The loss of my near eye has led to a lot of mistakes on my part, specially when I mistook the brands on cows and horses, thought they belonged to me, and adopted the poor lone critters—I've always been fond of animals, anyway. Again, I argue that a person with two eyes had ought to see much more truth than I can with only one eye; but I don't find that folks are liberal in making allowances. They call me hard names instead.

Now that was specially the case over the Ryan inquest. I testified that old man Ryan died a natural death, because it would have been completely unnatural for Balshannon to miss him at five paces. Moreover, as I saw things, Jim never fired at all until Ryan was dead, and only began to shoot when he saw young Michael turning loose for battle. Judge Sprynkes, Acting Assistant Deputy-Coroner, allowed that I had been a whole lot present at the fight, and was entitled to my one-eyed point of view; but then, he remarked to the jury that the witness was well known to have such a defective vision with regard to cows that the evidence was tarnished on the point at issue.

"Judge," says I, "this is a court of justice, and I'd like to see everybody getting a fair show. Now, as judge, you're sure incorruptible and righteous."

"Come to the point," says Sprynkes.

"But," says I, "if Judge Sprynkes finds that the late Mr. Ryan met his death in a fair duel with Balshannon—then——"

"Well?"

"Then there's a citizen named Mr. Sprynkes who's apt to be reminded by the Ryan estate that he owes a heap of money!"

On that we had considerable rough house, until the judge called the meeting to order. Then he remarked, sort of casual, that he knew a citizen named Sprynkes who was apt to shoot at sight when he met up with a certain notorious horse-thief called Chalkeye Davies.

So my evidence for Jim was set aside, I was pitched out of the court, and for the next few days had to keep a wary eye on citizen Sprynkes. He was an awful poor sportsman, and mostly always missed; but once I got a bullet through my hat. Afterwards Mr. Sprynkes admitted to his friends that he preferred a restful landscape and a less bracing climate beyond the range of my guns—so he pulled out for Yuma, and I saw his kind face no more.

Now I don't want to say anything unkind about Judge Sprynkes, or his jury, or his witnesses, in that inquest on Mr. Ryan; but for Jim's sake it is needful to point out some facts which were remarkable. Of the people who stayed in the "Sepulchre" saloon to attend the gun-fight, eight were unable to testify, being dead, three because they had gone to hospital, two because they were engaged elsewhere at La Morita, and one, which is me, on account of defective vision. Of the rest, the most part lit out from Grave City, and totally disappeared. There remained Mr. Michael, two bar-tenders, and four other citizens, the only people who gave evidence. These witnesses swore on oath that Jim came to the gun-fight attended by Curly McCalmont and ten masked robbers. They also swore on oath that Jim fired the first shot, killing Mr. Ryan.

The Court returned a verdict that George Ryan came to his death at the hands of James du Chesnay, and recommended his arrest upon the charge of deliberate wilful murder.

I am not complaining. The Court represented the majesty of the people, and that august flag, Old Glory, waving above us. It was a right enough Court, even if justice had strayed out and got itself lost for a while. I make no complaint, because I reckon that a still mightier Court than ours is sitting up above the starry sky to watch over fatherless kids who don't get a fair show on earth, to save them as gets desolate and oppressed, to vindicate justice upon low-lived swabs, liars, and cowards.

I said nothing, but just stayed good and acted responsible, being in a minority of one against the entire city. The only time I ventured on any remarks was when I happened accidentally to meet up with Mr. Michael. He, the Mayor, the City Marshal, and a few friends were taking a drink together at the hotel.

"Good morning, Ryan," says I, but I kept my voice all smooth for fear of rucking up my temper to no advantage.

"Good morning, sir," says Ryan.

"I come to congratulate you," says I, "on the hearty liberal way you've been acting."

"I thank you, Mr. Davies," says he, sort of ironic.

"Don't mention it," says I, "for I ain't done no kindness to you, and I don't aim for cash or thanks in what I say."

He reached for his gun, which was hazardous and apt to get fatal, only the City Marshal grabbed him before I had to fire.

"Let me be," says Ryan; "this man insults me!"

"No," says I, "that would be impossible. I only congratulate you on the whole-hearted generous way you assisted a destitute judge, and them poor hungry witnesses."

"Easy, my friend," says the Marshal, "I'm 'most deaf, but if I hear any contempts of court——"

"If you're feeling any contempt of court, Mr. City Marshal, you shares my emotions. And you, gentlemen," I turned on the crowd, "if you feel any shame for the city and for any of the present company, I can only say I share that shame most bitter."

The air was getting sultry, with just a faint flicker of guns. "If any of you gentlemen," says I, "is feeling unwell for pills, just let him step outside with me, and I'll prescribe. If not, excuse me, for I smell something dead in this company, and I'm aiming to refresh my nose in the open." I paced back, step by step, through the door. "My address," says I, "if I live, will be Las Salinas, and there you'll find a man who cayn't see to tell the truth, but can see a whole lot to shoot. Gentlemen, adios!"

So I got my horse, swung to the saddle, and walked him backwards until I was out of range, but nobody offered himself up to serve for my target.

I reckon that the funeral ceremonies in honour of the late Mr. Ryan and friends made an event in the annals of Grave City. The caskets and wreaths, the hearses and carriages, the band and procession, made the people feel uplifted with solemn pride and haughty to strangers for a full month afterwards. As the Weekly Obituary pointed out in large type, the occasion was great, and a city which had flourished for twenty-two prosperous years was able to give points to mere mushroom towns like Bisley, Benson, and Lordsburgh. The newspapers in those three rival burghs made light of the affair in a way which displayed mean envy and a nasty, carping spirit.

As for me, I had got myself disliked a whole lot, so I felt it would be most decent not to attend the exercises. I had a feeling that if called upon to reply to any shooting, I might disturb the harmony which should always attend a scene of public grief. Besides that, it fell to me to arrange the burial of my old patrone, which it was difficult, the preachers, coffins, hearses, carriages, and all the funeral fixtures being engaged that day, and likewise also the graveyard. I had to go without. Moreover, the cowboys were mostly away at work on the round-up, so I only caught eight of my tribe to help me. We laid our friend on a blanket, then four of us gripped the corners up to the horns of our saddles and rode slow, the other boys coming behind until we got to the place where we had dug the grave. There was only one man of us all well educated, and that was Monte, who had been raised for a preacher before he broke loose to punch cows. Monte was shot in the face, weak, and feverish, so I had to feed him whiskey before he felt proud enough for his job. He read the service, the rest of us standing round, and when he was through we fired a volley before we filled the grave and piled rocks to keep off wild animals. That was a proper stockman's funeral, away out on a hilltop in the desert, and I reckon the Great Father in heaven knew we had done our best in a brave man's honour.