Olaf’s theories concernin’ violence didn’t harmonize complete with the Friar’s; but his method for discouragin’ scandal was thorough to a degree. He silenced the gossipers all right, though so far as I heard, most of ’em recovered; and the outcome was ’at the Friar stood higher after the scandal ’n he had before.

The Cross brand outfit was a good deal like a pack o’ dogs: they each sought Ty Jones’s favor, and they were all jealous of each other. Olaf stood high on account of his mysterious insight; so Badger-face, the foreman, backed up Bud Fisher to devil Olaf as far as possible without givin’ Olaf what Ty would judge a fit excuse for unscrewin’ the kid’s neck; and from the talk I heard, their outfit trotted along as smooth an’ friendly as seven he bears hitched to a freight wagon; but our trails didn’t cross frequent, so it was all hearsay.

The winter before had been so fierce ’at a lot o’ small outfits couldn’t winter through their stock. Towards spring, ol’ Cast Steel had bought in the Half Moon brand for a hundred an’ fifty dollars; and that summer me an’ Spider Kelley put in our spare time huntin’ strays. Spider had come back, flat broke and full o’ repentance; so after I’d stood him on his head in a buffalo-wallow full o’ mud, I forgave him free and frank, and this summer we rode together most o’ the time.

Ol’ Cast Steel was as lucky as a hump-back cat, and this summer the grass was fatter ’n ever I’d seen it. We rounded up over five hundred head o’ ponies, and over sixty cows, which was just like bein’ caught out in a gold storm without your slicker on; so we didn’t sympathize any with the old man, but prospected around for pleasure whenever we felt like it.

One afternoon after the fall round-up, me an’ Spider found ourselves in a mighty rough bit o’ country on the north slope o’ the Wind River range. We had been herdin’ six or eight Half Moon ponies before us for several days, devilin’ a parcel of Injuns into thinkin’ ’at we was out tradin’; but we had got weary o’ this, an’ were just foolin’ around and wishin’ ’at somethin’ would turn up to amuse us.

“Aw, let’s go on back home,” sez Spider, not knowin’ he was speakin’ wisdom. “I’d sooner work at work than work at huntin’ up somethin’ to amuse myself with.”

“Well,” I sez, “we’ll finish out this afternoon, an’ then if nothin’ turns up, we’ll go back, draw our pay an’ go into Boggs.”

We saw our ponies start around a butte ahead of us an’ stop to examine somethin’. We followed ’em around the butte, and there below us on a little level, was a bunch of men—seven of ’em. We drew up an’ gave ’em a look-over.

“What do you make out?” sez I.

“Olaf the Swede with a rope around his neck, an’ Badger-face Flannigan holdin’ the other end o’ the rope,” sez Spider. “What do you reckon they’re goin’ to do to him?”

“Comb his hair, or fit a new sun-bonnet on him,” sez I, sarcastic. “What else do they put a man’s neck in a noose for? Let’s go down an’ see what happens.”

“A feller’s not sure of a welcome at such times,” sez Spider.

“No,” I agreed; “but I want to see Olaf’s eyes again, and this may be my last chance.”

“It may be your last chance to see anything,” sez Spider. “The best thing we can do is just to back-track. We interrupted ’em once before; and I don’t want ’em to get the idee that we spend all our time doggin’ their footsteps for a chance to spoil their fun. This ain’t any of our business.”

“We won’t spoil their fun,” sez I. “If they get suspicious, we can take a hand in it, an’ that will fix it all right. Olaf ain’t nothin’ to us; and I don’t intend to risk my fat for him, just ’cause he’s got curious eyes.”

“No, I’m not goin’,” sez Spider.

I looked across at the group again, an’ there comin’ up the trail behind ’em was Friar Tuck, ridin’ a round little pinto, an’ leadin’ a big bay.

“Well, you just stay here, an’ be damned to you,” sez I to Spider. “I’m goin’ on down.” So me an’ Spider rode down together, an’ arrived at just the same time as the Friar did.

Badger-face looked first at us, an’ then at the Friar. “What the hell do you fellers want this time?” he sez to us in welcome.

“We just happened along,” sez I. “What’s goin’ on?”

“You’re goin’ on yourselves, first thing,” sez Badger-face. “That’s what’s goin’ on.”

“I guess ’at you ain’t got neither deeds nor lease to this land,” sez I. “We haven’t any intention of interferin’ with you; but we don’t intend to be sent where we don’t want to go. We’ve got business here, huntin’ up stray hosses, an’ I reckon we’ll just stick around.”

“You got business here, too, I suppose?” sez Badger-face, turnin’ to the Friar.

“Yes,” sez the Friar calmly. “I came here entirely by accident; but now it is my business to inquire into why you have a rope about this man’s neck. You recall havin’ put me into a similar perdicament, Mr. Flannigan.”

“Yes, an’ the only thing I regret is, that I was interrupted,” growls Badger-face. “But this time, the’ ain’t any chance to change the programme, so you might just as well poke on into some one else’s affairs.”

“What’s the matter, Olaf?” asked the Friar.

Before Olaf could reply, Badger-face gave a jerk on the rope. “You shut up,” sez he.

“Surely you will give the man a chance to speak,” cried the Friar, indignant.

“It won’t do him no good to speak,” sez Badger-face. “He’s committed a murder, but of course he denies it. Now, get out o’ here, all three of ya.”

“Listen,” sez the Friar, as steady an’ strong as the sweep of a deep river, “I care more for justice ’n I do for law. I know that hangin’ a man has never done any good; but it is usually regarded as a legal form of punishment, and the prejudice in its favor is still too strong for one man to overcome. If you convince me that this man would be hung by a court, why, I shall never say a word about it; but if you do not convince me, I shall stir up all the trouble I can. I have quite a number of friends, Mr. Flannigan.”

Badger-face studied over this a moment; and he saw it had sense. “All right,” sez he, “we’ll try him fair an’ square; and then you three will have to help string him, an’ I guess that’ll keep your mouths shut.”

“Tell your story, Olaf,” sez the Friar.

“Well,” sez Olaf, “we came up short on the round-up, an’ the old man raised Cain about it, an’ sent us out to hunt for strays. Badger-face split us into pairs, an’ made me an’ Bud Fisher work together. We saw some cows up on a ledge where we couldn’t ride to; so we left the hosses below, an’ climbed to see if they had our brand. If they had, we intended to ride around and get ’em. If not it would save half a day. Bud Fisher had a rifle along, hopin’ to get a mountain sheep, an’ he insisted on takin’ it with him. He climbed up on a ledge, an’ I passed up the rifle to him. It was a long stretch, an’ I passed it muzzle first. The hammer caught on a point of rock, an’ shot him through the stomach. I didn’t bear him any ill will any more—I ran down to the hosses, an’ brought up the saddle-blankets an’ the slickers, an’ made him as comfortable as I could. Then I hunted up Badger-face an’ told him. When we got back he was dead. This is the truth.”

“I think it is,” sez the Friar.

“Aw rot!” sez Badger-face. “Come on, now, an’ finish it. Every one knows how they hated each other; and it’s plain enough that when the Swede here got the chance, he just put Bud out o’ the way, an’ Bud was one o’ the finest boys the’ ever was in the world—always full o’ fun an’ frolic; while Olaf has allus been sour an’ gloomy.”

Most men are as sappy as green grain, an’ they bow whichever way the wind blows. The Cross brand punchers all looked extremely sad when Badger-face spoke o’ what a royal good feller Bud Fisher had been, an’ when he stopped, they all glared at Olaf as friendly as wolves, especially a skinny feller by the name of Dixon, who had the neck and disposition of a snake.

“If you thought ’at Olaf an’ Fisher hated each other, why did you make ’em work together?” asked the Friar; and the Cross brand punchers pricked up their ears an’ looked pointedly at Badger-face.

“I thought they had made it up,” sez Badger-face, surprised into takin’ the defensive.

“I have noticed that you are likely to jump hasty at conclusions,” sez the Friar, speakin’ with tantalizin’ slowness. He was a fisher of men, all right, the Friar was; and just then he was fishin’ for those Cross brand punchers. “Did Bud speak before he died, Olaf?” he asked impartially.

Olaf hung his head: “All he said was, that she hadn’t never cared for him, an’ that he didn’t know one thing again’ her,” said Olaf.

“Aw, what’s the use o’ stringin’ it out,” sez Badger-face. “Let’s hang him and have it over with.”

“Hanging a fellow-bein’ is a serious matter, Mr. Flannigan,” sez the Friar. “I am a party to this now, and shall have to assume my share of the responsibility. I shall never consent to swingin’ a man on such evidence as this. Let us go and examine the spot. The hammer may have left a scratch, or something. If you convince me that Olaf committed the murder, I pledge to assist in hangin’ him. That’s certainly fair, men,” he sez to the Cross-branders, an’ they nodded their heads that it was.

So we clumb up to the spot where Olaf claimed to have handed the gun; but the’ wasn’t any scratch on the rock. “Did he fall from the ledge when he was shot?” asked the Friar.

“No,” sez one o’ the punchers. “He fell on the edge an’ hung on.”

“Did the bullet go clean through him?” asked the Friar.

“Yes, it went clear through,” sez the feller.

“Point with your finger just where it went in, an’ just where it came out,” sez the Friar.

The feller pointed with one finger in front, an’ one behind. The Friar took a rope an’ had me hold it behind the feller at just the level of that finger an’ then he made Spider stretch the rope so that it passed on a line with the finger in front. The whole crowd was interested by this time. “Now, then,” sez the Friar, “where could Olaf have stood to shoot such a line as that. He could not have shot while he was climbin’ up, nor he couldn’t have reached high enough while standin’ below.”

“He could, too,” sez Badger-face, “for Bud would have been leanin’ over, reachin’ for the gun.”

“If he had been shot while he was reachin’ over, he would have fallen from the ledge,” flashed the Friar.

“Maybe he did,” snapped Badger-face, just as quick. “Olaf here is as strong as a horse, an’ maybe he put him back on the ledge. He had blood on his hands an’ you can still see it on his shirt. A man don’t bleed much when shot in the belly.”

Olaf’s queer blue eyes turned from one to the other, but his face didn’t change expression much. He had about give up hope in the first place, an’ his face had the look of a hoss, after he’s been throwed four or five times an’ just keels over on his side an’ sez to himself: “Well, they’ve put the kibosh on me, an’ I don’t intend to make a fool of myself any more by tryin’ to break loose.” The rest of us was more excited about it than Olaf was himself.

“Which one of us is the nearest size to Bud Fisher?” asked the Friar.

They all agreed that Spider Kelley was; so the Friar had him coon up on the ledge. Then he had Olaf take the empty rifle just as he had held it when he passed it up; but made him give it to Badger-face himself to pass up. Badger-face passed it up, Spider Kelley reached for it, took it, and started to straighten up—The hammer caught on the precise knob that Olaf had said it had, an’ snapped hard enough to set off a cartridge. “There,” sez the Friar, sweepin’ his hands wide. We could all see that the bullet would ’a’ gone through just where it did go.

“Hand back the rifle, an’ I’ll show ya how he passed it up,” said Badger-face. Spider passed it down, an’ we all watched intent. It had become like a real court o’ law; we had forgot what the case was about, we was so interested in seein’ the scrap the lawyers were puttin’ up.

Badger-face cocked the rifle so slick we didn’t see him, called out to Spider to catch it, an’ tossed it up to him. It came just short o’ Spider’s hand; and without thinkin’ o’ what he was doin’, Spider reached for the gun. This brought him squattin’ just the time the gun dropped back into Badger’s hands, and quick as a wink, he pulled the trigger—and hanged if that bullet wouldn’t have traveled through the same hole the first one had made.

I never saw circumstantial evidence give such a work-out before. If we had all been fair-minded, it would have puzzled us; but as it was, we sided accordin’ to our prejudices; an’ the Cross brand fellers chose Badger-face to Olaf, Badger-face bein’ foreman. The Friar saw he was stumped.

“Are there any marks up there?” he asked of Spider.

“There’s some blood streaks on a stone,” sez Spider.

“Did you notice ’em?” asked the Friar of Badger-face.

“Yes,” sez he; “but they don’t mean nothin’.”

“Let’s go up an’ look at ’em,” sez the Friar, so we all clumb up.

They pointed out just where Bud Fisher had laid when they found him; and close beside him was a smooth white stone with blood marks on it. The Friar examined the lay o’ the ledge; but it didn’t tell nothin’, so finally he got down on his knees an’ studied the blood-stained stone.

Presently he nodded his head and straightened up. “Examine that stone,” he said, pointin’ with his fingers. We all crowded about an’ studied it. The’ was finger an’ thumb prints all over it; but if you looked close, you could make out the rude image of a man pullin’ up a gun which had exploded on the edge of a ledge. It was a smudgey, shakey affair, but if ya looked just right you could make it out. Yet, even this didn’t floor Badger-face.

“The Swede there did that himself,” he growled; “and this makes him out sneakier ’n we thought him. Let’s hang him, and get rid o’ this foolishness.”

“Flannigan,” sez the Friar in cold, hard tones, “you have gone too far this time. If you had hung Olaf at first, you might have done it from a proverted sense o’ justice; but to do it now would be murder; and your own men wouldn’t help. Do any of you men chew tobacco?”

If he had asked for a can o’ face-paint, we wouldn’t ’a’ been more surprised; but to show the hold the Friar had gained over that crowd, every feller there but Badger-face held out his plug to him.

“Make some tobacco juice, Olaf,” he said.

Olaf bit off a hunk the size of a walnut from his own piece, an’ proceeded to make juice, as though his life depended upon the amount of it. “Wet your thumb and fingers with it, and make marks on the white stone,” commanded the Friar.

Olaf did so; and when we saw the difference in size and shape, we savvied the game.

“Olaf took Bud’s hand and made the marks with Bud’s own blood,” sez Badger-face.

“Did any one here ever try to handle a dead man’s hand?” asked the Friar; and that settled it. We all nodded our heads, except Badger-face, an’ he had sense enough to see ’at he had lost the deal, so he didn’t say nothin’.

“What I can’t see is, why he didn’t write,” sez the Friar.

“He couldn’t write,” chirps up two punchers at once, an’ then they took the rope off Olaf’s neck.

They talked it over and decided that the best thing to do was to bury Bud Fisher right there in the caÑon. The’ was a little cave on the ledge back o’ where we were standin’ so two o’ the punchers went down where they had him laid out under the slickers, an’ brought him up. We had to hoist him on ropes, an’ the Friar looked a long time into his face.

It was just a lad’s face: not bad nor hardened; just the face of a mischievous boy, weary after a day’s sport. We all took a look, an’ then put him in the little cave an’ heaped clods over him an’ piled stones on until the door was blocked shut again’ varmints.

The Friar sat down on a big rock—he had worked as hard as any of us—and sat thinkin’ with his chin in his hand. The Cross brand fellers muttered among themselves for a moment, an’ then one of ’em took off his hat, an’ sez, “Don’t ya think ya’d ought to speak somethin’ over him, parson?”

“Do you want me to?” asked the Friar. And they all nodded their heads.

So the Friar, he took off his battered hat and stood up before us an’ spoke a sermon, while we took off our hats, an’ sat around on stones to listen.

I’m convinced ’at the Friar’s long suit lay in the fact ’at he allus preached at himself. Most preachers have already divided the sheep from the goats; and they allus herd off contented with the sheep on green pastures, and preach down at the goats on the barren rocks; but if the Friar made any division at all, he classed himself in with the goats.

You see, in agreein’ to help string Olaf should he be convicted, the Friar had bet his soul on the outcome; and this braced him up in that crowd as nothin’ else would; for they knew that if he had lost, he’d have pulled harder on the rope ’n any one else.

It’s child’s play to put out a funeral talk over some old lady who has helped the neighbors for seventy or eighty years; but to preach the need of repentance to the livin’, and then to smooth things out for ’em after they’ve died in their sins, in such a way as it will jolly up the survivors and give ’em nerve to carve cheerful tidings on the tombstone, is enough to make a discriminatin’ man sweat his hair out.

The Friar stood with his hands clasped in front of him, and his eyes fixed sort o’ dreamy-like on the distance. It was a perfect day, one o’ those days ’at can’t happen anywhere except in our mountains in the fall o’ the year, and my mind drifted off to some lines the Friar was fond of rehearsin’, “Where every prospect pleases, an’ only man is vile.” Then I saw a change come to the Friar’s face, and he began to chant the one which begins: “Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days.”

He chanted slow, and the words didn’t mean much to us; but the solemn voice of him dragged across our hearts like a chain. One line of it has haunted me ever since. It seems to suggest a hundred thoughts which I can’t quite lay my hand on, and every time I get sad or discouraged, it begins to boom inside me until I see ’at my lot ain’t so much different from the rest; and I buck up and get back in the game again: “For I am a stranger with Thee and a sojourner as all my fathers were.”

The Friar didn’t preach us a long talk, and most of it circled about his favorite text, that a man’s real children were those who inherited his character, rather than those who inherited his blood. Once he raised his finger and pointed it at us and sez: “You were fond o’ this boy; but did you love him for his good, or did you love him for your own selfishness? I knew him not save through the dark glass of reputation; yet after looking into his dead features, to-day, I think I know him well. Death tells, sometimes, what Life has hid away. I did not see in his face the hard, deep lines of stealthy sin; I saw the open face of a child, tired out after a day wasted in thoughtless and impulsive play; but comin’ home at nightfall to have his small cares rubbed away by a lovin’ hand—and then, to fall asleep.”

O’ course, the Friar landed on us good and plenty; but this was the part of his talk which stuck to us after the scoldin’ part was all forgotten. When he was through he said a short prayer, and sang in a low tone the one beginnin’, “One sweetly solemn thought.” His eyes were glistenin’ through a mist when he finished this, and he climbed down from the ledge, hurried over to his pinto, and rode off without sayin’ another word.

We all sat silent for quite a spell, and then Spider and I got up and nodded good day to ’em. The Cross-branders also got up and shook ’emselves, and started down with us—all except Olaf. He sat there on a stone with his fingers run into his hair, and his face hid in his hands. Olaf had had regular religion when he was a child; and it had come back to him up there on the ledge. They say it’s worse ’n a relapse o’ the typhoid fever when it hits ya that way. I know this much, Olaf was doubled up worse ’n if he’d had the colic; and from that time on, the Ty Jones outfit looked mighty worldly to him.

Even Spider Kelley was savin’ of his nonsense until we got in sight of the Diamond Dot again.