Silcott went over the story of the shooting of Tait with great detail. The prosecuting attorney made another dramatic pause to let the audience get the significance of his next lead. “Were you where you could see Dan Gilroy when he ran from the wagon?” “Yes.” “Will you tell exactly what happened when Gilroy ran from the wagon?” “He ran out from the back and started for the brush.” “Was he armed?” “No.” “Proceed. What happened?” “He had run about thirty feet when somebody fired. He fell.” “Were any more shots fired?” “No. That was the last.” “From what direction did it come?” “From my right.” “How do you know?” “By the sound and the smoke.” “Where did the smoke rise with relation to the defendant?” Silcott moistened his dry lips with his tongue. He was sweating blood. “It was close to him.” Haight threatened him with his forefinger. “Won’t you swear that the defendant fired that shot? Don’t you know he fired it?” “I—I can’t swear to it.” “Weren’t you convinced that it was McCoy who——” The defense objected angrily: “The witness has answered the question. Is the prosecuting attorney trying to bully him to change that answer?” When at last Haight was through with him the witness dripped with perspiration. But his troubles were only beginning. The lawyers for the defense took him in hand, made him confess his obligations to McCoy, brought out that he himself had proposed the raid, and wrung from him that he was turning State’s evidence to save his own life at the expense of his friends. Two points they developed in favour of their client—that he had repeatedly warned his friends against shooting and that he had saved the lives of the herders from Falkner. But though Silcott was left a rag, his story stood the fire of cross-examination. When he stepped down from the stand he left behind him a net of evidence through which McCoy could not break. As Larry moved down the aisle someone in the back part of the room broke the silence: “You damned Judas!” Instantly echoes of the word filled the courtroom. The judge pounded with his gavel for silence, but that low-hissed “Judas! Judas!” pursued the young cowman down the stairs. It would be many years before he could recall without scalding shame that moment when the finger of public scorn was pointed at him in execration. CHAPTER XXI A COMPROMISE MURDER in the first-degree. Not a muscle of the prisoner’s face moved as the clerk of the court read the verdict. He gave no sign whatever of emotion. Since Silcott’s testimony he had expected nothing less. Now his grave eyes rested on the face of the clerk with steady composure. The reporters, watching him for copy, would have been disappointed if they had had to depend upon him for it. But into the dead silence of the courtroom was lifted the low, sobbing wail of a woman. Ruth had collapsed into the ample bosom of Mrs. Flanders.