“An' we couldn't catch 'im to save us from--” Braider said. “Madam, I'll handle you for this! I'll push this case against you to the full limit of the law!”
“You'll do nothin' of the kind,” the woman said, “unless you want to make yourself the laughin'-stock of the whole community. In doin' what I done I acted fer all the good women of this country; an' when you run ag'in we'll beat you at the polls. Law an' order's one thing, but officers helpin' mobs do their dirty work is another. If the boy deserves a trial he deserves it, but he'd not 'a' stood one chance in ten million in your charge, _an' you know it_.”
At this juncture a man emerged from the close-growing bushes across the road, a look of astonishment on his face. It was Jabe Parsons. “What's wrong here?” he cried, excitedly.
“Oh, nothin' much,” Braider answered, with a white sneer of fury. “We stopped here with Pete Warren to borrow your horses to git 'im over the mountain to the Gilmore jail, an' your good woman grabbed Bill's gun while I was in the stable an' deliberately turned the nigger loose.”
“Great God! what's the matter with you?” Parsons thundered at his wife, who, red-faced and defiant, stood rubbing a small bruised spot on her wrist.
“Nothin's the matter with me,” she retorted, “except I've got more sense than you men have. I know that boy didn't kill them folks, an' I didn't intend to see you-all lynch 'im.”
“Well, I know he did!” Parsons yelled. “But he'll be caught before night, anyway. He can't hide in them woods from hounds like they've got down the road.”
“Your wife 'lowed he'd be safer in the woods than in the Gilmore jail,” Braider said, with another sneer.
“Well, he _would_. As for that,” Parsons retorted, “if you think that army headed by the dead woman's daddy an' brothers would halt at a puny bird-cage like that jail, you don't know mountain men. They'd smash the damn thing like an egg-shell. I reckon a sheriff has to _pretend_ to act fer the law, whether he earns his salary or not. Well, I'll go down the road an' tell 'em whar to look. Thar'll be a picnic som 'er's nigh here in a powerful short while. We've got men enough to surround that whole mountain.”
HE following night was a cloudless, moonlit one, and restlessly and heart-sore Helen walked the upper floor of the veranda, her eyes constantly bent on the street leading past Dwight's on to the centre of the town. The greater part of the day she had spent with Linda, trying to pacify her and rouse the hope that Pete would not be implicated in the trouble in the mountains. Helen had gone down to Carson's office about noon, feeling vaguely that he could advise her better than any one else in the grave situation. She had found Garner seated at his desk, bent over a law-book, a studious expression on his face. Seeing her in the doorway, he sprang up gallantly and proffered a rickety chair, from which he had hastily dumped a pile of old newspapers.