bridger cryin' the worst. But I wasn't ready to play my last card. I stepped out in front of the gang and helt up my hand. "Boys," I says; "_boys! Give_ the man a chanst t' talk. Why, this rock ain't like the rocks on the Butte." "You blamed idjits!" yells Bergin. "Use you' haids! How could _I_ 'a' hefted the darned thing?" "Aw, he _couldn't_ 'a' done it!" (This from the widda, mind y',--hands t'gether, and comin' clost.) "Thank y', little woman," says the sheriff. (Say! that was _better_.) [Illustration: "_He pulled his gun, they jerked it outen his hand_"] But the cholos wasn't a-foolin'--they was in dead earnest. Next minute, part of 'em grabbed Bergin, got that rope 'round him, and begun draggin' him towards a telegraph pole. I was some anxious, but I knowed enough to hole back a while more. "Aw, boys," begged the widda, droppin' Willie and runnin' 'longside, "don't hurt him! _don't!_ What does the pigs matter?" "I'll discharge ev'ry one of you," says the section-boss. "Boys," I begun again, "_why_ should this gent want to harm this lady. Why, I can tell you----" Pedro Garcia stuck his black fist into my face. "He lof her," he says, "and she say no. So he iss revenge hisself." (Say! the grammar they use is plumb fierce.) "He iss revenge hisself!" yells the rest of the bunch. Then they all looked at the widda. "Boys," she sobs, "I ain't _never_ refused him. Fer a good reason--he ain't never ast me." (The cholos, they just growled.) "_What?_" I ast, turnin' on Bergin like I was hoppin'. "You love her, and yet you ain't never ast her to marry you? Wal, you blamed bottle of ketchup, you _oughta_ die!" "How _could_ I ast her?" begun the sheriff. "She plumb hates the sight of me." "I don't! I don't!" sobs the widda. "Mister Lloyd knows that ain't so. Willie and me, we--we----" "Y' _see?_" I turned to the Mexicans. "He loves her; she loves him. We're a-goin' to have a weddin', not a hangin'." "The stone--he iss revenge," says Pedro. "The stone," I answers, "come outen the sky. It's a mete'rite." "I felt it hit!" cries the widda. Wal, you couldn't expect a Mexican t' swaller _that_. So we'd no more'n got the words outen our mouths when they begun to dance 'round Bergin again with the halter. Wal, how do you think it come out? Mebbe you figger that Mrs. Bridger drawed a knife and sa-a-aved him, 'r I pulled my gun and stood there, tellin' 'em they 'd only hang the sheriff over my dead body. But that ain't the way it happened. No, ma'am. _This_ is how: