“A clever trick, young man!” said the marshal. “But you’ll repent it before you’re through. It only makes me more determined to put you where you can’t do us any harm.” “You mean in the pen? You understand, of course, it will mean a jury trial. You can get a jury to do what you want?” “They tell me you’ve been taking an interest in politics in Pedro County. Haven’t you looked into our jury-system?” “No, I haven’t got that far.” The marshal began blowing rings of smoke again. “Well, there are some three hundred men on our jury-list, and we know them all. You’ll find yourself facing a box with Jake Predovich as foreman, three company-clerks, two of Alf Raymond’s saloon-keepers, a ranchman with a mortgage held by the company-bank, and five Mexicans who have no idea what it’s all about, but would stick a knife into your back for a drink of whiskey. The District Attorney is a politician who favours the miners in his speeches, and favours us in his acts; while Judge Denton, of the district court, is the law partner of Vagleman, our chief-counsel. Do you get all that?” “Yes,” said Hal. “I’ve heard of the ‘Empire of Raymond’; I’m interested to see the machinery. You’re quite open about it!” “Well,” replied the marshal, “I want you to know what you’re up against. We didn’t start this fight, and we’re perfectly willing to end it without trouble. All we ask is that you make amends for the mischief you’ve done us.” “By ‘making amends,’ you mean I’m to disgrace myself--to tell the men I’m a traitor?” “Precisely,” said the marshal. “I think I’ll have a seat while I consider the matter,” said Hal; and he took a chair, and stretched out his legs, and made himself elaborately comfortable. “That bench upstairs is frightfully hard,” said he, and smiled mockingly upon the camp-marshal. SECTION 20. When this conversation was continued, it was upon a new and unexpected line. “Cotton,” remarked the prisoner, “I perceive that you are a man of education. It occurs to me that once upon a time you must have been what the world calls a gentleman.” The blood started into the camp-marshal’s face. “You go to hell!” said he. “I did not intend to ask questions,” continued Hal. “I can well understand that you mightn’t care to answer them. My point is that, being an ex-gentleman, you may appreciate certain aspects of this case which would be beyond the understanding of a nigger-driver like Stone, or an efficiency expert like Cartwright. One gentleman can recognise another, even in a miner’s costume. Isn’t that so?” Hal paused for an answer, and the marshal gave him a wary look. “I suppose so,” he said. “Well, to begin with, one gentleman does not smoke without inviting another to join him.” The man gave another look. Hal thought he was going to consign him to hades once more; but instead he took a cigar from his vest-pocket and held it out. “No, thank you,” said Hal, quietly. “I do not smoke. But I like to be invited.”