“That won’t do at all, Miz Rodney. We know you got Jim in there, just as certain as we’re out here, and we want him to come out and we’ll do the thing square, otherwise he can take the consequences.”
Jim opened his mouth to speak, but she, still on her knees beside the wall, gained his silence by one supplicating gesture. There was a sleepy, fretful cry from the room beyond—the noise had roused one of the children.
“Sh-sh, dear,” she called. “It’s only a bad dream. Go to sleep again; mother is here.”
Through the warped door came sounds of the whispering voices without, drowned by the shrieking bellow of the cattle. There was not a breath of air in the suffocating room. Jim bent towards Alida:
“I’m goin out to ’em. They’ll do it square, over on the cotton-woods; this rumpus’ll only wake the kids.”
But she shook her head imploringly, putting her finger to her lips as a sign that he was not to speak, and he had not the heart to refuse, though knowing that she made a desperate situation worse.
“Gentlemen”—she spoke in a low, distinct voice—“Jim ain’t here. He’s been away from home five days. There’s no one here but me and the children; you’ve woke them up and frightened them by pounding on the door. I ask you to go away.”
“If he ain’t in there, will you let us search the house?” It was Henderson that spoke, Henderson, foreman of the “XXX” outfit.
“I can’t have them frightened; please take my word and go away.”
“Whas er matter, muvvy?” called Judith, sleepily. Young Jim was by this time crying lustily. Only Topeka said nothing. With the precocity of a frontier child, she half realized the truth. She tried to comfort little Jim, though her teeth chattered in fear and she felt cold in the hot, still room. Then Judith called out, “Make papa send them away.”