The Rim of the Desert

by Ada Woodruff Anderson

The men on the jury looked thoughtful but not altogether convinced. One glanced at his neighbor with a covert smile. This man, whom the Government had selected to prosecute the coal fraud cases was undeniably able, often brilliant, but his statements showed he had brought his ideas of Alaska from the Atlantic coast; to him, standing in the Seattle courtroom, our outlying possession was still as remote. As his glance moved to the ranks of outside listeners, who overflowed the seats and crowded the aisles to the doors, he must have been conscious that the sentiment he had expressed was at least unpopular in the northwest. Faces that had been merely interested or curious grew suddenly lowering. The atmosphere of the place seemed surcharged.

The following morning Morganstein took the stand. Though in small matters that touched his personal comfort he was arrogantly irritable, under the cross-examination that assailed his commercial methods he proved suave and non-committal. As the day passed, the prosecutor's insinuations grew more open and vindictive. Judge Feversham sprang to his feet repeatedly to challenge his accusations, and twice the Court calmed the Government's attorney with a reprimand. The atmosphere of the room seemed to seethe hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. Finally, during the afternoon session, Foster was recalled.

Through it all Tisdale waited, listening to everything, separating, weighing each point presented. It was beginning to look serious for Foster. Clearly, in his determination to win his suit, the prosecution was losing sight of the simple justice the Government desired. And a man less dramatic, less choleric, with less of a reputation for political intrigue than Miles Feversham might better have defended Stuart Foster. Foster was so frank, so honest, so eager to make the Alaska situation understood. And it was not an isolated case; there were hundreds of young men, who, like him, had cast their fortunes with that new and growing country, to find themselves, after years of hardship and privation of which the outside world had no conception, bound hand and foot in an intricate tangle of the Government's red tape.

The evening of the fourth day the attorney for the prosecution surprised Tisdale at his rooms. "Thank you," he said, when Hollis offered his armchair, "but those windows open to the four winds of heaven are a little imprudent to a man who lives by his voice. Pretty, though, isn't it?" He paused a moment to look down on the harbor lights and the chains of electric globes stretching off to Queen Anne hill and far and away to Magnolia bluff, then seated himself between the screen and the table that held the shaded reading lamp. "Has it occurred to you, Mr. Tisdale," he asked, "that a question may be raised as to the legality of your testimony in these coal cases?"

"No." Hollis remained standing. He looked at his visitor in surprise.
"Please make that clear, Mr. Bromley," he said.

The attorney smiled. "This is a trial case," he began. "A dozen others hinge on it. I was warned to be prepared for anything; so, when my attention was called to that article in Sampson's Magazine, my suspicions were instantly awake. It looked much like blackmail and, in connection with another story I heard in circulation at Washington, seemed a systematic preparation to attack the Government's witness. Possibly you do not know it was Mr. Jerold, your legal adviser and my personal friend, who put me in touch with the magazine. You had wired him to find out certain facts, but he was unable to go to New York at the time and, knowing I was there for the week, he got into communication with me by telephone and asked me to look the matter up. The publishers, fearing a libel suit which would ruin them, were very obliging. They allowed me to see not only the original manuscript, but Mrs. Feversham's letter, which I took the trouble to copy."

"Mrs. Feversham's letter?" Tisdale exclaimed. "Do you mean it was Mrs.
Feversham who was responsible for that story?"

"As it was published, yes. But Daniels was not a pen name. There really was such a writer—I have taken the trouble to find that out since I arrived in Seattle. He was on the staff of the Press and wrote a very creditable account of the catastrophe on the Great Northern railroad, in which glowing tribute was given you. But since then, and this is what makes the situation so questionable, he has left the paper and dropped completely out of sight."

Tisdale drew forward his chair and settled himself comfortably. "There is no need to worry about Jimmie Daniels," he said; "he is all right. I saw him at Cascade tunnel; he told me he was about to be married and go to the Wenatchee country to conduct a paper of his own. It's too bad there wasn't another reporter up there to tell about him. He worked like a Trojan, and it was a place to try a man's mettle. Afterwards, before he left, he came to me and introduced himself. He had been aboard the yacht that day I told the story. He had taken it down in his notebook behind an awning. He told me one of the ladies on board—he did not mention her name—who read his copy later, offered to dispose of it for him."

"So," said the lawyer slowly, "you did tell the story; there was a papoose; the unfortunate incident really occurred."