"Did he touch you pretty hard?"
"Oh, say two thousand, jest like that!"
The sheriff whistled. "Shooting-scrapes come high."
"Oh, I ain't sore at him. What makes me sore is this here law that
sticks a fella up and takes his money--makin' him pay for somethin' he
never done. A poor man would have a fine chance, fightin' a rich man
in court, now, wouldn't he?"
"There's something in that. The _Law_, as it stands, is all right."
"Mebby. But she don't stand any too steady when a poor man wants to
fork her and ride out of trouble. He's got to have a morral full of
grain to git her to stand--and even then she's like to pitch him if she
gits a chanct. I figure she's a bronco that never was broke right."
"Well,"--and Owen smiled,--"we got pitched this time. We lost our
case."
"You kind o' stepped up on the wrong side," laughed Pete.
"I don't know about that. _Somebody_ killed Sam Brent."
"I reckon they did. But supposin'--'speakin' kind o' offhand'--that
you had the fella--and say I was witness, and swore the fella killed
Brent in self-defense--where would he git off?"
"That would depend entirely on his reputation--and yours.
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