THE GAME IS ON
Contrary to expectation, the case of the State of South Dakota against
Jesse Black was called soon after the sitting of the court Monday
afternoon. No testimony was introduced, however, until the following
day. Inch by inch, step by step, Gordon fought for a fair jury through
that tense afternoon. Merciless in his shrewd examination, keen to
detect hesitancy, prejudices sought to be concealed he cleverly and
relentlessly unearthed. Chair after chair was vacated,—only to be
vacated again. It seemed there was not a man in the county who had not
heard somewhat of this much-heralded crime—if crime it were. And he who
had heard was a prejudiced partisan. How could it be otherwise where
feeling ran so high,—where honest men mostly felt resentment against the
man who dared to probe the wound without extracting the cause of it, and
a hatred and fear curiously intermingled with admiration of the outlaw
whose next move after obtaining his freedom might be to cut out of the
general herd, cows of their own brands,—where tainted men, officers or
cowmen, awaited developments with a consuming interest that was not
above manipulating the lines of justice for their own selfish ends? Yet,
despite the obstacles in the way, Gordon was determined to have an
unprejudiced jury in so far as it lay in human power to seat such a one
in the box. So he worked, and worked hard.
This impanelling of the jury was not interesting to the crowd. Many had
no hint of its deeper meaning. Others saw it in the light of child’s
play—a certain braggadocio on the part of the young lawyer. They wanted
the actual show to begin—the examination of witnesses. They came and
went restlessly, impatiently waiting. Wiser heads than theirs knew that
the game was already on in deadly earnest. If these had been lucky
enough to get seats in the small and overcrowded court-room, they
remained glued to them. They were waiting to see what manner of men
would be chosen—Jesse’s peers—to pass judgment on his acts and mete out
for him just deserts—if they were capable of a just verdict. The
square-jawed, keen-witted, clean-cut captain of justice, who had
forgotten that the campaign had aged him irrevocably and that some
whitened hair would never grow brown again, meant that they should be
capable. The opposing lawyers smiled tolerantly at the numerous
challenges. These smiles went far to convince many of the infallibility
of their defence. Amused tolerance is a powerful weapon on more fields
than one where men war with their wits. It is a wise man who cultivates
the art.
“We have chosen the right man,” whispered Langford to Mary. They had
secured seats near the front and were of those who knew the game was
being played.
“He is great,” returned Mary. If only her father could be there to help!
The odds were fearful. Louise, sitting at her table within the bar, with
faith in this man’s destiny sufficient to remove mountains, smiled down
at her friends.
“Louise is an angel,” said Mary, affectionately.
“Yes, she is,” responded Langford, absently, for he was not looking at
the girl reporter, nor were his thoughts on her side of the rail. He
wished for the sake of Williston’s “little girl” that there were not so
much tobacco stench in the room. But this was a vague and intangible
wish. He wished with the whole strength of his manhood—which was
much—that this man on trial might be made to pay the penalty of his
crime as a stepping-stone to paying the penalty of that greater crime
of which he firmly believed him guilty. His own interest had become
strangely secondary since that hot July day when he had pledged himself
to vengeance. This falling off might have dated from a certain September
morning when he had lost himself—for all time—to a girl with pain-pinched
face and fever-brightened eyes who wore a blue wrapper. His would not be
a personal triumph now, if he won.
Court adjourned that evening with the jury-box filled. The State’s
friends were feeling pretty good about it. Langford made his way into
the bar where Gordon was standing apart. He passed an arm affectionately
over his friend’s shoulder.
“You were inspired, Dick,” he said. “Keep on the same as you have begun
and we shall have everything our own way.”
But the fire had died down in the young lawyer’s bearing.
“I’m tired, Paul, dead tired,” he said, wearily. “I wish it were over.”
“Come to supper—then you’ll feel better. You’re tired out. It is a tough
strain, isn’t it?” he said, cheerily. He was not afraid. He knew the
fire would burn the brighter again when there was need of it—in the
morning.
They passed out of the bar together. At the hotel, Mary and Louise were
already seated at the table in the dining-room where the little party
usually sat together when it was possible to do so. Judge Dale had not
yet arrived. The landlady was in a worried dispute with Red Sanderson
and a companion. The men were evidently cronies. They had their eyes on
two of the three vacant places at the table.
“But I tell you these places are taken,” persisted the landlady, who
served as head-waitress when such services were necessary, which was not
often. Her patrons usually took and held possession of things at their
own sweet will.
“You bet they are,” chimed in Red, deliberately pulling out a chair next
to Louise, who shivered in recognition.
“Please—” she began, in a small voice, but got no farther. Something in
his bold, admiring stare choked her into silence.
“You’re a mighty pretty girl, if you are a trottin’ round with the Three
Bars,” he grinned. “Plenty time to change your live—”
“Just move on, will you,” said Gordon, curtly, coming up at that moment
with Langford and shoving him aside with unceremonious brevity. “This is
my place.” He sat down quietly.
“You damned upstart,” blustered Sanderson. “Want a little pistol play,
do you?”
“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” implored the landlady.
“I’m not entering any objection,” said Gordon, coolly. “Just shoot—why
don’t you? You have the drop on me.”
For a moment it looked as if Sanderson would take him at his word and
meet this taunt with instant death for the sender of it, so black was
his anger. But encountering Langford’s level gaze, he read something
therein, shrugged his shoulders, replaced his pistol, and sauntered off
with his companion just as Judge Dale came upon the scene. Langford
glanced quickly across the table at Mary. Her eyes were wide with
startled horror. She, too, had seen. Just above Red Sanderson’s temple
and extending from the forehead up into the hair was an ugly scar—not
like that left by a cut, but as if the flesh might have been deeply
bruised by some blunt weapon.
“Mary! How pale you are!” cried Louise, in alarm.
“I’m haunted by that man,” she continued, biting her lip to keep from
crying out against the terrors of this country. “He’s always showing up
in unexpected places. I shall die if I ever meet him alone.”
“You need not be afraid,” said Gordon, speaking quietly from his place
at her side. Louise flashed him a swift, bewildering smile of gratitude.
Then she remembered she had a grievance against him and she stiffened.
But then the feel of his arms came to her—the feel that she had scarcely
been conscious of yesterday when the dark water lay at her feet,—and she
blushed, and studied her plate diligently.
Under this cover, the young ranchman comforted Mary, whom the others had
temporarily forgotten, with a long, caressing look from his handsome
eyes that was a pledge of tireless vigilance and an unforgetting
watchfulness of future protection.