for order. It had probably been useless for any man to undertake to
stop the prisoner at the bar, thus adjured. At any rate he arose and
said politely to the jurors, "Fellers, I got to go"--and so went, no
man raising hand to restrain him.

As to Dan Anderson, he himself admitted his wish that the case had gone
on. "I wanted to cross-examine," said he.

That night, over by the _arroyo_, we met Curly and the Littlest Girl
walking in the moonlight. Curly was quiet. The Littlest Girl was
tremulous, content. Curly, pausing as we approached, mumbled some
shamefaced thanks.

"Curly," said Dan Anderson, his voice queer, "I didn't do it for pay.
I did it--I don't know why--"

A new mood was upon him. A lassitude as of remorse appeared to relax
him, body and mind. An hour later he and I sat in the glorious flood
of the light of the moon of Heart's Desire, and we fell silent, as was
the way of men in that place. At length Dan Anderson turned his face
to the top of old Carrizo, the restful, the impassive. He gazed long
without speaking, as though he plainly saw something there at the
mountain top.

"Listen," he whispered to me, a moment later, and his eyes did not
quite keep back the tears. "She's there--the Goddess. The Law has
come to Heart's Desire. May God forgive me! Why could we not have
stayed content?"

But little did Dan Anderson foresee that day how swiftly was to come