“Men,” said Taylor, in the silence that greeted him as he stood erect, his finger and thumb still gripping the judge’s ear, “Judge Littlefield is going to say a few words to you. He’s going to tell you who started this ruckus—so there won’t be any nonsense about actions in contempt of court. Deals like this are pulled off better when the court takes the public into its confidence. Who started this thing, judge? Did I?” “No—o,” was Littlefield’s hesitating reply. “Who did start it?” “Mr. Carrington.” “You saw him?” “Yes.” “What did he do?” “He—er—struck at you.” “And Danforth?” “He attacked you while you were in the street.” “And I’m not to blame?” “No.” Taylor grinned and released the judge’s ear. “That’s all, gentlemen,” he said; “court is dismissed!” The judge said nothing as he walked toward the door of the courthouse. Nor did Carrington and Danforth speak as they followed the judge. Both Carrington and Danforth seemed to have had enough fighting for one day. The victor looked around at the faces in the crowd that were turned to his, and his grin grew eloquent. “Looks like we’re going to have a mighty peaceable administration, boys!” he said. His grin included Norton, at whom he deliberately winked. Then he turned, mounted his horse—which had stood docilely near by during the excitement, and which whinnied as he approached it—and rode down the street to the Dawes bank, before which he dismounted. Then he went to his rooms on the floor above, washed and changed his clothes, and attended to the bruises on his face. Later, looking out of the window, he saw the crowd slowly dispersing; and still later he opened the door on Neil Norton, who came in, deep concern on his face. “You’ve started something, Squint. After you left I went into the _Eagle_ office. The partition is thin, and I could hear Carrington raising hell in there. You look out; he’ll try to play some dog’s trick on you now! There’s going to be the devil to pay in this man’s town!” Taylor laughed. “How long does it take for a sprained ankle to mend, Norton?” Norton looked sharply at Taylor’s feet. “You sprain one of yours?” he asked. “Lord, no!” denied Taylor. “I was just wondering. How long?” he insisted. “About two weeks. Say, Squint, your brain wasn’t injured in that ruckus, was it?” he asked solicitously. “It’s as good as it ever was.” “I don’t believe it!” declared Norton. “Here you’ve started something serious, and you go to rambling about sprained ankles.” “Norton,” said Taylor slowly, “a sprained ankle is a mighty serious thing—when you’ve forgotten which one it was!” “What in——” “And,” resumed Taylor, “when you don’t know but that she took particular pains to make a mental note of it. If I’d wrap the left one up, now, and she knew it was the right one that had been hurt—or if I’d wrap up the right one, and she knew it was the wrong one, why she’d likely——”