But it appeared that the choicest section of the Honorable Pulaski’s charitable hopes was doomed to disappointment.
A torch, tossing from the edge of the stunted growth, marked the approach of some one.
“The top of Jerusalem seems liable to be a popular roosting-place for all them that ain’t wearing asbestos pants,” remarked the high sheriff, dryly. “A rush of excursionists during the heated spell, as the summer-boarder ads say! Lane, can you give the crowd anything to eat at your tavern except broiled moose and fricasseed bobcat?”
The pleasantry evoked no smile. For the little group at the cabin, Pulaski Britt first of all, with his keener eyes of hate, recognized those who were approaching.
Old Christopher Straight came ahead with the torch. The girl of Misery Gore, moving more slowly now that she saw the group at the top of Jerusalem, her face sullen, her head cocked defiantly, was at his back, and Dwight Wade was at her side. Far behind, at the edge of the torch’s radiance, slouched a huge figure of a man. It was foolish Abe, the hirsute giant of the Skeets.
“And now, speaking of arresting in the name of the law,” snarled the lumber baron, “and your duty that you seem so fond of, Rodliff, get out your handcuffs for something that’s worth while. It’s three years in state-prison for maliciously setting fires on timber lands. It’s a long vacation in the county jail for assaulting a man without provocation. There’s the girl who set that fire; there’s the man that struck me. So you see, Lane, your prisoner is going to have company.”
Lane came suddenly away from the cage. The torch showed his face working with strange emotion.
“Mr. Britt,” he said, appealingly, to the astonishment of the senator, who understood this sour woods cynic’s nature, “there are crimes that ain’t crimes in this world—not even when they’re judged by God’s own scale. There’s your fire yonder! Some one is responsible for it—but not that poor girl!”
“I saw her set it myself, you devilish idiot!”