“Jim’s shorter, Dick. Well, I work for the Boss, Mr. Paul Langford.”
“In what capacity?”
“If you mean what do I do, why, I ride the range, I punch cows, I always go on the round-up, I’m a fair bronco-breaker and I make up bunks and clean lamp chimblies between times,” he recited, glibly, bound to be terse yet explicit, by advice of the Boss.
There was a gale of laughter in the bar. Even the Court smiled.
“Oh, Jim! Jim! You have perjured yourself already!” murmured the Boss. “Clean lamp chimneys—ye gods!”
“Well, grin away!” exploded Jim, his quick ire rising. He had forgotten that Judge Dale’s court was not like Justice McAllister’s. His fingers fairly itched to draw a pistol and make the scoffers laugh and dance to a little music of his own. But something in Gordon’s steady though seemingly careless gaze brought him back to the seriousness of the scene they were playing—without guns.
The examination proceeded. The air was getting stifling. Windows were thrown open. Damp-looking clouds had arisen from nowhere seemingly and spread over the little prairie town, over the river and the hills. It was very warm. Weather-seasoned inhabitants would have predicted storm had they not been otherwise engaged. There was no breath of air stirring. Mrs. Higgins had said it was a sorry day for the cattle when the river was running in December. Others had said so and so believed, but people were not thinking of the cattle now. One big-boned, long-horned steer held the stage alone.
The State proceeded to Munson’s identification of the steer in question. After many and searching questions, Gordon asked the witness:
“Jim, would you be willing to swear that the steer you had held over at the stock-yards was the very same steer that was the mascot of the Three Bars ranch?”
This was Jim’s big opportunity.