The prosecuting attorney, who, it may be seen, held his office much as did the justice of the peace, by the doctrine of nemine contradicente, now arose and made the opening statement.  There, was some doubt as to whether this was a civil or criminal trial, but there was no doubt whatever of the existence of a trial of some kind; neither did there exist any doubt as to the importance of this, the first case the prosecuting attorney had ever tried, outside of moot courts.  It was the first speech he had ever made in public, barring college “orations,” carefully memorized, and an occasional Fourth of July speech, which might have been better for more memorizing.  The attorney for the prosecution, however, arose to the occasion—­at least to a certain extent.  He spoke in low and feeling tones of the struggling little community of hardy souls thus set down apart in the far-off mountain country of the West; of its trials, its hopes, its ambitions, of its expectations of becoming a mountain emporium which should be the pride of the entire Territory; he went on to mention the necessity for law and order, pointing out the danger to the public interests of the community which must lie in a general reputation for ruffianism and lawlessness, showing how Eastern Capital must ever be timid in visiting a town of such reputation, apart from investing any money therein; then, changing to the personal phases of the case, he spoke of the absolute disregard of law shown in the act charged, mentioned the red-handed deed of this lawless and dangerous person who had thus slain a pig, no less the pride of the community than the idol of the family now bereft.

At this point the jury began to look much perturbed and solemn, and the prisoner very red and uneasy.  Prosecution closed by offering to prove all charges by competent testimony.  This latter was a dangerous proposition to advance.  We could not well ask the jurymen to testify, and of the “veniry,” more than half had now slipped out for a hurried and excited visit to the Lone Star, there to advise any possible new arrivals of what was going on at Blackman’s adobe.

Counsel for the defence arose calmly to make his opening statement.  The man was a natural trial lawyer.  It was simply destiny which had driven him into this comedy, as destiny had driven him to Heart’s Desire.  It was not comedy now, when Dan Anderson faced judge and jury here in Blackman’s adobe.  There came a swift, sudden chill, a gripping as of iron, a darkening, a shrinking of the heart of each man in that little room.  It was the coming of the Law!  Ah!  Dan Anderson, you ruined our little paradise; and now its walls are down forever, even the walls of our city of content.

Dan Anderson stood, young, tall and grave, one hand in the bosom of his shirt, for hardly one present wore a coat.  He had his audience with him before he spoke.  When he began he caught them tighter to his cause, using not merely flowing rhetoric of speech, but the close-knit, advancing, upbuilding argument of a man able to “think on his feet,”—­that higher sort of oratory which is most convincing with an American audience or an American jury.