may be able to throw it back into the
Justice Court, where it really belongs. At the worst, Hans should only
be fined, but, of course, we can't say a word. We can only wait till the
hearing."

A few hours ago she would have been fiercely impatient at this prospect
of delay, but now, most strangely, she found herself accepting, without
protest, a further stay in the town, for it came as a part of her
pledged service in the aid of an unselfish young man, and she was
definitely, distinctly moved at the thought of helping him.

"By the way, Mr. Rawlins, I notice you call Mr. Hanscom Hans. Is that
his Christian name?"

"Oh no, that's only his nickname. He signs his reports L. J. Hanscom. I
think his real name is Lawrence. I don't know why everybody calls him
'Hans'--probably because he is so friendly and helpful. Everybody likes
him except that Shellfish Valley crowd, and they feel, I suppose, that I
put him down here to keep tab on them, which is the fact. They're a nest
of bad ones--a lot of hold-overs from the past--and would have frozen
him out long ago if they could."

Knowing the ranger's first name seemed to bring him still nearer, and
she began to feel a little uneasy about the way in which he might take
her share in his liberation. "Suppose he should misread it!"

On the street corner near the judge's office they encountered a dozen
men, grouped around a small, dark, middle-aged citizen with very black
hair, a long mustache, and a fumed-oak complexion, who seemed to be
monologuing for the enlightenment of the crowd. He looked like a
Mexican, or some exile from the south of Europe, and as Helen and
Rawlins paused for a moment they heard him say in a voice of pathetic
softness: "I blame nobody but heem, Hart Busby. He steal my girl away. I
have no fight with any one else."

This was the dreaded Cuneo, the father of Margarita, whose coming
promised death to the ranger! The imaginary savage with ready knife, the
infuriated giant with blazing eyes, gave place to the actuality of this
gentle, stricken; melancholy little sheepherder, who had no insane
desire to avenge himself on any one, much less on Hanscom. Helen's
resolution to meet and placate the dreaded Basque gave place to pity and
a sense of relief.

Rawlins viewed the matter humorously and laughed softly. "Hans needn't
worry about that little mongrel."

"He has suffered--he is suffering now," Helen replied. "I wish he might
have his girl and take her hom