CAMP FIRE YARNS 333 



As they loafed back to the veranda a Mexican 

 walked over the hill brow, jingling his spurs pleasantly 

 in accord with a whistled waltz. 



The advocate for law said in an undertone, ' That's 

 the cuss.' 



A rush, a struggle, and the Mexican, bound hand 

 and foot, lay on his back in the bar-room. The camp 

 turned out to a man. 



Happily, such cries as * String him up ! ' * Burn the 

 doggoned lubricator ! ' and other equally pleasant 

 phrases fell unheeded upon his Spanish ear. 



A jury, upon which they forced my friend, was 

 quickly gathered in the street, and, despite refusals 

 to serve, the crowd hurried in behind the bar. 



A brief statement of the case was made by the 

 ci-devant advocate, and they shoved the jury into a 

 commodious poker-room, where were seats grouped 

 about neat green tables. The noise outside in the bar- 

 room by and by died away into complete silence, but 

 from afar down the canon came confused sounds of 

 disorderly cheering. 



They came nearer, and again the light-hearted noise 

 of human laughter mingled with clinking glasses around 

 the bar. 



A low knock at the jury door, the lock burst in, and 

 a dozen smiling fellows asked the verdict. 



A foreman promptly answered, * Not guilty.' 



With volleyed oaths and ominous laying of hands 

 on pistol-hilts, the boys slammed the door with, * You'll 

 have to do better than that ! ' 



In half an hour the advocate gently opened the door 

 again. 



* Your opinion, gentlemen? ' 



