Very early in the morning of the day set for the preliminary hearing of Jesse Black, the young owner of the Three Bars ranch rode over to Velpen. He identified and claimed the animal held over from shipment by Jim’s persuasion. Brown gave possession with a rueful countenance.  
“First time Billy Brown ever was taken in,” he said, with great disgust.
 
Langford met with no interruption to his journey, either going or coming, although that good cowpuncher of his, Jim Munson, had warned him to look sharp to his pistols and mind the bridge. Jim being of a somewhat belligerent turn of mind, his boss had not taken the words with much seriousness. As for the fracas at the pontoon, cowmen are touchy when it comes to a question of precedence, and it might well be that the inflammable Jim had brought the sudden storm down on his head. Paul Langford rode through the sweet early summer air without let or hindrance and looking for none. He was jubilant. Now was Williston’s story verified. The county attorney, Richard Gordon, had considered Williston’s story, coupled with his reputation for strict honesty, strong and sufficient enough to bind Jesse Black over to appear at the next regular term of the circuit court. Under ordinary circumstances, the State really had an excellent chance of binding over; but it had to deal with Jesse Black, and Jesse Black had flourished for many years west of the river with an unsavory character, but with an almost awesome reputation for the phenomenal facility with which he slipped out of the net in which the law—in the person of its unpopular exponent, Richard Gordon—was so indefatigably endeavoring to enmesh him. The State was prepared for a hard fight. But now—here was the very steer Williston saw on the island with its Three Bars brand under Black’s surveillance. Williston would identify it as the same. He, Langford, would swear to his own animal. The defence would not know he had regained possession and would not have time to readjust its evidence. It would fall down and hurt itself for the higher court, and Dick Gordon would know how to use any inadvertencies against it—when the time came. No wonder Langford was light-hearted. In all his arrogant and unhampered career, he had never before received such an affront to his pride and his sense of what was due to one of the biggest outfits that ranged cattle west of the river. Woe to him who had dared tamper with the concerns of Paul Langford of the Three Bars.
 
Williston drove in from the Lazy S in ample time for the mid-day dinner at the hotel—the hearing was set for two o’clock—but his little party contented itself with a luncheon prepared at home, and packed neatly and appetizingly in a tin bucket. It was not likely there would be a repetition of bad meat. It would be poor policy. Still, one could not be sure, and it was most important that Williston ate no bad meat that day.
 
Gordon met them in the hot, stuffy, little parlor of the hotel.
 
“It was good of you to come,” he said to Louise, with grave sincerity.
 
“I didn’t want to,” confessed Louise, honestly. “I’m afraid it is too big and lonesome for me. I am sure I should have gone back to Velpen last night to catch the early train had it not been for Mary. She is so—good.”
 
“The worst is over now that you have conquered your first impulse to fly,” he said.
 
“I cried, though. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t help it. You see I never was so far from home before.”
 
He was an absorbed, hard-working lawyer. Years of contact with the plain, hard realities of rough living in a new country had dried up, somewhat, his stream of sentiment. Maybe the source was only blocked with debris, but certainly the stream was running dry. He could not help thinking that a girl who cries because she is far from home had much better stay at home and leave the grave things which are men’s work to men. But he was a gentleman and a kindly one, so he answered, quietly, “I trust you will like us better when you know us better,” and, after a few more commonplaces, went his way.
 
“There’s a man,” said Louise, thoughtfully, on the way to McAllister’s office “I like him, Mary.”
 
“And yet there are men in this county who would kill him if they dared.”
 
“Mary! what do you mean? Are there then so many cut-throats in this awful country?”
 
“I think there are many desperate men among the rustlers who would not hesitate to kill either Paul Langford or Richard Gordon since these prosecutions have begun. There are also many good people who think Mr. Gordon is just stirring up trouble and putting the county to expense when he can have no hope of conviction. They say that his failures encourage the rustlers more than an inactive policy would.”
 
“People who argue like that are either tainted with dishonesty themselves or they are foolish, one of the two,” said Louise, with conviction.
 
“Mr. Gordon has one stanch supporter, anyway,” said Mary, smiling. “Maybe I had better tell him. Precious little encouragement or sympathy he gets, poor fellow.”
 
“Please do not,” replied Louise, quickly. “I wonder if my friend, Mr. Jim Munson, has managed to escape ‘battle, murder, and sudden death,’ including death by poison, and is on hand with his testimony.”
 
As they approached the office, the crowd of men around the doorway drew aside to let them pass.
 
“Our chances of worming ourselves through that jam seem pretty slim to me,” whispered Mary, glancing into the already overcrowded room.
 
“Let me make a way for you,” said Paul Langford, as he separated himself from the group of men standing in front, and came up to them.
 
“I have watered my horse,” he said, flashing a merry smile at Mary as he began shoving his big shoulders through the press, closely followed by the two young women.
 
It was a strange assembly through which they pressed; ranchmen and cowboys, most of them, just in from ranch and range, hot and dusty from long riding, perspiring freely, redolent of strong tobacco and the peculiar smell that betokens recent and intimate companionship with that part and parcel of the plains, the horse. The room was indeed hot and close and reeking with bad odors. There were also present a large delegation of cattle dealers and saloon men from Velpen, and some few Indians from Rosebud Agency, whose curiosity was insatiable where the courts were concerned, far from picturesque in their ill-fitting, nondescript cowboy garments.
 
Yet they were kindly, most of the men gathered there. Though at first they refused, with stolid resentment, to be thus thrust aside by the breezy and aggressive owner of the Three Bars, planting their feet the more firmly on the rough, uneven floor, and serenely oblivious to any right of way so arrogantly demanded by the big shoulders, yet, when they perceived for whom the way was being made, most of them stepped hastily aside with muttered and abashed apologies. Here and there, however, though all made way, there would be no red-faced or stammering apology. Sometimes the little party was followed by insolent eyes, sometimes by malignant ones. Had Mary Williston spoken truly when she said the will for bloodshed was not lacking in the county?
 
But if there was aught of hatred or enmity in the heavy air of the improvised court-room for others besides the high-minded young counsel for law and order, Mary Williston seemed serenely unconscious of it. She held her head proudly. Most of these men she knew. She had done a man’s work among them for two years and more. In her man’s work of riding the ranges she had had good fellowship with many of them. After to-day much of this must end. Much blame would accrue to her father for this day’s work, among friends as well as enemies, for the fear of the law-defiers was an omnipresent fear with the small owner, stalking abroad by day and by night. But Mary was glad and there was a new dignity about her that became her well, and that grew out of this great call to rally to the things that count.
 
At the far end of the room they found the justice of the peace enthroned behind a long table. His Honor, Mr. James R. McAllister, more commonly known as Jimmie Mac, was a ranchman on a small scale. He was ignorant, but of an overweening conceit. He had been a justice of the peace for several years, and labored under the mistaken impression that he knew some law; but Gordon, on short acquaintance, had dubbed him “Old Necessity” in despairing irony, after a certain high light of early territorial days who “knew no law.” Instead of deciding the facts in the cases brought before him from the point of view of an ordinary man of common sense, McAllister went on the theory that each case was fraught with legal questions upon which the result of the case hung; and he had a way of placing himself in the most ridiculous lights by arguing long and arduously with skilled attorneys upon questions of law. He made the mistake of always trying to give a reason for his rulings. His rulings, sometimes, were correct, but one would find it hard to say the same of his reasons for them.
 
Louise’s little table was drawn closely before the window nearest the court. She owed this thoughtfulness to Gordon, who, nevertheless, was not in complete sympathy with her, because she had cried. The table was on the sunny side, but there was a breeze out of the west and it played refreshingly over her face, and blew short strands of her fair hair there also. To Gordon, wrapped up as he was in graver matters, her sweet femininity began to insist on a place in his mental as well as his physical vision. She was exquisitely neat and trim in her white shirt-waist with its low linen collar and dark blue ribbon tie of the same shade as her walking skirt, and the smart little milliner’s bow on her French sailor hat, though it is to be doubted if Gordon observed the harmony. She seemed strangely out of place in this room, so bare of comfort, so stuffy and stenchy and smoke-filled; yet, after all, she seemed perfectly at home here. The man in Gordon awoke, and he was glad she had not stayed at home or gone away because she cried.
 
Yes, Jim was there—and swaggering. It was impossible for Jim not to swagger a little on any occasion. The impulse to swagger had been born in him. It had been carefully nurtured from the date of his first connection with the Three Bars. He bestowed an amiable grin of recognition on the new reporter from the far side of the room, which was not very far.
 
The prisoner was brought in. His was a familiar personality. He was known to most men west of the river—if not by personal acquaintance, certainly by hearsay. Many believed him to be the animating mind of a notorious gang of horse thieves and cattle rustlers that had been operating west of the river for several years. Lax laws were their nourishment. They polluted the whole. It was a deadly taint to fasten itself on men’s relations. Out of it grew fear, bribery, official rottenness, perjury. There was an impudent half smile on his lips. He was a tall, lean, slouching-shouldered fellow. To-day, his jaws were dark with beard bristles of several days’ standing. He bore himself with an easy, indifferent manner, and chewed tobacco enjoyingly.
 
Louise, glancing casually around at the mass of interested, sunbrowned faces, suddenly gave a little start of surprise. Not far in front of Jimmie Mac’s table stood the man of the sandy coloring who had so insolently disputed their right of way the day before. His hard, light eyes, malignant, sinister, significant, were fixed upon the prisoner as he slouched forward to hear his arraignment. The man in custody yawned occasionally. He was bored. His whole body had a lazy droop. So far as Louise could make out he gave no sign of recognition of the man of sandy coloring.
 
Then came the first great surprise of this affair of many surprises. Jesse Black waived examination. It came like a thunderbolt to the prosecution. It was not Black’s way of doing business, and it was generally believed that, as Munson had so forcibly though inelegantly expressed it to Billy Brown, “He would fight like hell” to keep out of the circuit courts. He would kill this incipient Nemesis in the bud. What, then, had changed him? The county attorney had rather looked for a hard-fought defence—a shifting of the burden of responsibility for the misbranding to another, who would, of course, be off somewhere on a business trip, to be absent an indefinite length of time; or it might be he would try to make good a trumped-up story that he had but lately purchased the animal from some Indian cattle-owner from up country who claimed to have a bill-of-sale from Langford. He would not have been taken aback had Black calmly produced a bill-of-sale.
 
There were lines about the young attorney’s mouth, crow’s feet diverging from his eyes; his forehead was creased, too. He was a tall man, slight of build, with drooping shoulders. One of the noticeable things about him was his hands. They were beautiful—the long, slim, white kind that attract attention, not so much, perhaps, on account of their graceful lines, as because they are so seldom still. They belong pre?minently to a nervous temperament. Gordon had trained himself to immobility of expression under strain, but his hands he had not been able so to discipline. They were always at something, fingering the papers on his desk, ruffling his hair, or noisily drumming. Now he folded them as if to coerce them into quiet. He had handsome eyes, also, too keen, maybe, for everyday living; they would be irresistible if they caressed.
 
The absoluteness of the surprise flushed his clean-shaven face a little, although his grave immobility of expression underwent not a flicker. It was a surprise, but it was a good surprise. Jesse Black was bound over under good and sufficient bond to appear at the next regular term of the circuit court in December. That much accomplished, now he could buckle down for the big fight. How often had he been shipwrecked in the shifting sands of the really remarkable decisions of “Old Necessity” and his kind. This time, as by a miracle, he had escaped sands and shoals and sunken rocks, and rode in deep water.
 
A wave of enlightenment swept over Jim Munson.
 
“Boss,” he whispered, “that gal reporter’s a hummer.”
 
“How so?” whispered Langford, amused. He proceeded to take an interested, if hasty, inventory of her charms. “What a petite little personage, to be sure! Almost too colorless, though. Why, Jim, she can’t hold a tallow candle to Williston’s girl.”
 
“Who said she could?” demanded Jim, with a fine scorn and much relieved to find the Boss so unappreciative. Eden might not be lost to them after all. Strict justice made him add: “But she’s a wise one. Spotted them blamed meddlin’ hoss thieves right from the word go. Yep. That’s a fac’.”
 
“What ‘blamed meddlin’ hoss thieves,’ Jim? You are on intimate terms with so many gentlemen of that stripe,—at least your language so leads us to presume,—that I can’t keep up with the procession.”
 
“At the bridge yistidy. I told you ’bout it. Saw ’em first at the Bon Amy—but they must a trailed me to the stockyards. She spotted ’em right away. She’s a cute ’n. Made me shet my mouth when I was a blabbin’ too much, jest before the fun began. Oh, she’s a cute ’n!”
 
“Who were they, Jim?”
 
“One of ’em, I’m a thinkin’, was Jake Sanderson, a red-headed devil who came up here from hell, I reckon, or Wyoming, one of the two. Nobody knows his biz. But he’ll look like a stepped-on potato bug ’gainst I git through with him. Didn’t git on to t’ other feller. Will next time, you bet!”
 
“But what makes you think they are mixed up in this affair?”
 
“They had their eyes on me to see what I was a doin’ in Velpen. And I was a doin’ things, too.”
 
Langford gave a long, low whistle of comprehension. That would explain the unexpected waiving of examination. Jesse Black knew the steer had been recovered and saw the futility of fighting against his being bound over.
 
“Now, ain’t she a hummer?” insisted Jim, admiringly, but added slightingly, “Homely, though, as all git-out. Mouse-hair. Plumb homely.”
 
“On the contrary, I think she is plumb pretty,” retorted Langford, a laugh in his blue eyes. Jim fairly gasped with chagrin.
 
Unconcerned, grinning, Black slouched to the door and out. Once straighten out that lazy-looking body and you would have a big man in Jesse Black. Yes, a big one and a quick one, too, maybe. The crowd made way for him unconsciously. No one jostled him. He was a marked man from that day. His lawyer, Small, leaned back in his chair, radiating waves of self-satisfaction as though he had but just gained a disputed point. It was a manner he affected when not on the floor in a frenzy of words and muscular action.
 
Jim Munson contrived to pass close by Jake Sanderson.
 
“So you followed me to find out about Mag, did you? Heap o’ good it did you! We knew you knew,” he bragged, insultingly.
 
The man’s face went white with wrath.
 
“Damn you!” he cried. His hand dropped to his belt.
 
The two glared at each other like fighting cocks. Men crowded around, suddenly aware that a quarrel was on.
 
“The Three Bars’s a gittin’ busy!” jeered Jim.
 
“Come, Jim, I want you.” It was Gordon’s quiet voice. He laid a restraining hand on Munson’s over-zealous arm.
 
“Dick Gordon, this ain’t your put-in,” snarled Sanderson. “Git out the way!” He shoved him roughly aside. “Now, snappin’ turtle,” to Jim, “the Three Bars’d better git busy!”
 
A feint at a blow, a clever little twist of the feet, and Munson sprawled on the floor, men pressing back to give him the full force of the fall. They believed in fair play. But Jim, uncowed, was up with the nimbleness of a monkey.
 
“Hit away!” he cried, tauntingly. “I know ’nough to swear out a warrant ’gainst you! ’T won’t be so lonesome for Jesse now breakin’ stones over to Sioux Falls.”
 
“Jim!” It was Gordon’s quiet, authoritative voice once more. “I told you I wanted you.” He threw his arm over the belligerent’s shoulder.
 
“Comin’, Dick. I didn’t mean to blab so much,” Jim answered, contritely.
 
They moved away. Sanderson followed them up.
 
“Dick Gordon,” he said with cool deliberateness, “you’re too damned anxious to stick your nose into other people’s affairs. Learn your lesson, will you? My favorite stunt is to teach meddlers how to mind their own business,—this way.”
 
It was not a fair blow. Gordon doubled up with the force of the punch in his stomach. In a moment all was confusion. Men drew their pistols. It looked as if there was to be a free-for-all fight.
 
Langford sprang to his friend’s aid, using his fists with plentiful freedom in his haste to get to him.
 
“Never mind me,” whispered Gordon. He was leaning heavily on Jim’s shoulder. His face was pale, but he smiled reassuringly. There was something very sweet about his mouth when he smiled. “Never mind me,” he repeated. “Get the girls out of this—quick, Paul.”
 
Mary and Louise had sought refuge behind the big table.
 
“Quick, the back door!” cried Langford, leading the way; and as the three passed out, he closed the door behind them, saying, “You are all right now. Run to the hotel. I must see how Dick is coming on.”
 
“Do you think he is badly hurt?” asked Louise. “Can’t we help?”
 
“I think you had best get out of this as quickly as you can. I don’t believe he is knocked out, by any means, but I want to be on hand for any future events which may be called. Just fly now, both of you.”
 
The unfair blow in the stomach had given the sympathy of most of the bystanders, for the time being at least, to Gordon. Men forgot, momentarily, their grudge against him. Understanding from the black looks that he was not in touch with the crowd, Sanderson laughed—a short snort of contempt—and slipped out of the door. Unable to resist the impulse, Jim bounded out after his enemy.
 
When Paul hastened around to the front of the building, the crowd was nearly all in the street. The tension was relaxed. A dazed expression prevailed—brought to life by the suddenness with which the affair had developed to such interesting proportions and the quickness with which it had flattened out to nothing. For Sanderson had disappeared, completely, mysteriously, and in all the level landscape, there was no trace of him nor sign.
 
“See a balloon, Jim?” asked Langford, slapping him on the shoulder with the glimmer of a smile. “Well, your red-headed friend won’t be down in a parachute—yet. Are you all right, Dick, old man?”
 
“Yes. Where are the girls?”
 
“They are all right. I took them through the back door and sent them to the hotel.”
 
“You kin bet on the Boss every time when it comes to petticoats,” said Jim, disconsolately.
 
“Why, Jim, what’s up?” asked Langford, in amused surprise.
 
But Jim only turned and walked away with his head in the air. The serpent was leering at him.