"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, in closing, "the defendant stands before you, convicted by his own words. He acknowledges that he branded the calf; he acknowledges that he set at defiance all law and justice and robbed the man who had befriended him—and what is his defence? That Isaac Crittenden had robbed him of his cow! Isaac Crittenden, who has cattle on a thousand hills! A man known, and favorably known, in this community for twenty years! Gentlemen, I ask of you, whose word will you take in this matter? The word of this self-confessed cattle-rustler and his Mexican consort or the word of Isaac Crittenden of Verde Crossing? Gentlemen of the jury, it has been the shame of Geronimo County for many years that this practice of rustling cattle has never received its fitting rebuke. It has been the shame of Arizona that the rights of the cattle men, the men who dared the Indians and braved the desert and made this country what it is, have never been protected. You have seen what this negligence has brought to our near neighbor, Tonto County—a cattle war in which over fifty men have given up their lives; a beautiful cattle country, devastated of all its flocks and herds. It has brought death, gentlemen, and destruction of property, and—_bankruptcy_! Gentlemen, I ask you for a verdict of 'Guilty'!" He sat down, and Angevine Thorne rose to his feet, bewildered. The speech which he had prepared to save his friend was forgotten; the appeals which he could have made were dead. He gazed about the court and read in every eye the word that was still ringing in his ears: "Guilty!" And yet he knew that Pecos was not guilty. Cattle he had stolen, yes—but not the cattle in court. They, of all the animals he had owned, had been honestly acquired; but Old Crit had sworn him into prison. It was right, perhaps, but it was not Law—and it was the law that held him. As he looked at the forbidding faces before him, each one hard and set by the false words of Crit and Shepherd Kilkenny, the monstrous injustice of the thing rushed over him and he opened his lips to speak. It was a conspiracy—a hellish combination of lawyers and the men they served, to beat the poor man down. The old rage for the revolution, the rage which he had put so resolutely from his heart, rushed back and choked him; he scowled at the sneering district attorney and Old Crit, humped over in his chair; and turned to the glowering audience, searching with the orator's instinct for a single friendly face. But there was none; every man was against him—every one! He raised his hand to heaven—and stopped. There was a struggle in the doorway—a bailiff, tall and burly, was thrusting back a young girl who struggled to get free—and then like a flash of light Babe Thorne saw her face, the wild-eyed, piteous face of Marcelina!