“Certainly not. Go on.”
“Well, she learned the other day that those documents told the whole story and contained enough proof to break up this conspiracy and convict the Judge and McNamara and all the rest, but Struve kept the bundle in his safe and wouldn’t give it up without a price. That’s why she went away with him—— She thought it was right, and—that’s all. But it seems Wheaton had succeeded in another way. Now, I’m coming to the point. The Judge and McNamara are arrested for contempt of court and they’re as good as convicted; you have recovered your mine, and these men are disgraced. They will go to jail—”
“Yes, for six months, perhaps,” broke in the other, hotly, “but what does that amount to? There never was a bolder crime consummated nor one more cruelly unjust. They robbed a realm and pillaged its people, they defiled a court and made Justice a wanton, they jailed good men and sent others to ruin; and for this they are to suffer—how? By a paltry fine or a short imprisonment, perhaps, by an ephemeral disgrace and the loss of their stolen goods. Contempt of court is the accusation, but you might as well convict a murderer for breach of the peace. We’ve thrown them off, it’s true, and they won’t trouble us again, but they’ll never have to answer for their real infamy. That will go unpunished while their lawyers quibble over technicalities and rules of court. I guess it’s true that there isn’t any law of God or man north of Fifty-three; but if there is justice south of that mark, those people will answer for conspiracy and go to the penitentiary.”
“You make it hard for me to say what I want to. I am almost sorry we came, for I am not cunning with words, and I don’t know that you’ll understand,” said the Bronco Kid, gravely. “We looked at it this way; you have had your victory, you have beaten your enemies against odds, you have recovered your mine, and they are disgraced. To men like them that last will outlive and outweigh all the rest; but the Judge is our uncle and our blood runs in his veins. He took Helen when she was a baby and was a father to her in his selfish way, loving her as best he knew how. And she loves him.”
“I don’t quite understand you,” said Roy.
And then Helen spoke for the first time eagerly, taking a packet from her bosom as she began:
“This will tell the whole wretched story, Mr. Glenister, and show the plot in all its vileness. It’s hard for me to betray my uncle, but this proof is yours by right to use as you see fit, and I can’t keep it.”
“Do you mean that this evidence will show all that? And you’re going to give it to me because you think it is your duty?”
“It belongs to you. I have no choice. But what I came for was to plead and to ask a little mercy for my uncle, who is an old, old man, and very weak. This will kill him.”
He saw that her eyes were swimming while the little chin quivered ever so slightly and her pale cheeks were flushed. There rose in him the old wild desire to take her in his arms, a yearning to pillow her head on his shoulder and kiss away the tears, to smooth with tender caress the wavy hair, and bury his face deep in it till he grew drunk with the madness of her. But he knew at last for whom she really pleaded.