grit and obstinacy. He knew he was right, that he had paid for the land,
and that he had improved it. And he had a lot of faith in the law, not
realizing that he hadn't anything to show the law. And he didn't know
that law and justice don't always mean the same thing, not by a long shot.

"Well, one day he went out looking for a vein of coal, which he thought
ought to be thereabouts, according to his books, and it ought to be close
to the surface of a fissure. He reckoned that coal of any quality would
be some better than chips and the little wood he owned, so he got busy.
But he didn't find coal, but something that made him hotfoot it to his
books. When the report came back from the assay office he knew that he
had hit on a vein of native silver, which was some better than coal.

"It didn't take long for the news to get around, though God Himself only
knows how it did, unless the storekeeper told that a package had gone
through his hands addressed to the assay office, and things began to
happen in chunks. He caught three Gridiron Circle punchers shooting his
cows, and he was naturally mad about it and just shot up the bunch before
they knew he was around. He killed one and spoiled the health of the other
two for some time to come, which naturally spelled war with a big W. Then
about this time his wife went and died, which was a purty big addition
to his troubles. As he stood above her grave, all broken up, and about
ready to give up the fight and go back East, he was shot at from cover.
He didn't much care if he was killed or not, until he remembered that he
had a boy to take care of. Then he got fighting mad all at once, all of
his troubles coming up before him in a bunch, and he got his gun and
went hunting, which was only right and proper under the circumstances."

The sheriff flecked the ashes of his cigar into a blue flower pot which
was gay with white ribbons, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"I hate to think that it is possible to find a whole ranch of hellions
from the owner down," he continued, "but the nature of the owner picks a
dirty foreman, and a dirty foreman needs dirty men, and there you are.
That fits the case of the Gridiron Circle to a T. There was not one white
man in the whole gang," and he sat in silence for a space.

"Well, the boy, who was about fifteen years old by this time, took his
gun and went out to find his daddy, and he succeeded. He cut him down
and buried him and then went home