Seymour lost no time in gaining a position from which he could watch the reaction on every face that looked upon Bart. His attention was caught by a little woman of pleasing countenance, in a drab dress and the beflowered hat of an outsider, whom he had noticed casually during the hearing. Now that the line had thinned to nothing and even the deputy had left his guard-of-honor post, the little woman came forward haltingly and bent over the rude catafalque. Seymour could not see her face for the moment as it was shadowed by her hat brim, but he heard a stifled sob. For an instant, she tottered and seemed so likely to fall that he took a quick step toward her. His aid, however, proved unnecessary. With a shudder, she recovered herself and hurried away, dabbing at her eyes with a bit of cambric.
As the only individual who had shown the least personal emotion, the policeman's interest followed her. So did his steps. Outside, he felt fortunate when he fell in with an acquaintance of the morning, Cato, the driver of oxen.
"Who is the little woman in gray?" he asked casually.
"She's a widdy, but not looking for a second," Cato's face was more twisted than usual by its sarcastic grin.
"And I'm not seeking a first," Seymour set him straight. "I asked because she seemed more affected than the other women by Hardley's tribute line."
The old ox driver seemed reassured. "She's just a big-hearted Jane, owner and cook of the Home Restaurant down the street yonder. The sergeant boarded with her before he bloomed out in the royal uniform. I boarded there too, until she turned me down. I'm just wondering—was it him in the offing that made her cold towards me? Course, he wouldn't look at her, not serious; him being a staff-sergeant in secret. But women nurse wild hopes—'specially widdies. Maybe I'd have a chance now he's been plugged into the discard."
Seymour glanced at him in amazement; that he, with his caricature of a face, could speak of women nursing wild hopes.
Evidently Cato read his thoughts. "You needn't look so doubtful, stranger." He flared with resentment. "Ox driving brings mighty smart wages up here, and I got a claim on Hoodoo Creek that may make me one of them mill'onaires when I get round to working of it next winter. Women can read behind the mask—'specially widdies."
Anxious to be off on the trail of his hunch, the sergeant was not sorry when they came to the Brewster warehouse and Cato left to inquire about his next load of freight for the creeks. Russell Seymour felt suddenly hungry—for home cooking.