“You can serve and be darned.” Stanley's grin returned, wider than before.
“As Mr. Hart's legal adviser,” Baumberger began, in the tone he employed in the courtroom—a tone which held no hint of his wheezy chuckle or his oily reassurance—“I hereby demand that you leave this claim which you have staked out upon Thomas Hart's ranch, and protest that your continued presence here, after twenty-four hours have expired, will be looked upon as malicious trespass, and treated as such.”
Stanley still grinned. “As my own legal adviser,” he returned calmly, “I hereby declare that you can go plumb to HEL-ena.” Stanley evidently felt impelled to adapt his vocabulary to feminine ears, for he glanced at them deprecatingly and as if he wished them elsewhere.
If either Stanley or Baumberger had chanced to look toward Good Indian, he might have wondered why that young man had come, of a sudden, to resemble so strongly his mother's people. He had that stoniness of expression which betrays strong emotion held rigidly in check, with which his quivering nostrils and the light in his half-shut eyes contrasted strangely. He had missed no fleeting glance, no guarded tone, and he was thinking and weighing and measuring every impression as it came to him. Of some things he felt sure; of others he was half convinced; and there was more which he only suspected. And all the while he stood there quietly beside Evadna, his attitude almost that of boredom.
“I think, since you have been properly notified to leave,” said Baumberger, with the indefinable air of a lawyer who gathers up his papers relating to one case, thrusts them into his pocket, and turns his attention to the needs of his next client, “we'll just have it out with these other fellows, though I look upon Stanley,” he added half humorously, “as a test case. If he goes, they'll all go.”
“Better say he's a TOUGH case,” blurted Wally, and turned on his heel. “What the devil are they standing around on one foot for, making medicine?” he demanded angrily of Good Indian, who unceremoniously left Evadna and came up with him. “I'D run him off the ranch first, and do my talking about it afterward. That hunk uh pork is kicking up a lot uh dust, but he ain't GETTING anywhere!”
“Exactly.” Good Indian thrust both hands deep into his trousers pockets, and stared at the ground before him.
Wally gave another snort. “I don't know how it hits you, Grant—but there's something fishy about it.”
“Ex-actly.” Good Indian took one long step over the ditch, and went on steadily.
Wally, coming again alongside, turned his head, and regarded him attentively.