Gordon nodded to Small. His examination had been straightforward and to the point. He had drawn alert and confident answers from his witness. Involuntarily, he glanced at Louise, who had not seemed to be working at all during this clean-cut dialogue. She flashed a fleeting smile at him. He knew he was out of sympathy with the great majority of the people down there in front. He did not seem to care so much now. A great medicine is a womanly and an understanding smile. It flushed his face a bit, too. Langford was most unsatisfactory under cross-examination. He never contradicted himself, and was a trifle contemptuous of any effort to tangle him up in threads of his own weaving. The little man touched Small on the arm and whispered to him. “Mr. Langford,” said Small, in a weighty voice, “you travel a great deal, I believe?” “I do.” “For pleasure, maybe?” with a mysterious inflection. “Partly.” “Business as well?” “Business as well.” “Just prior to the arrest of the defendant,” insinuatingly, “you were away?” “How long prior do you mean?” “Say a week.” “No.” “Two weeks?” “Yes.” “You had been away some time?” “The better part of a year,” confessed Langford, with engaging candor. “Yes. Now, Mr. Langford, I should like you to tell me about how many cattle you range—in round numbers.” “About five thousand head.” “Yes. Now, Mr. Langford, you who count your cattle by the thousands, on your own sworn word you have been out of the country a year. Don’t you think you are asking this jury to swallow a pretty big mouthful when you ask them to believe that you could so unmistakably distinguish this one poor ornery steer, who has so little to distinguish him from thousands of others?” “I have owned that spotted steer for years,” said Langford, composedly. “I have never sold him because he was rather an odd creature and so cantankerous that we dubbed him the Three Bars mascot.” Gordon called Jim Munson. “What is your name?” “Gosh!” The question was unexpected. Was there any one in the county who did not know Jim Munson? And Dick Gordon of all people! Then he remembered that the Boss had been asked the same question, so it must be all right. But the ways of the court were surely mysterious and ofttimes foolish. “Jim Munson. Jim Munson’s my name—yep.” Gordon smiled. “You needn’t insist on it, Mr. Munson,” he advised. “We know it now. Where do you live?” “Hellity damn! I live at the Three Bars ranch.” “In Kemah County?” “It sure is.” “What is your business, Mr. Munson?” “Jim’s shorter, Dick. Well, I work for the Boss, Mr. Paul Langford.” “In what capacity?” “If you mean what do I do, why, I ride the range, I punch cows, I always go on the round-up, I’m a fair bronco-breaker and I make up bunks and clean lamp chimblies between times,” he recited, glibly, bound to be terse yet explicit, by advice of the Boss. There was a gale of laughter in the bar. Even the Court smiled.