Sheriff Nichols slipped his arm through Blake’s.
“I guess you’re going to come with me,” he said.
“I am ready,” was Blake’s response.
He turned about to Katherine.
“You deserved to win,” he said quietly. “Thank you. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” said she.
The sheriff drew him away. Katherine, panting, leaning heavily against a pillar of the porch, watched the pair go down the steps—watched the great crowd part before them—watched them march through this human alley-way, lighted by smoking campaign torches—watched them till they had passed into the darkness in the direction of the jail. Then she dizzily reached out and caught Old Hosie’s arm.
“Help me home,” she said weakly. “I—I feel sick.”