’de ella & quien tu amas—if the life of the girl you love is ever in danger, remember Rafael Ortiz.’”
Kilpatrick strolled out through the corridor in the direction of the marshal’s office.
“Can’t you do anything for them, Bob?” asked Nancy. “It’s such a little thing—just one counterfeit dollar—to ruin the happiness of two lives! She was in danger of death, and he did it to save her. Doesn’t the law know the feeling of pity?”
“It hasn’t a place in jurisprudence, Nan,” said Littlefield, “especially in re the district attorney’s duty. I’ll promise you that the prosecution will not be vindictive; but the man is as good as convicted when the case is called. Witnesses will swear to his passing the bad dollar which I have in my pocket at this moment as ‘Exhibit A.’ There are no Mexicans on the jury, and it will vote Mr. Greaser guilty without leaving the box.”
The plover-shooting was fine that afternoon, and in the excitement of the sport the case of Rafael and the grief of Joya Trevifias was forgotten. The district attorney and Nancy Derwent drove out from the town three miles along a smooth, grassy road, and then struck across a rolling prairie toward a heavy line of timber on Piedra Creek. Beyond this creek Jay Long Prairie, the favourite haunt of the plover. As they were nearing the creek they heard the galloping of a horse to their right, and saw a man with black hair and
