The Coming of the Law. Charles Alden Seltzer

judge nodded and the young man smiled slightly. “I am Kent Hollis,” he said.

      The judge had been approaching a big table that stood in the center of the room and at the young man’s words he took a second glance at him, but did not hesitate in his walk toward the table. However, he smiled when he reached it, sinking into a chair and motioning the young man to another.

      “I have been expecting you,” he said after he had become seated. “Take a chair.” He waited until the young man had drawn a chair opposite him and then he leaned over the table and stretched out his hand in greeting. “I’m glad to see you,” he continued cordially. He held the young man’s hand for an instant, peering steadily into the latter’s unwavering eyes, apparently making a mental estimate of him. Then he dropped the hand and sat back, a half smile on his face. “You look like your father,” he said.

      The young man’s face clouded. “Poor dad,” he said slowly.

      For a moment there was a silence; the judge studied the young man’s face. Something that he saw in it must have pleased him, for he smiled, becoming serious instantly.

      “I am sorry you could not get here in time,” he said. “We buried your father yesterday.”

      “I couldn’t make it,” returned the young man regretfully. “I should have liked to see him before he died. Where did you bury him?”

      “We took him out to his ranch–the Circle Bar,” returned the judge, “where he said he wanted to be buried when he died. You’ll find that the Circle Bar boys have done their best for him–which was little enough. Poor fellow, he deserved something better.” He looked keenly at the young man.

      Lines of pain came into the latter’s face; he bowed his head, nodding at the Judge’s words.

      “I have always thought that it was his own fault,” he said gently. “It might have been different.” He looked slowly up at the judge, his face reddening with embarrassment. “Of course you know something of his life,” he said. “You were his friend–he wrote me a while back, telling me that. I don’t pretend to know what came between him and mother,” he continued; “mother would never tell and father never mentioned it in his letters. I have thought it was drink,” he added, watching the judge’s face closely. He caught the latter’s slight nod and his lips straightened. “Yes, it must have been drink,” he continued; “I have inferred that from what mother has hinted now and then. But—” and a wistful gleam came into his eyes–“I have hoped that it would not be drink that would cause his—”

      He caught the judge’s slow, grave nod and he broke off abruptly, his eyes filling with an expression of resignation. “Well,” he said, “it is ended, no matter what did it.” He shoved back his chair. “I thank you for what you did for him,” he added, rising; “I assure you that if it is possible for me to repay—”

      “Sit down,” said the judge, waving a hand to the young man’s chair. “No thanks are due me. I did only what any friend would do for another. I have arranged for you to go out to the Circle Bar,” he informed Hollis as the latter hesitated over resuming his chair. “Neil Norton, your range boss, is to be here at six o’clock with the buckboard.” He consulted his watch. “He ought to be here in half an hour–if he is on time. Meantime there are some things I would like to say to you.”

      Hollis smiled. “Fire away,” he directed.

      The judge leaned his elbows on the table and narrowed his eyes at Hollis. “Don’t think my questions impertinent,” he said gravely, “for I assure you that nothing is further from my mind than a desire to pry into your affairs. But I take it you will need some advice–which, of course, you may disregard if you wish. I suppose you don’t make a secret of your age?”

      “No,” was the instant reply, given with a grin, “I am twenty-six.”

      The judge smiled dryly. “We have great ambitions at twenty-six,” he said. “I remember that at twenty-six I was rather determined on making the Supreme bench. You can see for yourself how far I missed it. I do not say that we never realize our ambitions,” he added quickly as he saw a flash light up the young man’s eyes; “I merely wish to show that in my case they were rather extravagant.” He grimaced, continuing with a smile: “You are a college man, of course–I can see that.”

      Hollis nodded. The judge continued, with an admiring glance at the young man’s muscular frame and broad shoulders.

      “Went in for athletics–football, and such?” he said. “Well,” he added, catching the young man’s nod, “it didn’t hurt you a particle–it doesn’t hurt anybody. Rather prepares a man for hard knocks–which he is sure to get sooner or later. If you have decided to live in this country you must expect hard knocks. And I presume you are going to live here?”

      “That depends.” returned Hollis. “If father has left his affairs in such shape that it is necessary for me to stay here and straighten them out, why of course I shall stay. Otherwise—” He hesitated and laughed quietly, continuing: “Well, I also have an ambition, and if I am compelled to remain here it will have to be sacrificed. It is a rather humble ambition compared to yours,” he laughed. “It is journalism,” he continued, suddenly serious; “I want to own a newspaper. I am city editor now and in a few years—” He laughed. “I am not going to prophesy, but I have been working hard.”

      The judge’s eyelashes flickered, but his face remained grave. “I am afraid that you will have to remain here. That is”–he added dryly–“if you expect to realize anything from the property.”

      “I expect there can’t be much property,” observed Hollis.

      The judge smiled. “A thousand acres of good grass land, some buildings, and”–here the judge’s eyes gleamed and he drawled his words–“a newspaper.”

      Hollis sat erect. “A newspaper!” he gasped. “A newspaper in this country? Why, man, a newspaper—”

      The judge laughed. “So you will not have to go back East in order to be able to realize your ambition–you can own a newspaper here–your father’s newspaper–the Dry Bottom Kicker. It was quite a recent venture; I believe it appeared about a dozen times–intermittently. Ostensibly it was a weekly, but in reality it was printed at those times when your father’s affliction sat least heavily upon him. He used to hire a compositor from Las Vegas to set the type,–a man named Potter–a worthless sort of fellow, but a genius in his way–when sober. I suspect that much of the matter that went into the Kicker emanated from the brain of Dave Potter.”

      Hollis’s smile revealed just a trace of derision. “You don’t happen to know how father happened to think that a newspaper would pay–in this place?” he asked.

      The judge looked at him meditatively, a gleam of quiet amusement in his eyes. “I don’t remember to have said that the paper made any money for your father,” he returned slowly; “nor do I remember hearing your father say that he expected it to make any money. As I understand the situation, your father founded the paper on principle. He expected to use it as a weapon.”

      “Please go on,” urged Hollis. “That strikes me as a rather Quixotic proceeding.”

      “It was, rather,” admitted the judge; “that is, it would seem Quixotic as viewed by an Eastern newspaper man. But out here people are apt to ignore money and methods in considering results. After you have been here a while you will be able to see the force and truth of that statement. Your father was after results and he seized upon the idea of founding a newspaper as a means by which to obtain them. And I feel certain that had he lived he would have succeeded.”

      “I plead ignorance,” said Hollis, watching the judge closely. “What particular result did my father desire?”

      Judge Graney’s eyes gleamed with earnestness. He leaned forward, speaking slowly and distinctly.

      “I am going to illustrate my point by giving you