"Go on," said Turner huskily.
"I was in the hall with Slim. I let him in at the door. Yes, I did. It was locked. We had a rifle and we stood there. I had often shot at prairie-dogs with the rifle when me and Slim would go riding together. Slim, he couldn't never hit a barn door. No wonder he was scared of Bud. It's true—true as gospel, judge. He couldn't have killed him. No. I made him put both hands against the wall and then I rested the gun on his shoulder. Yes. I did. Bud Walton was bad. He was a bad man. When I saw him, I pulled quick. And then I shut my eyes. And then—I don't rightly remember after that. That's the truth. It's all true, every word. Yes. It is. Slim, he went away—and now—oh, oh, oh."
She rocked on her feet, her hands over her eyes.
"Order in the court! Order in the court!" the coroner bawled, though you could have heard a man gulp.
The sheriff took Tilly by the arm and led her away. He permitted Slim to come with them.
"Gen'l'men," said Turner, clearing his throat as he rose from his chair, "this court stands adjourned. Bud, he just died. That's good enough for him."
The next morning the sheriff called on Tilly at the Fashion and told her to don her best bib and tucker with all speed.
"I'd a heap rather go to this here Slim party's funeral, Tilly," he said, "but I suppose you've got to have him. So get a move on. I reckon Badger can stake you to a wedding."
Naught cared Tilly for this genial slight on her lover. She had him—that was sufficient for her. A woman does not need to respect a man in order to love him devotedly. Moist of face, but radiant, she presented herself before Lafe within an hour.
And to what a wedding did Badger stake the waitress! The entire town seemed to regard it as a public event in which every citizen had a personal interest and a duty to perform; and they did it nobly. Tilly was deluged with gifts, ranging from a Book of Common Prayer to a heifer calf, which the donor assured her would one day develop into a fine milch cow and feed all the little Terrys.