overn such cases as this. Because you own the steers
is no sign you've got a right to defeat the aims of justice. I'd like
mighty well to accommodate you, but I've got my duty to consider, an' I
can't let him off. Ben Nyland has got to hang, an' that's all there is
to it!"

There came a passionate outcry from Peggy Nyland; and then she had her
arms around her brother's neck, sobbing that she would never let him be
hanged.

Miss Bransford's eyes were blazing with rage and scorn as they
challenged Dale's. She walked close to him and said something in a low
tone to him, at which he answered, though less gruffly than before,
that it was "no use."

Miss Bransford looked around appealingly; first at the pale, anemic
little man with big eyes, who shifted his feet and looked
uncomfortable; then her gaze went to Sanderson who, resting his left
elbow on the pommel of the saddle, was watching her with squinting,
quizzical eyes.

There was an appeal in Miss Bransford's glance that made the blood leap
to Sanderson's face. Her eyes were shining with an eloquent yearning
that would have caused him to kill Dale--if he had thought killing the
man would have been the means of saving Ben Nyland.

And then Mary Bransford was at his side, her hands grasping his,
holding them tightly as her gaze sought his and held it.

"Won't you please do something?" she pleaded. "Oh, if it only could
be! That's a mystery to you, perhaps, but when I spoke to you before I
was going to ask you if--if-- But then, of course you couldn't be--or
you would have spoken before."

Sanderson's eyes glowed with a cold fire. He worked his hands free,
patted hers reassuringly, and gently pushed her away from Streak.

He swung down from the saddle and walked to Dale. The big man had his
back turned to Sanderson, and when Sanderson reached him he leaned over
his shoulder and said gently:

"Look here, Dale."

The latter wheeled, recognizing Sanderson's voice and snarling into the
latter's face.

"Well?" he demanded.

Sanderson grinned mildly. "I reckon you've got to let Ben Nyland off,
Dale--he ain't guilty. Mebbe I ought to have stuck in my gab before,
but I was figurin' that mebbe you wouldn't go to crowdin' him so close.
Ben didn't steal no steers; he run them into his corral by my orders."

Dale guffawed loudly and stepped back to sneer at Sanderson. But he
had noted the steadiness of the latter's eyes and the sneer faded.

"Bah!" he sai