ow," he said.

Simpson, the proprietor of the hotel, jocosely remarked: "Well, Hans, as
near as I can figure it out, to-morrow is to be your busy day, but you'd
better lay low to-night. The Kitsongs'll get ye, if ye don't watch
out."

"I'll watch out. What do you hear?"

"The whole of Shellfish Valley is coming in to see that your Dutchman
and his girl gets what's coming to them. Abe has just left here, looking
for you. He's turribly wrought up. Says you had no right to arrest them
youngsters and he'll make you sorry you did."

One of the clerks dryly remarked: "They's a fierce interest in this
inquest. Carmody will sure have to move over to the court-house. Gee!
but he feels his feed! For one day, anyhow, he's bigger than the
_en_tire County Court."

The ranger had a clearer vision of his own as well as Helen's situation
as he replied: "Well, I'm going over to see him. When it comes to a
show-down he's on my side, for he needs the witnesses I've brought him."

"Abe sure has got it in for you, Hans. Your standing up for the Dutchman
and his woman was bad enough, but for you to arrest Hank without a
warrant has set the old man a-poppin'." He glanced at the ranger's empty
belt. "Better take your gun along."

"No; I'm safer without it," he replied. "I might fly mad and hurt
somebody."

The loafers, though eager to witness the clash, did not rise from their
chairs till after Hanscom left. No one wished to betray unseemly haste.

"There'll be something doing when they meet," said Simpson. "Let's
follow him up and see the fun."

As he walked away in the darkness the ranger began to fear--not for
himself, but for Helen. The unreasoning ferocity with which the valley
still pursued her was appalling. For the first time in his life he
strongly desired money. He felt his weakness, his ignorance. In the face
of the trial--which should mean complete vindication for the girl, but
which might prove to be another hideous miscarriage of justice--he was
of no more value than a child. Carmody had seemed friendly, but some
evil influence had evidently changed his attitude.

"What can I do?" the ranger asked himself, and was only able to answer,
"Nothing."

From a sober-sided, capable boy, content to do a thing well, he had
developed at thirty into a serious but singularly unambitious man.
Loving the outdoor life and being sufficiently resourceful to live alone
in a wilderness cabin without becoming morbid, he had naturally d