which he was the leader, the men who had witlessly given him the
power he used so ruthlessly as pleased him best, and Jack Allen, whose
ill-timed criticisms and hot-headed freedom of speech had brought upon
himself the weight of the Committee's dread hand.

"Damn him, I tried to tell him!" groaned Bill, his face hidden behind
his palms. "They'll hang him--and darn my oldest sister's cat's eyes,
somebody'll sweat blood for it, too!" (Bill, you will observe, had
reached the end of real blasphemy and was forced to improvise milder
expletives as he went along.) "There ought to be enough decent men in
this town to--"

"Did you git to see Jack?" ventured Jim, coming anxiously up to his
boss.

The tone of him, which was that hushed tone which we employ in the
presence of the dead, so incensed Bill that for answer he threw the
hammer viciously in his direction. Jim took the hint and retreated
hastily.

"No, damn 'em, they won't let me near him," said Bill, ashamed of his
violence. "I knew they'd get him; but I didn't think they'd get him so
quick. I sent a letter down by an Injun this morning to his pardner to
come up and get him outa town before he--But it's too late now. That
talk he made last night--"

"Say, he shot Swift in the arm, too," said Jim. "Pity he didn't kill
him. They're getting a jury together already. Say! Ain't it hell?"