After the cattle were bedded down and the first guard put on, there were four at the Toyah wagon besides the tramp. Brown had finished supper and was standing with his back to the fire, smoking, when Tinnin rode up. He dismounted and came staggering out of the dark into the firelight. Pausing a moment, he began hilariously: “To show you that he’s blooded and doesn’t mind expense, He stands around a-scorchin’ of his eight-dollar pants!” Brown whirled. “Have ye got a gun?” he snarled savagely. “Betcher. Always!” said Tinnin; “and I know how to use it.” Crack! Bang! Bang! Bang! They emptied their guns over the fire. Harris was sitting directly between them. They were using blank cartridges, but of course Harris didn’t know that, so he went right away. When he came back Tinnin was stretched out, all bloody (beef’s blood) over his breast and face; the conspirators were huddled, whispering. Harris came up scared, white and shaking. Ward and Brown grabbed him. Says Ward, gritting his teeth: “My bucko, you’ll swing for this!” It flashed on the tramp that they meant to lay the “murder” on him. He begged awful as they took him in, leaving the corpse and the cook to watch the wagon. It was great sport from our point of view--and in that light. In town Brown told the boys the tramp had killed poor Jeff; and turned him over to Mossman, the “appointed” sheriff. “Judge” Charlie Slaughter called court in Gale’s saloon. All the boys were there, and most of the tramps--(they were _not_ in on the joke). The station-agent was made counsel for the defense, and the trial began, with all the formalities that anybody could remember or invent. A weird vision blew over from the hotel--a frock-coated, high-hatted, gold-eye-glassed, bold-faced man with an elbow crooked in latest fashion. He would have been a spectacle, ordinarily, but now we accepted him as a man and brother. We explained the situation to him, and that all the boys had blank cartridges. McClusky and Jones testified to the killing. They made it wanton and deliberate murder. Ominous growls arose from Roman populace. Prisoner’s counsel cross-examined unmercifully, but they stuck. The prisoner told his side--told it straight, too. He broke down, cried, and begged for mercy, said his life was sworn away, that Brown was the guilty man. Some of the fun departed. The judge said witnesses for the prosecution were trustworthy men of high standing, and committed the prisoner to jail at Hillsboro to await action of the grand jury. “Lynch him! Lynch him!” shouted Boucher, jumping up. The judge promptly fined him fifty dollars for contempt of court, which was as promptly paid, Boucher borrowing the money of Gale. Every one was as solemn as an owl.