What would you have? The Law is the Law; but there are such things as supreme courts. It was useless for Blackman, J. P., to rap and call for order. It had probably been useless for any man to undertake to stop the prisoner at the bar, thus adjured. At any rate he arose and said politely to the jurors, "Fellers, I got to go"--and so went, no man raising hand to restrain him. As to Dan Anderson, he himself admitted his wish that the case had gone on. "I wanted to cross-examine," said he. That night, over by the _arroyo_, we met Curly and the Littlest Girl walking in the moonlight. Curly was quiet. The Littlest Girl was tremulous, content. Curly, pausing as we approached, mumbled some shamefaced thanks. "Curly," said Dan Anderson, his voice queer, "I didn't do it for pay. I did it--I don't know why--" A new mood was upon him. A lassitude as of remorse appeared to relax him, body and mind. An hour later he and I sat in the glorious flood of the light of the moon of Heart's Desire, and we fell silent, as was the way of men in that place. At length Dan Anderson turned his face to the top of old Carrizo, the restful, the impassive. He gazed long without speaking, as though he plainly saw something there at the mountain top. "Listen," he whispered to me, a moment later, and his eyes did not quite keep back the tears. "She's there--the Goddess. The Law has come to Heart's Desire. May God forgive me! Why could we not have stayed content?" But little did Dan Anderson foresee that day how swiftly was to come further ruin for the kingdom of oblivion which we thought that we had found. "There'll be _women_ next!" I said to him bitterly; though this was a vague threat of a thing impossible. His reply was a look more than half frightened. "Don't!" he said. CHAPTER V EDEN AT HEART'S DESIRE _This being the Story of a Paradise; also showing the Exceeding Loneliness of Adam_ Two months had passed since the wedding of Curly and the Littlest Girl, and nothing further had happened in the way of change. The man from Philadelphia had not come, and, to the majority of the population of Heart's Desire at least, the railroad to the camp remained a thing as far distant as ever in the future. Life went on, spent in the open for the most part, and in silent thoughtfulness by choice. Blackman, J. P., now languished in desuetude among the fallen remnants of an erstwhile promising structure of the law; and there being no further occupation for the members of the bar, the latter customarily spent much of the day sitting in the sun. "You might look several times at me," said Dan Andersen one day, without preface or provocation, "and yet not read all my past in these fair lineaments."