“Ye lyin’ scut[1]!  Ye filthy cess pool o’ dirt an’ falsehood!”

The old frontiersman had sprung from his place and smashed his chair in twenty atoms on the table between the sheriff and the coroner.

“Y’ll not offend the deceased gentleman’s memory?  Y’ll not offend his daughter here?  An’ the dead can’t defend themselves?  An’ y’re all s’ verra delicate y’re lettin’ a stinkin’ slanderous unclean unspoken damnable hell-spawned lie go forth unchallenged t’ blacken a dead man’s memory?  Oh, A know y’r kind well!  A’ve heard harlots lisp an’ whisp’ an’ half tell and damn by a lie o’ th’ eye!  Y’ are insinuatin’ this woman Calamity shot her master to avenge dishonor in her early life?  ’Tis a lie!  ‘Tis a most damnable black an’ filthy lie!  She wud a’ died for MacDonald ten thousand times over if she could, because he had long ago, before ever he came here, avenged her dishonor.”

The coroner had sprung back from the table.  The mighty man of valor, who defended law, had precipitately put the space of overturned benches between himself and the irate old frontiersman.  Matthews suddenly swung to face the spectators.

“Men,” he cried, “foul murder has been done; and this slander is t’ fasten guilt on a poor innocent outcast woman, t’ send her a scapegoat int’ th’ wilderness bearin’ th’ sins o’ those higher up that A do na’ name; of y’r Man Higher Up, who is the curse o’ this land!  ’Twas in my boyhood days on Saskatchewan!  This woman, that y’ have seen wander the Black Hills sinnin’ unashamed, was but a fair slip o’ an Indian girl, then, pure as y’r own girls in school!  She married a little Indian boy, Wandering Spirit o’ the Crees at Frog Lake!  The Indian Officer at Frog Lake was a Sioux half-breed—­he took her forcibly from Wandering Spirit t’ th’ Agency House!  ’Twas y’r sheep rancher, MacDonald, who was fur trader then, went forcibly to th’ Agency House, thrashed the Agent, and brought her back to the Indian, Wandering Spirit!  A was passin’ West by dog train to the Mountains when A stopped at the Agency House!  MacDonald had gone North.  Little Wandering Spirit comes and asks me t’ interpret something he has to say t’ th’ Master—­meanin’ that danged unclean Sioux beast.  Says I, ’Wandering Spirit has something not pleasant t’ say t’ you:  Y’ better get another interpreter.’  The officer says, ‘Spit it out!  Y’ can’t phase me.’  Boys, A spit it out.  A gave it to him plain!  The boy Indian stood in the door o’ th’ Agency House holdin’ a loaded dog-train whip hidden behind his back.  He was na’ but half as big as the brute behind the Government desk!  He says, ’Tell the Master he must leave my wife alone!  If ever he comes near m’ tepee again, A do to him like that,’ rolling a dead leaf t’ powder ’tween his hands.  The officer lets out a roar o’ filthy oaths!  I hear the little Indian give a scream like a hurt wild cat.  ‘He calls me a dog—­a son of a dog,’ he screams; an’ boys, with one leap he was over