They came on in a bunch down the middle of the street, ignoring his watchful glances; but as the rest trampled past Slogger Meacham turned his head and came to a bristling halt. "Well," he said, "out for a little airing?" And the jumpers swung in behind him. "Yes," answered Denver regarding him incuriously and the Slogger moved a step or two closer. "You start anything around here," he went on significantly, "and you'll be airing the smoke out of your clothes. We got your number, see, and we're here to put your light out if you start to make a peep." "Is that so?" observed Denver still standing at a crouch and one or two of the men walked off. "Come on, boys," they said but Meacham stood glowering and Chatwourth stepped out in front of him. "I hear," he said to Denver, "that you've been making your brag that you kin whip me with a handful of stones." "Never mind, now," replied Denver, "I'm not looking for trouble. You go on and leave me alone." "I'll go when I damned please!" cried Chatwourth in a passion and as he advanced on Denver the crowd behind him suddenly gave a concerted shove. Denver saw the surge coming and stepped aside to avoid it, undetermined whether to strike out or shoot; but as he was slipping away Slogger Meacham made a rush and struck him a quick blow in the neck. He whirled and struck back at him, the air was full of fists and guns, swung like clubs to rap him on the head; and then he went down with Meacham on top of him and a crashing blow ringing in his ears. When he came to his senses he was stripped and mauled and battered, and a stranger stood over him with a gun. "You're my prisoner," he said and Denver sat up startled. "Why--what's the matter?" he asked looking about at the crowd that had gathered on the scene of the fight, "what's the matter with that jasper over there?" "He's dead--that's all," answered the officer laughing shortly, "you hit him over the head with this gun." "I did not!" burst out Denver, "I never even drew it. Say, who is that fellow, anyway?" "Name was Meacham," returned the officer, "come on." CHAPTER XXVI THE COURSE OF THE LAW As he lay in his cell in the county jail at Moroni it was borne in upon Denver that he was caught in some great machine that ground out men as a mill grinds grain. It had laid a cold hand on him in the person of an officer of the law, it had inched him on further when a magistrate had examined him and Chatwourth and his jumpers had testified; and now, as he awaited his day in court, he wondered whither it was taking him. The magistrate had held him, the grand jury had indicted him--would the judge and jury find him guilty? And if so, would they send him to the Pen? His heart sank at that, for the name of "ex-convict" is something that cannot be laid. No matter what the crime or the circumstances of the trial, once a man is convicted and sent to prison that name can always be hurled at him--and Denver knew that he was not guilty.