ert night filled with
mystery, its vague, haunting, whispering voice burdened with its age-old
secrets. Trevison had an arm around the Judge's shoulder. Their voices
mingled--the Judge's low, quavering; Trevison's full, deep, sympathetic.

After a while a rider appeared out of the starlit haze of the plains below
them. The Judge started. Trevison laughed.

"It's Clay Levins, Judge. I've been watching him for half an hour. He'll
stay here with you while I go after the record. Under the bottom drawer,
eh?"

Levins hallooed to them. Trevison answered, and he and the Judge walked
forward to meet Levins at the crest of the slope.

"Slicker'n a whistle!" declared Levins, answering the question Trevison
put to him. "I mailed the damn letter an' come back on the train that
brought it to him!" He grinned felinely at the Judge. "I reckon you're a
heap dry an' hungry by this time?"

"The Judge has feasted," said Trevison. "I'm going after the record.
You're to stay here with the Judge until I return. Then the three of us
will ride to Las Vegas, where we will take a train to Santa Fe, to turn
the record over to the Circuit Court."

"Sounds good!" gloated Levins. "But it's too long around. I'm for
somethin' more direct. Why not take the Judge with you to Manti, get the
record, takin' a bunch of your boys with you--an' salivate that damned
Corrigan an' his deputies!"

Trevison laughed softly. "I don't want any violence if I can avoid it. My
land won't run away while we're in Santa Fe. And the Judge doesn't want to
meet Corrigan just now. I don't know that I blame him."

"Where's the record?"

Trevison told him, and Levins grumbled. "Corrigan'll have his deputies
guardin' the courthouse, most likely. If you run ag'in 'em, they'll bore
you, sure as hell!"

"I'll take care of myself--I promise you that!" he laughed, and the Judge
shuddered at the sound. He vanished into the darkness of the ledge,
returning presently with Nigger, led him down the slope, called a low
"So-long" to the two watchers on the ledge, and rode away into the haze of
the plains.

Trevison rode fast, filled with a grim elation. He pitied the Judge. An
error--a momentary weakening of moral courage--had plunged the jurist into
the clutches of Corrigan; he could hardly be held responsible for what had
transpired--he was a puppet in the hands of an unscrupulous schemer, with
a threat of exposure hanging over him. No wonder he feared Corrigan!
Trevison's th