From his position Skeeter Bill could look over most of the crowd. Many of them he had known for a long time. In the front row of seats he could see Slim Lacey and Sam Keenan. Behind Lacey was Johnny Greer, Keenan’s foreman, and some of his men. In the selection of a jury, Sam Keenan was chosen, along with five other men of Yellow Butte. Sheriff Al Creedon and his deputy, Muddy Poole, had seats near the coroner, basking in the gaze of the proletariat. Doctor Boardman opened the proceedings, outlining the circumstances of the finding of Dutch Held’s body, and giving the cause of his death. “In my opinion,” stated the doctor, “someone held a forty-five almost against the back of Dutch Held’s head and fired the fatal shot, the gun held so closely that it burned his hair.” He waited for that fact to soak into the crowd and then said: “We will now call Skeeter Bill Sarg to the stand.” The coroner clumsily administered the oath for Skeeter Bill to tell the truth, and Skeeter swore that he would. * * * * * Skeeter took the chair, stretching his long legs. He shoved his holstered gun to a handy position. The coroner said, “It is hardly proper to wear a gun on the witness stand.” “Who is liable to have more need of one, Doc?” asked Skeeter, and the crowd laughed. The doctor nodded, and said: “Go ahead and tell the jury what happened in front of Mrs. Edwards’ home.” Skeeter told them in detail of the attack on him, how he got out of it, and said that he didn’t know anyone had been killed. “I thought that shot was fired at me,” he confessed, “until the sheriff came out to the Bar D and told me what happened.” “I understand that you do not know--did not know--Dutch Held, and that you do not know why the attack was made on you,” said the doctor. “I never met Dutch Held, but I deny the last statement, Doc.” The doctor stared at Skeeter for several moments, and asked quietly, “Do you mean to say you know why you were attacked?” “I do,” replied Skeeter Bill coldly. “They tried it before, Doc, but they shot a dummy, instead of me. It was good shootin’, too, but yuh can’t kill a fencepost, even if it is wearin’ a hat. Yuh see,” he continued, after a pause, “the dry-gulcher made a mistake. He never picked up the empty shells from his rifle. Almost every rifle leaves its own mark on a shell. Mebbe it’s the way the firin’-pin hits the primer, a scratch on the shell, always in the same place. Doc, I found those shells and I shot a gun, just to get the empty shell--and they match. “But wait a minute! This deal is older’n just a few days. It goes back to the conviction of Hooty Edwards. Yuh see, gents, a bartender put dope into Hooty’s whisky that night, and that’s why Hooty didn’t know what happened. It’s a cinch that no doped man could have robbed that bank. That man had to be cold sober.