Each man, after dismounting, walked up to where the captive lay, and gave him a searching look, and then they joined those who had already preceded them, and who were quietly chatting about wheat, cattle, trees—everything but the prisoner. Suddenly one of the party separated himself from the others, and exclaimed: “Gentlemen, there don’t seem to be anybody else a-comin’—we might as well ’tend to bizness. I move that Major Burkess takes the chair, if there’s no objections.” No objections were made, and Major Burkess—a slight, peaceable, gentlemanly-looking man—stepped out of the crowd, and said: “You all know the object of this meeting, gentlemen. The first thing in order is to prove the identity of the prisoner.” “Needn’t trouble yourself ’bout that,” growled the prisoner. “I’m Bill Bowney; an’ yer too cowardly to untie me, though ther _be_ a dozen uv yer.” “The prisoner admits he is Bill Bowney,” continued the major, “but of course no gentleman will take offense at his remarks. Has any one any charge to make against him?” “Charges?” cried an excitable farmer. “Didn’t I catch him untying my horse, an’ ridin’ off on him from Budley’s? Didn’t I tell him to drop that anamile, an’ didn’t he purty near drop _me_ instead? Charges?—here’s the charge!” concluded the farmer, pointing significantly to a scar on his own temple. “Pity I didn’t draw a better bead!” growled the prisoner. “The hoss only fetched two ounces.” “Prisoner admits stealing Mr. Barke’s horse, and firing on Mr. Barke. Any further evidence?” “Rather,” drawled an angular gentleman. “I was goin’ up the valley by the stage, an’ all of a sudden the driver stopped where there wasn’t no station. There was fellers had hold of the leaders, an’ there was pistols p’inted at the driver an’ folks in general. Then our money an’ watches was took, an’ the feller that took mine had a cross-cut scar on the back of his hand—right hand; maybe somebody’ll look at Bill’s.” The prisoner was carried into the moonlight, and the back of his right hand was examined by the major. The prisoner was again placed under the tree. “The cut’s there, as described,” said the major. “Anything else?” “Ther’s this much,” said another. “I busted up flat, you all know, on account of the dry season, last year, an’ I hadn’t nothin’ left but my hoss. Bill Bowney knowed it as well’s anybody else, yet he come and stole that hoss. It pawed like thunder, an’ woke me up—fur ’twas night, an’ light as ’tis now—an’ I seed Bowney a-ridin’ him off. ’Twas a sneakin’, mean, cowardly trick.” The prisoner hung his head; he would plead guilty to theft and attempt to kill, and defy his captors to do their worst; but when meanness and cowardice were proved against him, he seemed ashamed of himself. “Prisoner virtually admits the charge,” said the major, looking critically at Bowney.