knew Quade would never suspect him of having the nerve to fight. So he
takes Quade unready and plugs him, while Quade ain't looking. Is that
clear?"

"It sure sounds straight to me," said Buck Mason.

"All right! Stand up."

Mason rose.

"Take off your hat."

The sombrero was withdrawn with a flourish.

"God's up yonder higher'n that hawk, but seeing you clear, Buck. Tell
us straight. Is Gaspar guilty or not?"

"Guilty as hell, your honor!"

A sigh from the prisoner. The last of life seemed to go from him, and
Sinclair braced himself to meet a hysterical appeal. But there was only
that slight drooping of the shoulders and declining of the head.

It was an appalling thing for Sinclair to watch. He was used to power
in men and beasts. He understood it. A cunning devil of a fighting
outlaw horse was his choice for a ride. "The meaner they are, the
longer they last," he used to say. He respected men of evil as long as
they were men of action. He was perfectly at home and contented among
men, where one's purse and life were at constant hazard, where a turned
back might mean destruction.