Hashknife saw Dawn Conley after the trial was over for the day, and he talked to her for awhile. She did not see a single loophole for Peter. Of course, the evidence was all circumstantial, but there was plenty of evidence that Peter had left the saloon that night with a revolver in his hand.English Ed had testified to what he knew about it. The old doctor, who was also the coroner, testified. Jimmy Moran had not been brought from the jail to testify; but his testimony would be taken the next morning. Roaring Rigby had told the court how he had outwitted the men who came out to Conley’s ranch that night to lynch Peter, and his testimony caused a laugh. Most of the men who had ridden through the hills that night were in the room.Ryker had dominated the trial. The old judge, white of face, plainly nervous, humped at his desk. At times he would rebuke Ryker; but there was little dignity left in the man. He continually scanned the room, as if seeking the men who had warned him to leave Turquoise City.In a half-open drawer at his right hand was a Colt revolver, fully loaded, and most of the time his hand rested on that drawer.After Dawn had ridden away, Hashknife met Franklyn Moran. He had attended the trial and he told Hashknife much of what had happened. He was cheerful over the rapid recovery of Moses Conley, but he was curious to know who had shot Sleepy.“You know as much as I do,” said Hashknife.Ryker came from the courtroom and gave them a curt nod as he went past, carrying papers and several books. The sheriff and the judge were close behind him; the sheriff walked home with him.“Scared to death,” said Moran, after the sheriff and judge were out of hearing. “The man is positively on edge. I don’t believe he knows what the trial is all about. To begin with, his nerves are all shot from whisky.”“Are they?” asked Hashknife.“Sure they are; he’s the greatest single-handed drinker in this country. I haven’t seen him for almost a year, and he’s ten years older than he was at that time.”“I’d like to talk with him,” said Hashknife. “I believe I’ll go visitin’.”“Good luck to you,” laughed Moran.Hashknife hurried across the street and went through the alley between the saloon and restaurant. The sheriff and the judge were at the judge’s gate, talking together, when Hashknife came up to them. Roaring introduced them, and the judge offered Hashknife a very limp hand.“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the judge huskily. “Nice weather we’re having these days.”“Pretty good,” smiled Hashknife. “The sheriff has told me a lot about things that have happened around here, Judge, and I just wondered if you happened to keep one of those warnings.”The judge started visibly and looked at Roaring.“It’s all right, Judge,” assured Roaring.“I have,” said the judge firmly, “the first one.”“May I take a look at it?”“You may; I’ll get it for you, Mr. Hartley.”The judge went into the house and came out in a few moments with the halfsheet of paper. The warning had been written with a pen, or rather printed with a pen. The paper was of ordinary grade, unglazed.Hashknife looked it over carefully, examining the letters, even looking through it at the sun. There was a faint watermark—Fordhill Bond. Hashknife gave the paper back to the judge.“What do you make of it?” asked Roaring anxiously.“Who knows?” smiled Hashknife.“Are you a handwriting expert?” asked the old judge.Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head.“Not me, Judge. I know pen and ink from typewriter, but that’s about all.”“You didn’t come up to the trial, did you?” asked Roaring.“I’ve been busy. They tell me Peter Conley hasn’t a chance in the world.”“Gentlemen,” said the judge wearily, “let us not discuss the trial. Anything else, and I am at your service. Won’t you come in?”Roaring shook his head quickly.“Got to get back, Judge.”Hashknife thanked the judge, but declined his invitation.
Hashknife saw Dawn Conley after the trial was over for the day, and he talked to her for awhile. She did not see a single loophole for Peter. Of course, the evidence was all circumstantial, but there was plenty of evidence that Peter had left the saloon that night with a revolver in his hand.
English Ed had testified to what he knew about it. The old doctor, who was also the coroner, testified. Jimmy Moran had not been brought from the jail to testify; but his testimony would be taken the next morning. Roaring Rigby had told the court how he had outwitted the men who came out to Conley’s ranch that night to lynch Peter, and his testimony caused a laugh. Most of the men who had ridden through the hills that night were in the room.
Ryker had dominated the trial. The old judge, white of face, plainly nervous, humped at his desk. At times he would rebuke Ryker; but there was little dignity left in the man. He continually scanned the room, as if seeking the men who had warned him to leave Turquoise City.
In a half-open drawer at his right hand was a Colt revolver, fully loaded, and most of the time his hand rested on that drawer.
After Dawn had ridden away, Hashknife met Franklyn Moran. He had attended the trial and he told Hashknife much of what had happened. He was cheerful over the rapid recovery of Moses Conley, but he was curious to know who had shot Sleepy.
“You know as much as I do,” said Hashknife.
Ryker came from the courtroom and gave them a curt nod as he went past, carrying papers and several books. The sheriff and the judge were close behind him; the sheriff walked home with him.
“Scared to death,” said Moran, after the sheriff and judge were out of hearing. “The man is positively on edge. I don’t believe he knows what the trial is all about. To begin with, his nerves are all shot from whisky.”
“Are they?” asked Hashknife.
“Sure they are; he’s the greatest single-handed drinker in this country. I haven’t seen him for almost a year, and he’s ten years older than he was at that time.”
“I’d like to talk with him,” said Hashknife. “I believe I’ll go visitin’.”
“Good luck to you,” laughed Moran.
Hashknife hurried across the street and went through the alley between the saloon and restaurant. The sheriff and the judge were at the judge’s gate, talking together, when Hashknife came up to them. Roaring introduced them, and the judge offered Hashknife a very limp hand.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the judge huskily. “Nice weather we’re having these days.”
“Pretty good,” smiled Hashknife. “The sheriff has told me a lot about things that have happened around here, Judge, and I just wondered if you happened to keep one of those warnings.”
The judge started visibly and looked at Roaring.
“It’s all right, Judge,” assured Roaring.
“I have,” said the judge firmly, “the first one.”
“May I take a look at it?”
“You may; I’ll get it for you, Mr. Hartley.”
The judge went into the house and came out in a few moments with the halfsheet of paper. The warning had been written with a pen, or rather printed with a pen. The paper was of ordinary grade, unglazed.
Hashknife looked it over carefully, examining the letters, even looking through it at the sun. There was a faint watermark—Fordhill Bond. Hashknife gave the paper back to the judge.
“What do you make of it?” asked Roaring anxiously.
“Who knows?” smiled Hashknife.
“Are you a handwriting expert?” asked the old judge.
Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head.
“Not me, Judge. I know pen and ink from typewriter, but that’s about all.”
“You didn’t come up to the trial, did you?” asked Roaring.
“I’ve been busy. They tell me Peter Conley hasn’t a chance in the world.”
“Gentlemen,” said the judge wearily, “let us not discuss the trial. Anything else, and I am at your service. Won’t you come in?”
Roaring shook his head quickly.
“Got to get back, Judge.”
Hashknife thanked the judge, but declined his invitation.