“Let me pass, please,” said an imperious little voice that thrilled Cotterell to the heart. “I am one of the witnesses in this trial. I have important evidence to give.”
The men fell back and left the passage free. Western men, even armed ones, can’t do anything against a woman.
Olive came into the crowded room, Olive dirty, dishevelled, travel-stained, her face begrimed with prairie dust, her hair unkempt, her dress crumpled and with many a rent in it. Cotterell hardly knew her.
“Who mought yer be, miss?” inquired one of the jury.
“I am Mrs. Weston.”
“Whar’s yer husband? Yer hadn’t oughter be hyar a follerin’ this feller roun’ the prairie. Tain’t——”
“Shut yer mouth or I’ll send a bullet down yer gullet,” roared the foreman, putting his hand to his revolver. “Take a cheer,” he added, gallantly offering Olive the sugar-barrel upon which he had been sitting in his official capacity.
“No, thank you,” said Olive. “I will stand.” She took her place beside Cotterell, but without looking at him or addressing a single word to him.
“What are you trying this man for?” she asked, facing the jury dauntlessly.
“Wal, mos’ly fur stealin’ yer hoss,” said one of them.