Bud lifted Jim’s gun and looked at it closely. "Well?" he asked. "You see it hasn’t been discharged." Bud quickly verified the fact that the gun was completely loaded. He paused a moment irresolute. Then, with a sudden suspicion, he said: "You’ve had time to reload it." The men were eagerly watching the scene between the two men. "Smell it," Jim said, quietly. "I haven’t had time to clean it." "Ah!" Bill breathed. It was like Jim to play the trump card. Bud Hardy lifted the revolver to his nose. It was as clean and fresh-smelling as a bit of cold steel. There could be no doubt that it had not been used, and Jim had all these men as witnesses to prove it. It would be useless to try to make a case of this. Bud knew when he was beaten. He took the revolver and handed it to Jim. "Well, who did it, then?" He glanced at Jim’s men. "Would you’s all oblige me by giving me a sniff of your guns?" The relief was so great that the men hysterically crowded Bud, and almost as one man they thrust their revolvers into Bud’s face. "Here’s my smoke," said one. Bud drew back. "One at a time—one at a time," he gasped—"if you please." Then one by one the men filed past him as each held his revolver to Bud’s nose. "Here’s my smoke-machine," Bill said. It was passed by Bud without a word. "Und mine," said Andy. Grouchy jerked his into Bud’s face with the words, "Here’s mine, and not a notch on it." And Bud could not deny the truth of the assertion. All that Shorty nervously demanded was, "How’s that?" as he jerked the revolver into Bud’s face. In Maverick this was evidence enough for Bud—evidence that so far all were free to go. "Why didn’t you’s all say so before?" he growled, annoyed at the turn affairs had taken. Then he saw the expression on their faces, laughter and glee as they crowded around Jim; when they looked at him, tolerant amusement. The smelling of the smoke-machines they regarded as a fine new move on their part. "Damn it," Bud thundered. "You’ve been astringin’ me while the guilty man’s escaped; but I’ll git him—I’ll git him yet." Jim saved! It was all that the boys wanted. With a whoop-la, they tore after Bud. Down the platform they fled, all in excitement with the new sensation of the moment—the hunt with Bud for the guilty man. Near the table lay a gray glove. Jim stooped and picked it up, and put it quietly to his lips. Bill, who had lingered near the door, suddenly turned and came back to Jim and put his arm about him. "You just escaped lynchin’, Jim." And Jim knew that Bill spoke the truth. He held the glove folded close in his hand as he answered, "Yes, I’m almost sorry."