s with which the machinery of the Grand Jury had
done its work, and the efficient way in which judge and prosecuting
attorney had worked together for the selection of what was patently a
"railroad" jury, were all evidence that a strong and confident power
was moving its forces to an assured and definite end. This judge and
this jury would allow no confusion of circumstances to stand in the
way of a clear-cut verdict. The fact that the man had been caught in
the act of setting fire to the forests, if the Judge allowed it to
appear in the record at all, would not stand with the jury as
justification, or even extenuation of the deed of murder charged. The
fate of the accused must hang solely on the question of fact, whether
or not his hand had fired the fatal shot. No other question would be
allowed to enter.

And on that question it seemed that the minds of all men were already
made up. The prisoner's friends and associates in the hills had been
at first loud in their commendation of the act which they had no doubt
was his. Now, though they talked less and less, they still did not
deny their belief. It was known that they had congratulated him on the
very scene of the murder. What room was there in the mind of any one
for doubt as to the actual facts of the killing? And since his
conviction or acquittal must hinge on that single question, what room
was there to hope for his acquittal?

The hill people had come down from their ruined homes, where they had
been working night and day to put a roof over their families before
the cold should come. They were bitter and sullen and nervous. They
had no doubt whatever that Jeffrey Whiting had killed the man, and
they had been forced to come down here to tell what they knew--every
word of which would count against them. They had come down determined
that he should not suffer for his act, which had been done, as it
were, in the name of all of them. But the rapid certainty in which the
machinery of the law moved on toward its sacrifice unnerved them.
There was nothing for them to do, it seemed, but to sit there, idle
and glum, waiting for the end.

Jeffrey Whiting sat listening stolidly to the opening arraignment by
the District Attorney. He was not surprised by any of it. The chain of
circumstances which had begun to wrap itself around him that morning
on Bald Mountain had never for a moment relaxed its tightening hold
upon him. He had followed his friends that day and all of tha