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 preëminently 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?”