They went outside of the log cabin and stood among the red sumach bushes that clustered about the door, while the old woman tottered after them to the threshold, and peered at the crowd from under her shaking hand as she shaded her eyes from the sunlight.
Presently a wagon came up with eight or ten men walking behind it, or riding in it in the midst of a quantity of miscellaneous articles of which Barney took no particular notice. As he went forward, smiling in a frank, fearless way, he recognized a familiar face among the crowd. It was Nick Gregory's, and Barney's smile broadened into a grin of pleasure and welcome.
Then it was that Nick's conscience began to wake up, and to lay hold upon him.
As the sheriff looked at Barney he hesitated. He balanced himself heavily on the wheel, instead of leaping quickly down as he might have done easily enough, for he was a spare man and light on his feet. Nick overheard him speak in a low voice to the constable, who stood just below.
"That ain't the fellow, is it, Jim?"
"That's him, percisely," responded Jim Dow.
"He don't look like it," said Stebbins, jumping down at last, but still speaking under his breath.
"Waal, thar ain't no countin' on boys by the outside on 'em," returned the constable emphatically; he had an unruly son of his own.
The sheriff walked up to Barney.
"You're Barney Pratt, are you? Well, youngster, you'll come along with us."