“Yore brain does you credit. I said that an’ I mean that. Don’t care about a lot o’ loose fingers pokin’ through my war bag.” The chin seemed to advance a little farther. Those slate-gray eyes fired a plain challenge at the big man. But Bill had reckoned without the sudden, unanimous spirit that sometimes takes hold of a crowd. A pair of arms pinioned him around the waist and the circle closed in like a rubber band. “See about that, young fella!” cried one. The few women withdrew quickly. Budd, still a spectator, saw the girl’s troubled face by the lantern’s gleam. Then she was gone. Somebody took upon himself the task of inspecting Bill’s clothes and for his pains found nothing. Sam’s curiously disinterested voice pointed the search in another direction. “His war bag, boys. Better look there.” Two or three left the circle with a lantern. Budd, waiting, found time to study Sam’s face again and was compelled to mutter admiringly, “Ain’t that a poker expression, though?” Bill was plainly outraged and bucked in his captor’s arm. “Boys, you better hold tight. Dad gum my soul, somebody’s goin’ to dance fer this!” “Hi! Boys, here’s the wallet all right! Take a look, fella. That it?” The crowd moved over, the robbed one identified his wallet with a brightening eye and the crowd turned upon Bill with a satisfied sigh. “Now, ‘Red,’ you’re in poor comp’ny. Better cough up the money or we’ll get plumb mad.” Bill stared around him in plain disgust. His gaze fell upon the cool and aloof Sam. “Paralyzed, I shore give you credit for bein’ the little deteckatiff.” Then he grew sober. “Oh, go home, you galoots, and get a night’s sleep. I got nobody’s money. Can’t you see it was planted? That’s terrible old stuff. Gamblers used to pull that in Montana when I was a little boy.” They were all silent and ominous. Some one spoke the popular opinion. “Talkin’ ain’t helpin’ yore case at all, Red. Figger you’d like to dance a jig in the cold night air? Don’t be foolish. Where’s the man’s money?” Bill snorted in anger. “Money? I tell you I ain’t got the money! Was sleepin’ peacefullike when some ornery maverick stepped in my face and hollered there was a wallet missin’.” Once again silence and finally a slow, hesitant suggestion. “Mebbe a rope’d help things out consid’ble, boys.” Budd elected to become active. He put out his two arms and moved a half dozen men out of his path in the manner of one shoving aside the branches of a tree. “Reckon the talk is gettin’ a leetle wild, friends. When a gent says ‘rope,’ the time’s come for a mite o’ mature reflection. Speakin’ as deppity sher’ff, I guess I’ll jest take the boy in hand. Mebbe a few hours’ thought’ll change his mind.” “Don’t need no reflection,” muttered somebody. “Need rope. Ain’t goin’ to be sidetracked this-a-way. The measly cuss stole a man’s hard-earned money, and it ain’t to be tolerated in these parts. I’m fer summary justice.”