It made Ted Long’s dike burst. He bounced upon his feet, hollering objections over the measured pound of the gavel until Judge Francis bellowed back at him: “Sir, if you do not shut up and sit down, you will be held in contempt of court!”

Smiles broadened on the faces of the portly Messrs. Allen.

Pack caught a glimpse of Theodore Roosevelt’s face as it turned toward his neighbor. A vein throbbed visibly at his neck; Roosevelt was furious.

Long pounded toward the bench, waving his fists. Astounded by the District Attorney’s outlandish behavior, Pack listened with disbelief to Long’s raving shouts:

“The Court cannot rap me down with a gavel! I am the representative of The People, and I am here to see a fair and impartial trial—to assist the court in the enforcement of substantial justice. Instead of the Court extending to me that aid and support to which I am entitled under the law, the Court has uniformly during this whole trial sought to tie the hands of the Prosecution and has openly aided the Defense; the Court has shown by its action in this case that it is determined to aid the acquittal of the defendant and that it will not leave a stone unturned in the accomplishment of such acquittal; the animus of the Court throughout has shown a most marked feeling in favor of the defendant and against the Prosecution; the Court has sought at every point to embarrass the Prosecution and to aid in the acquittal of the defendant; the judge has insulted me personally and has handicapped me officially.”

Having listened to it all with a demeanor of infinite patience, Judge Francis smiled before he said, “Sir, you may continue prosecuting the case if and when you purge yourself of contempt. If, out of respect to the institution of this Court rather than the person of the judge, you will state for the public record that you bear the burden of guilt for your contempt, and if you will apologize to this Court, then this Court will relieve you of all odium and reinstate you.”

“An apology, sir, would stultify my sense of manhood. I am nothing if not a friend of this Court, but I have been trampled by the remarks of this judge. You have abused me personally and insulted me repeatedly professionally. You have acted in a manner unbecoming the office of a judge and provoked me to say all that was said. I have done nothing to regret. I have only tried to perform my official duty and I will not apologize.”

Judge Francis again was all smiles. “In that case let me point out that your refusal to acknowledge your guilt of contempt serves to increase the severity of that contempt. I direct the sheriff to remand this prisoner to jail.”

Pack saw, not without a certain glee, that Theodore Roosevelt looked ready to throttle the judge.

“And I shall stay there until I am ordered out,” Long shouted. “No apology!”

While Dutch snored, Joe Ferris drew his Remington revolver and cocked the hammer: he heard footsteps outside. More than one person.

When the footsteps grew louder, with no attempt at stealth, Joe lowered the hammer gently; and when he heard the code knock he holstered the Remington and opened the door.

It was Roosevelt and Mrs. Reuter. Joe put his head out and looked both ways along the quiet street; saw nothing in the silent dusk, withdrew and closed the door.

Dutch was sitting up; Mrs. Reuter settled on the edge of the bunk and murmured to him.

“We came the long way. I don’t think anyone followed us.” Roosevelt was carrying a small case, the kind of valise in which lawyers or commercial men toted their papers. He opened it upon the splintery plank table and took out a packet of food and several bottles of beer.

Dutch looked wretched: gaunt, scabrous, pale from his months of hiding indoors. He had no spirit left. He reached for a beer bottle. “Tomorrow? I in court tomorrow talk?”

“Not tomorrow,” Roosevelt said. “You are scheduled for today—if the District Attorney gets out of jail.” The muscles of his face jerked in a sequence of rictus grimaces. “I understand his feelings but by George the man’s an utter fool for affronting the judge so blatantly. He’s allowing the judge not only to try his case but, by all indications, to lose it for him by default in the bargain.”

Joe went to the window and peered out. “Why, I thought it looked pretty good for a conviction. The judge ain’t the jury, thank God.”

“In the end I don’t think they’re going to convict De Morès,” Roosevelt said. “Nor Paddock either, for that matter.”

“Why not?”

“If justice is to be served, then it will come down to the question of reasonable doubt. They’re probably guilty—but ‘probably’ isn’t sufficient in a court of law. Nor should it be. The District Attorney can harangue all he wants; if he hasn’t got absolute proof then he hasn’t got a case. But that’s not a good enough reason for abdicating as he did yesterday.”

“Hell,” Joe said, “whose side are you on?”

“I try to be on the side of justice and truth, as we all should try to do,” said Roosevelt. “In any event I feel obliged to visit the jail and see if I can’t persuade Mr. Lang to recant his outburst and return to the arena.”

Dutch said in a pinched voice that sounded nearly strangled, “We this finish pronto or I myself outburst get.”

Mrs. Reuter said, “I can’t see what excuse the judge had for not putting Dutch on the witness stand two days ago. We should have had it done with by now. It’s cruel.”

Her concern was for what remained of Dutch’s soul. The man was about as dispirited and dejected as you could be and keep on breathing.

Joe stood at the window surveying the street; he said over his shoulder, “I expect the Markee’s boys persuaded him to postpone Dutch’s testimony as long as possible to give the boys every chance to find us.”

“An uncharitable speculation,” Roosevelt said, “but, under the circumstances, a plausible one. And yet another reason why I must make it my business to convince the District Attorney that he must get back into the fray. He may still have a chance, if he can place O’Donnell and Dutch on the stand this afternoon and present their case forcefully enough.”

“Looks like we may be in a little bit of a fray ourselves,” Joe said. “Here comes Dan McKenzie with a pack of De Morès boys—armed to the teeth.”

They were moving up the street without hurry, stopping at each house to knock at the door.

Roosevelt crossed to the window with four quick strides. It took him only a glance to see what was transpiring. “House-to-house search, is it? Then we’d better get you out of here, Dutch. Out the back way—on the run now.”

Dutch’s face went a shade whiter. He turned toward the back, then reached out with a certain defiance to clutch a fresh bottle of beer before he allowed Mrs. Reuter to steer him away. It was the only moment of spirit he had evinced. Just about all the sand seemed to have drained out of Dutch these past several months.

Roosevelt began to go with them; then Joe heard his voice:

“Joe? Are you coming?”

“Guess I’ll just wait here a bit.”

“To do what?”

“May be throw them off the trail. May be slow them down a little.”

The dude shook his head emphatically. “You’re spoiling for a fight, old fellow. This isn’t a suitable time or place. Come on, then.”

Reluctantly Joe allowed Roosevelt to pull him away from the window. “Where’ll we take him?”

“Back streets and alleys,” Roosevelt said as he slid through the door. “Up to Mr. Long’s office. I’ve no doubt they’ve already searched there. Then you can keep watch over Dutch while I go and try to persuade our overly emotional District Attorney to mend his fences.”

There was said to be a good deal of maneuvering; Pack was not privy to it but he heard that Roosevelt had visited Long in jail and that pressures had been brought to bear on the judge from both sides, all parties being desirous of bringing the conflict to a speedy conclusion. In any event, when the recess ended, Judge Francis fined District Attorney Long $250 for contempt; Long signed a check for that amount and the judge allowed the trial to proceed.