“Men,” said he, “you know what we’re going after. I hope we won’t have to fire a shot. I hold that shooting that goes unpunished because it’s within the letter of the law is almost as bad as though it weren’t. Law ought to mean justice and a square deal to all; when it’s less than that, I don’t want any of it. Let’s go!” CHAPTER XXIX EVIDENCE TO CONVICT Johnny was leading the posse two hours later when he signaled to the other men. “Rig comin’,” he called as they moved within hearing distance. “Ought to pass it just about where the road forks. Let’s hit it up a little.” Riding in close formation, they began rapidly to diminish the distance between themselves and the oncoming team. “Driver asleep, him,” the keen-eyed Charlie called to Johnny. “Sorry, but we’ll have to disturb him,” Johnny answered. “Better spread out, boys. That team is runnin’.” In ten minutes the team was almost up with them. “Whoa, there!” Johnny cried, but the driver paid no attention to the hail. “Look out!” the boy shouted to Doc Ritter. “I’ll yank ’em as they go by.” Whirling his horse, Johnny planted himself in the path of the galloping team. A mad dive for a bridle strap, and he had the off horse on its haunches. “Grab the gray, Charlie!” he cried to the Indian. Charlie Paul’s hands shot out, and in another second the team was halted. Johnny took a look at the driver, who had slipped to the floor of the rig, his face blood-stained; blank, wide-open eyes staring up at the sky. “There you are, Jim,” Johnny shouted to Kelsey as he recognized the blood-smeared face. “It’s Toby Gale! They got him, just as I said they would.” “God!” Kelsey moaned. “He’s all banged up, ain’t he? Give me a hand, and we’ll get him out of the wagon.” “He’s goin’ to die,” Doc Ritter announced after a hurried examination, “but he’ll come back for a second or so before he goes. Somebody give me some whiskey.” Scanlon obliged, and between them they fanned the man’s dying spark of life into a smoldering flame. Tobias eyed the five of them in turn. Johnny held his gaze. “Can you talk?” the boy asked. Gale tried to move his lips, but no intelligent sound came from them. “Wait, I’ll lift up his head a bit,” Doc volunteered. Gale licked his lips. Seconds dragged by before he made a sound. When he did speak it was in flat, lifeless tones. He was looking at Ritter. “I’m dying, ain’t I, Doc?” he asked. “You’re pretty bad off,” Doc told him honestly. Tobias just gazed helplessly at Ritter, searching the doctor’s face for sign of the truth which he feared. The little man’s eyelids drew back from the pupils of his eyes as he read his fate. “Oh, God, Doc, I don’t want to die!” he moaned. “I’m afraid of it. I can feel it coming on. It’s awful!” An unearthly sound broke from his lips. Ritter forced more of the whiskey down his throat. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded. “Who shot you?”