“Sure, you and me and Dutchy is the same. We likes the kid, Jim Allen, what blubbers about his hosses.” Toothpick twirled his hat to hide his emotion.
“It’s a damned shame!” he exploded. “Just the same, kid, yuh want to forget yuh ever see him and marry some nice tame gent.”
“Like you, Toothpick?” she asked, smiling.
“Me?” Toothpick grunted. “Not any! I knows yuh too well. Yuhr tongue is too darned sharp. It keeps a man hoppin’ all the time. Come on! Here’s the train.”
The Limited rose from a far murmur to a rasping, grinding rush of sound and roared to a stop, grumbling, sputtering, like some great steel animal suddenly foiled in its rush through the prairie night. Within the lighted cars, passengers turned in casual curiosity to look at the station throng. But, contrary to its usual custom, that throng did not return the stares. For once interest was not centered on the Limited itself; all eyes were turned toward one man as he descended alone, slowly, with dignity. He faced the curious eyes calmly as he greeted his wife and daughter.
Erect, distinguished with his white goatee and the broad black hat that shaded sincere gray eyes, by no gesture did he betray excitement. And yet he knew that, of that crowd, almost every one knew his difficulties, knew why he had gone to the capitol, were avidly curious about the outcome of the visit, and were even more on edge concerning the trial to-morrow.
Cannondale knew that the judge had been in financial straits ever since the Lava Gang had stolen two hundred of his steers. He had tried unsuccessfully to get his notes renewed at the local bank; finally, he had made this trip to the capitol, where he had friends. But there, also, failure stalked him. His ranch was in debt, and it was hinted that his political position was none too secure.
Rumor said the judge had incurred the antagonism of the Mexican vote and would not be re-elected. How this story had reached Washington he did not know. But of the two banks where he was best known, one refused outright to make a loan and the other postponed it until the judge was forced to leave for Cannondale to preside at the murder trial. Vaguely he suspected that the tentacles of the Lava Gang stretched even into the furthermost political and financial centers. As he boarded the train for home he resolved to fight the gang to the end, whatever that end might be.
No trace of emotion, beyond pleasure at seeing her, tinctured the greeting kiss he gave his wife; no hint of the sword above their heads. Yet one glance at his eyes told the kindly, white-haired little woman that their difficulties were still unsolved. She pressed his hand in the comforting reassurance of her own courage and understanding.
His daughter Mary gave him a resounding kiss and a cheery “Hello, dad.” The family troubles had as yet only vaguely affected Mary; they had not toned down her treble giggle nor her natural nineteen-year-old interest in the arrangement of her blond curls. Snippets, though a year younger, was far more seriously concerned than Mary, because she understood better the gravity of the judge’s situation.