“Now tell me some more things. Out of whose hands do they take the law?” “The court’s.” “What made the courts?” “I don’t understand.” “How did there come to be any courts?” “The Constitution.” “How did there come to be any Constitution? Who made it?” “The delegates, I suppose.” “Who made the delegates?” “I suppose they were elected, or appointed, or something.” “And who elected them?” “Of course the people elected them.” “Call them the ordinary citizens,” said the Judge. “I like your term. They are where the law comes from, you see. For they chose the delegates who made the Constitution that provided for the courts. There’s your machinery. These are the hands into which ordinary citizens have put the law. So you see, at best, when they lynch they only take back what they once gave. Now we’ll take your two cases that you say are the same in principle. I think that they are not. For in the South they take a negro from jail where he was waiting to be duly hung. The South has never claimed that the law would let him go. But in Wyoming the law has been letting our cattle-thieves go for two years. We are in a very bad way, and we are trying to make that way a little better until civilization can reach us. At present we lie beyond its pale. The courts, or rather the juries, into whose hands we have put the law, are not dealing the law. They are withered hands, or rather they are imitation hands made for show, with no life in them, no grip. They cannot hold a cattle-thief. And so when your ordinary citizen sees this, and sees that he has placed justice in a dead hand, he must take justice back into his own hands where it was once at the beginning of all things. Call this primitive, if you will. But so far from being a DEFIANCE of the law, it is an ASSERTION of it--the fundamental assertion of self governing men, upon whom our whole social fabric is based. There is your principle, Miss Wood, as I see it. Now can you help me to see anything different?” She could not. “But perhaps you are of the same opinion still?” the Judge inquired. “It is all terrible to me,” she said. “Yes; and so is capital punishment terrible. And so is war. And perhaps some day we shall do without them. But they are none of them so terrible as unchecked theft and murder would be.” After the Judge had departed on his way to Sunk Creek, no one spoke to Molly upon this subject. But her face did not grow cheerful at once. It was plain from her fits of silence that her thoughts were not at rest. And sometimes at night she would stand in front of her lover’s likeness, gazing upon it with both love and shrinking. XXXIV. TO FIT HER FINGER It was two rings that the Virginian wrote for when next I heard from him. After my dark sight of what the Cattle Land could be, I soon had journeyed home by way of Washakie and Rawlins. Steve and Shorty did not leave my memory, nor will they ever, I suppose.