“Mrs. Higgins said to me: ‘Jimmie Mac hain’t got the sense he was born with. His little, dried-up brain ’d rattle ’round in a mustard seed and he’s gettin’ shet o’ that little so fast it makes my head swim.’ She was telling about times when he hadn’t acted just fair to you. I am glad—from all I hear—that this was taken out of his hands.” “I can count my friends, the real ones, on one hand, I’m afraid,” said Gordon, with a good-humored smile; “and Mrs. Higgins surely is the thumb.” “I am glad you smiled,” said Louise. “That would have sounded so bitter if you had not.” “I couldn’t help smiling. You—you have such a way, Miss Dale.” It was blunt but it rang true. “It is true, though, about my friends. If I could convict—Jesse Black, for instance,—a million friends would call me blessed. But I can’t do it alone. They will not do it; they will not help me do it; they despise me because I can’t do it, and swear at me because I try to do it—and there you have the whole situation in a nutshell, Miss Dale.” The sun struck across her face. He reached over and lowered the blind. “Thank you. But it is ‘’vantage in’ now, is it not? You will get justice before Uncle Hammond.” Unconsciously his shoulders straightened. “Yes, Miss Dale, it is ‘’vantage in.’ One of two things will come to pass. I shall send Jesse Black over or—” he paused. His eyes, unseeing, were fixed on the gliding landscape as it appeared in rectangular spots through the window in front of them. “Yes. Or—” prompted Louise, softly. “Never mind. It is of no consequence,” he said, abruptly. “No fear of Judge Dale. Juries are my Waterloo.” “Is it, then, such a nest of cowards?” cried Louise, intense scorn in her clear voice. “Yes,” deliberately. “Men are afraid of retaliation—those who are not actually blood-guilty, as you might say. And who can say who is and who is not? But he will be sent over this time. Paul Langford is on his trail. Give me two men like Langford and that anachronism—an honest man west of the river—Williston, and you can have the rest, sheriff and all.” “Mr. Williston—he has been unfortunate, has he not? He is such a gentleman, and a scholar, surely.” “Surely. He is one of the finest fellows I know. A man of the most sensitive honor. If such a thing can be, I should say he is too honest, for his own good. A man can be, you know. There is nothing in the world that cannot be overdone.” She looked at him earnestly. His eyes did not shift. She was satisfied. “Your work belies your words,” she said, quietly. Dust and cinders drifted in between the slats of the closed blind. Putting her handkerchief to her lips, Louise looked at the dark streaks on it with reproach. “Your South Dakota dirt is so—black,” she said, whimsically. “Better black than yellow,” he retorted. “It looks cleaner, now, doesn’t it?” “Maybe you think my home a fit dwelling place for John Chinaman,” pouted Louise.