“No. Not yet. Doc says maybe he’ll die.” “Jerry have a six-shooter out?” “No.” “He was gonna attack me. It was self-defence,” the grovelling man pleaded. One of the crowd spoke: “This Dodson’s bad—bad clear to the bottom of his heart. He’s been talkin’ about his wife to make excuses for what he did.” “Let’s wait, boys,” Scot said. “Maybe Jerry will pull through.” “No, let’s finish the job, Scot. This fellow’s no good, anyhow. You know it. So do we.” Jean Poulette, the owner of a gambling house, pushed to the front. “I’m not thinking about him, Jean. I’m thinking about that little mother in the prairie schooner. She’s got trouble enough already, hasn’t she? Do you want to pile on more—to send her through life marked as the wife of a man that was hanged? Ain’t that rather rough on her, boys?” “She’ll be well rid of him,” a voice cried. “Sure,” agreed McClintock. “But not that way. I don’t say this drunken loafer is worth saving. But we can’t hang him without striking a blow at her. She’s sensitive, boys. It would hurt her ’way down deep.” “Sho! Tha’s foolishness, Scot. It’d be a li’l shock at first maybe, but afterwards she’d just naturally be plumb pleased. Any of us would in her place.” “Say, who started this gabfest?” demanded the man holding the other end of the rope that had been slipped over Dodson’s head. “Let’s hustle this job through. I got a man to meet right soon.” McClintock met him eye to eye. “You can go meet him right now, Six-Fingered Pete. The hanging’s off.” “Who says it’s off?” blustered Pete. “I say so.” Scot spoke quietly, his voice low and clear. “Someone elect you judge and jury, Scot?” asked Poulette. “Sorry to interfere, boys. I’ve just come in from seeing Mrs. Dodson. She’s all broke up about the baby. You wouldn’t want to make things harder for her. It doesn’t matter a billy-be-damn whether this fellow lives or dies. Nobody cares about him. He’s nothing. We’ll hold him till we see how Jerry comes out—just stick him in the calaboose.” If Scot was a dominating figure in the life of the camp it was not because men walked in fear of him. He never looked for trouble or avoided it. He never used his splendid strength and courage to bully those weaker than himself. Even old Tom Todd, the Negro roustabout who was the butt of the camp jokes, always met with respect from the dealer at the Crystal. His influence was born of liking and admiration. It maintained itself without effort on his part because he had the qualities of leadership. It was a part of his gift that he made men want to follow the path he took. He usually knew exactly in what direction he wanted to go, but he never hectored or was overbearing. Poulette felt within himself a response to Scot’s warm appealing smile, but he was ashamed to make a direct face about. “Might as well go through now. You can’t ever do justice without hurtin’ some woman somewhere.” “An’ this bummer ce’tainly is ripe for a rope,” added Pete.