“Never mind. It is of no consequence,” he said, abruptly. “No fear of Judge Dale. Juries are my Waterloo.”
“Is it, then, such a nest of cowards?” cried Louise, intense scorn in her clear voice.
“Yes,” deliberately. “Men are afraid of retaliation—those who are not actually blood-guilty, as you might say. And who can say who is and who is not? But he will be sent over this time. Paul Langford is on his trail. Give me two men like Langford and that anachronism—an honest man west of the river—Williston, and you can have the rest, sheriff and all.”
“Mr. Williston—he has been unfortunate, has he not? He is such a gentleman, and a scholar, surely.”
“Surely. He is one of the finest fellows I know. A man of the most sensitive honor. If such a thing can be, I should say he is too honest, for his own good. A man can be, you know. There is nothing in the world that cannot be overdone.”
She looked at him earnestly. His eyes did not shift. She was satisfied.
“Your work belies your words,” she said, quietly.
Dust and cinders drifted in between the slats of the closed blind. Putting her handkerchief to her lips, Louise looked at the dark streaks on it with reproach.
“Your South Dakota dirt is so—black,” she said, whimsically.
“Better black than yellow,” he retorted. “It looks cleaner, now, doesn’t it?”