“You say, Mr. Hale, the prisoner told you the night you spent at his home that this rifle was rim-fire?” “He did.” The lawyer held up the shell. “You see this was exploded in such a rifle.” That was plain, and the lawyer shoved the shell into the rifle, pulled the trigger, took it out, and held it up again. The plunger had struck below the rim and near the centre, but not quite on the centre, and Hale asked for the rifle and examined it closely. “It's been tampered with,” he said quietly, and he handed it to the prosecuting attorney. The fact was plain; it was a bungling job and better proved the Red Fox's guilt. Moreover, there were only two such big rifles in all the hills, and it was proven that the man who owned the other was at the time of the murder far away. The days of brain-storms had not come then. There were no eminent Alienists to prove insanity for the prisoner. Apparently, he had no friends--none save the little old woman in black who sat by his side, hour by hour and day by day. And the Red Fox was doomed. In the hush of the Court Room the Judge solemnly put to the gray face before him the usual question: “Have you anything to say whereby sentence of death should not be pronounced on you?” The Red Fox rose: “No,” he said in a shaking voice; “but I have a friend here who I would like to speak for me.” The Judge bent his head a moment over his bench and lifted it: “It is unusual,” he said; “but under the circumstances I will grant your request. Who is your friend?” And the Red Fox made the souls of his listeners leap. “Jesus Christ,” he said. The Judge reverently bowed his head and the hush of the Court Room grew deeper when the old man fished his Bible from his pocket and calmly read such passages as might be interpreted as sure damnation for his enemies and sure glory for himself--read them until the Judge lifted his hand for a halt.