“It looks as though Corrigan had considered that phase of the matter,” dryly observed Judge Graney. “The case doesn’t look very hopeful. However, I shall take it before the Circuit Court of Appeals, in Santa Fe.”
He was gone a week, and returned, disgusted, but determined.
“They denied our appeal; said they might have considered it if we had some evidence to offer showing that we had some sort of a claim to the title. When I told them of my conviction that the records had been tampered with, they laughed at me.” The Judge’s eyes gleamed indignantly. “Sometimes, I feel heartily in sympathy with people who rail at the courts—their attitude is often positively asinine.”
“Perhaps the long arm of power has reached to Santa Fe?” suggested Trevison.
“It won’t reach to Washington,” declared the Judge, decisively. “And if you say the word, I’ll go there and see what I can do. It’s an outrage!”
“I was hoping you’d go—there’s no limit,” said Trevison. “But as I see the situation, everything depends upon the discovery of the original record. I’m convinced that it is still in existence, and that Judge Lindman knows where it is. I’m going to get it, or—”
“Easy, my friend,” cautioned the Judge. “I know how you feel. But you can’t fight the law with lawlessness. You lie quiet until you hear from me. That is all there is to be done, anyway—win or lose.”
Trevison clenched his teeth. “I might feel that way about it, if I had been as careless of my interests as the other owners here, but I safeguarded my interests, trusted them to the regularly recognized law out here, and I’m going to fight for them! Why, good God, man; I’ve worked ten years for that land! Do you think I will see it go without a fight?” He laughed, and the Judge shook his head at the sound.