And with past enormities standing undefended, what might not a judge believe as to future atrocities when the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt had made the prediction, his chief exhibit of intended outlawry being five millions of timber stranded in Blunder valley, and requiring "stolen water" to move it? His last argument was an uncontradicted allegation of attempted compromise, his last word "Blackmail!" shot at the face of the opposing lawyer while his stubby finger vibrated under the lawyer's nose. Therefore, at the end of it all, the clerk of courts wrote, the judge signed, and five minutes after the ink was dry High Sheriff Bennett Rodliff buttoned his coat over the folded paper and set his face towards Enchanted. Forty-eight hours later, having travelled by train, by stage, by sledge, and on foot, he stood before Dwight Wade in the midst of his crew at the landings in Blunder valley, gave the paper to him, and watched his face while he read it. Being a man who enjoyed his own authority and exulted in the power of the law when it dealt crushing blows, the high sheriff noted with satisfaction that the young man's face grew pale under its tan. "Get the sense, do you?" inquired the sheriff, allowing himself the relaxation of a chew of tobacco after his headlong rush into the north; "it's an injunction. You can't meddle with Blunder Lake dam; can't h'ist gates; can't take water!" He gazed about him at the heaped logs piled in the bed of the stream. "Kind o' seems to me," he observed, with smug rebuke, "that I'd have been slow in landin' logs down here till I knowed what the law court was goin' to do about these water-rights. Law steps slow and careful, and this whole thing has got to wait till it gets way up to the full bench. Lettin' you have water here might be an admission by the big crowd that they was all wrong on the chief proposition. The big crowd ain't that kind!" Wade had read the injunction through to its bitter end. Every stilted phrase, every estopping, restraining word of its redundancy, was like a bar between him and his hopes. It was a temporary injunction. But the date set for a hearing on the question of permanency was a date that made those log-piles in Blunder valley loom in his dizzy gaze like monuments to buried expectations. "Where was our lawyer when this damnable document was issued?" he cried, shaking the paper under the sheriff's nose. His heart was aflame against the thing called Law. The sheriff stood there as Law's representative, expressing in his blank face such unfeeling acceptance of the situation as hopeless, that Wade wanted to jam the paper between those jaws wagging blandly on their tobacco.