the doorway to stop our boys from firing. Then I
shouted above the noise of the flames, "Come out and throw up your
hands!"

They came, poor fellows, and I made them prisoners, marching them down
to the ferry.

CHAPTER X

BREAKING THE STATUTES

_Kate's Narrative_

At Hundred Mile House the long table had been removed from the dining
hall, the benches set back to the log walls, and at the head of the room
an enormous Union Jack draped a very small portrait of Queen Victoria.
Beneath was the chair, in front of it a table set with writing materials
and the Bible, while at one end the schoolma'am looked very
self-conscious as clerk, in official black, with large red bows like
signals of distress.

On the right sat Iron Dale, Jesse, and myself, and all our posse, very
ill at ease. On the left were two gaunt American stockmen, both wearing
hats, while one had the star of a United States marshal. Beside them sat
the general public, consisting of Tearful George, two ranch-hands, an
Indian, and the captain's bulldog. Wee James, the captain's grandson,
sat with the dog at first, but presently he interrupted the court to
say that he would like to sit on me. He sat with considerable weight for
so small a person.

At Captain Taylor's entrance the constable ordered us all to stand.
Every inch a naval officer, bluff, ruddy, cheery, choleric, frightfully
impressive in a frock coat, he wore a Russian order slung by a ribbon at
his throat, and a little row of miniature war medals, the ribbons, alas,
too small to show me of which campaigns. At sight of the two strangers
he mounted a single eye-glass, and stared with growing wrath until they
removed their hats. Then, taking the chair, he permitted us to be seated
and ordered his constable to "Bring the prisoners aft."

Had our captives been washed and brushed, they might not have looked so
wretched or so guilty. Old O'Flynn, described by Jesse as Whiskers, with
his head in a blood-stained bandage, his right hand in a gory
handkerchief, looked so ill that he was given a seat. The Mexican, whose
beautiful leather dress, and soft dark eyes reminded me sharply of the
opera-house, seemed like a trapped wolf, only thinking of escape to the
nearest woods. Bull Durham's swaggering gallantry was marred by obvious
traces of the flour sack wherein he had been immersed by his disgusted
chief, and the shower of rain which followed.

"Prisoners," said the magistrate.

At that mome