I found it, and it is due."
The air of carelessness disappeared from the members of the crowd
and the silence became oppressive. Most of those present knew parts of
Frenchy's story, and all were in hearty accord with anything he might
do. He reached within his vest and brought forth a deerskin bag.
Opening it, he drew out a package of oiled silk and from that he took
a paper. Carefully replacing the silk and the bag, he slowly unfolded
the sheet in his hand and handed it to Buck, whose face hardened. Two
decades had passed since the foreman of the Bar-20 had seen that
precious sheet, but the scene of its finding would never fade from his
memory. He stood as if carved from stone, with a look on his face that
made the crowd shift uneasily and glance at Trendley.
Frenchy turned to the rustler and regarded him evilly. "You are the
hellish brute that wrote that note," pointing to the paper in the hand
of his friend. Then, turning again, he spoke: "Buck, read that paper."
The foreman cleared his throat and read distinctly:
"McAllister: Yore wife is too blame good to live.
TRENDLEY."
There was a shuffling sound, but Buck and Frenchy, silently backed
up by Hopalong and Red, intervened, and the crowd fell back, where it
surged in indecision.
"Gentlemen," said Frenchy, "I want you to vote on whether any man
here has more right to do with Slippery Trendley as he sees fit than
myself.
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