“Your name, place of residence, and business?” asked the counsel for the State. “Paul Langford. I reside in Kemah County, and I own and operate a cattle ranch.” After Langford had clearly described and identified the animal in question, Gordon continued: “Mr. Langford, when did you first miss this steer?” “On the fifteenth day of July last.” “How did you happen to miss this steer?” “My attention was called to the fact that an animal answering this description and bearing my brand had been seen under suspicious detention.” “Prior to information thus received, you were not aware this creature had either strayed away or been stolen?” “I was not.” “Who gave you this information, Mr. Langford?” “George Williston of the Lazy S.” “Now you may tell the jury in what words Williston told you about the steer he saw.” This, of course, was objected to and the objection was sustained by the court, as Gordon knew it would be. He only wanted the jury to remember that Williston could have told a damaging story had he been here, and also to remember how mysteriously this same Williston had disappeared. He could not have Williston or Williston’s story, but he might keep an impression ever before these twelve men that there was a story—he knew it and they knew it,—a story of which some crotchet of the law forbade the telling. “What did you do after your attention had been called to the suspicious circumstances of the steer’s detention?” “I informed my boys of what I had heard, and sent them out to look for the steer.” “That same day?” “Yes.” “Were they successful?” “No.” “Did this steer have a particular stamping ground?” “He did.” “Where was that?” “He always ranged with a bunch on what we call the home range.” “Near the ranch house?” “Within half a mile.” “Did you look for him yourself?” “I did.” “He was not on this home grazing ground?” “He was not.” “Did you look elsewhere for him?” “We did.” “Where?” “We rode the free ranges for several days—wherever any of my cattle held out.” “How many days did you say you rode?” “Why, we continued to look sharp until my boy, Munson, found him the day before the preliminary at the Velpen stock-yards, on the point of being shipped to Sioux City.” “You went to Velpen to identify this steer?” “I did.” “It was your steer?” “Yes.” “The same for which you had been searching so long?” “The very same.” “It was wearing your brand?” “It was not.” “What brand was it wearing?” “J R.” “Where was it?” “On the right hip.” “Where do you usually put your brand, Mr. Langford?” “On the right hip.” “Do you always brand your cattle there?” “Always.” “Do you know any J R outfit?” “I do not.”