sufficiently significant to the scandalous minds of the more virtuous
women and the coarser men.

The saloon rang with a discordant blending of curses aimed at the head
of the unconscious visitor, and ribald jests at the expense of the
absent gold discoverer.

For the moment Anthony Smallbones had the floor. It was a position he
never failed to enjoy. He loved publicity. And, in his secret mind, he
firmly believed that, but for the presence of Doc Crombie in the
village, he would undoubtedly have held place and power, and have been
dictating the destiny of the village. Thus it was that, just now, a
considerable measure of his spleen was aimed at the absent doctor.

"It's clear as day. That's sure. Doc Crombie's hangin' back," he was
saying, in his curiously mean, high-pitched voice. "It ain't for me to
say he ain't got grit. No, folks. But it's easy to guess for why he
hangs back." He blinked truculently into the faces gathered about him,
mutely daring anybody else to state that reason. But few cared to
discuss the redoubtable doctor, so he was permitted to continue.
"Doc's a sight too friendly disposed toward sech a skunk as Jim
Thorpe. We've clear enough proof that feller is a cattle-rustler.
We've the evidence of our eyes, sure. There's the cattle; ther's his
brand--and--running with his own stock, hidden away up in the
foot-hills. Do we need more? Psha! No. At least no one with any
savvee. I've see fellers strung up on less evidence than that, an'
I've bin on the----"

"Rope?" inquired Gay, sarcastically.

"Not the rope, mister. Not the rope, but the committee as condemned
'em," retorted Smallbones, angrily.

"Wuss!" exclaimed the baker with profound contempt.

"Eh?" snarled the little man with an evil upward glance at the other.

"Jest this," cried Wilkes with heat. "The feller that hangs his feller
man on slim evidence is a lousy, yaller skunk. Say he'd orter hev his
belly tarred, an' a sky-rocket turned loose in his vitals. I sez right
here the evidence against Jim ain't 'nuff to condemn a gopher. It's
positive ridiculous. Wot needs provin' is, who set that brand on
McLagan's cattle? That's the question I'm astin'."

"Psha! You make me sick!" cried Smallbones, his ferret-eyes dancing
with rage. "Put your question. An' when you put it, who's got to get
busy answerin'? I tell you it's up to Jim Thorpe to prove he didn't
brand 'em. If he can't do that satisfact'ry, then he's got to swing."

But he had a