Pagina 189 de 439

Fraser did not argue the point. He remembered now having seen an

account of the Squaw Creek raid on a sheep camp, ending in a

battle that had resulted in the death of two men and the wounding

of three others. He had been sitting in a hotel at San Antonio,

Texas, when he had read the story over his after-dinner cigar.

The item had not seemed even remotely connected with himself. Now

he was in prison at Gimlet Butte, charged with murder, and unless

he was very much mistaken the sheriff was hinting at a lynching.

The Squaw Creek raid had come very near to him, for he knew the

fight he had interrupted last night had grown out of it.

"What do you mean by trouble to-night?" he asked, in an even,

conversational tone.

The sheriff looked directly at him. "You're a man, I reckon. That

calls for the truth. Men are riding up and down this country

to-day, stirring up sentiment against your outfit. To-night the

people will gather in town, and the jail will be attacked."

"And you?"