The proceedings were simple and quiet and grim, and were wellnigh over when Lieutenant Burrell walked into the tent saloon.
He had been in his quarters all day, fighting a fight with himself, and in the late evening, rebelling against his cramped conditions and the war with his conscience, he had sallied out, and, drawn by the crowd in Stark's place, had entered.
A man replied to his whispered question, giving him the story, for the meeting was under Lee's domination, and the miners maintained an orderly and business-like procedure.

The chairman's indigestion had vanished with his sudden assumption of responsibility, and he showed no trace of drink in his bearing.

Beneath a lamp one was binding four-foot lengths of cotton tent-rope to a broomstick for a knout, while others, whom Lee had appointed, were drawing lots to see upon whom would devolve the unpleasant duty of flogging the captive.

The matter-of-fact, relentless expedition of the affair shocked Burrell inexpressibly, and seeing Poleon and Gale near by, he edged towards them, thinking that they surely could not be in sympathy with this barbarous procedure.
"You don't understand, Lieutenant," said Gale, in a low voice.

"This nigger is a THIEF!" "You can't kill a man for stealing a few hams." "It ain't so much WHAT he stole; it's the idea, and it's the custom of the country." "Whipping is enough, without the other." "Dis stealin' she's bad biznesse," declared Poleon.