He lifted his head from examining a rickety table-leg.
"Go see what's happened, Jim," he suggested to the man, who had just come up with a hammer and some nails; and went back to dreaming of the time when his place should be a palace, and he would not have to nail the legs on his tables every few days because of the ebullitions of excitement in his customers.

He had strengthened the legs, and was testing them by rocking the table slightly with a broad palm upon it, when Jim came back.
"Some shooting scrape, back on the flat," Jim announced indifferently.
"Some say it was a hold-up.

Two or three of the Committee have gone out to investigate." "Yeah--I'll bet the Committee went out!" snorted Bill.

"They'll be lynching the Diggers' dogs for fighting, when the supply of humans runs out.

They've just about played that buckskin out, packing men out to the oak to hang 'em lately," he went on glumly, sliding the rejuvenated table into its place in the long row that filled that side of the room.