“A heap of store,” said the sheriff, thinking. “Where is she now?”
“On her bed,” said a woman, “same as ever, only we’ve fixed her up some.”
“Then I’ll take a look at her—and him. You boys won’t do anything till I come back, will you?”
“Why, if ye’re so anxious to see us do it, sheriff,” said the chatty neighbor, “I guess we can wait that long fer ye.”
The officer walked to the tent. Drylyn was standing over the body, quiet and dumb. He was safe for the present, the sheriff knew, and so he left him without speaking and returned to the prisoner and his guard in front of the dance-hall. He found them duly waiting; the only change was that they had a rope there.
“Once upon a time,” said the sheriff, “there was a man in Arkansaw that had no judgment.”
“They raise ’em that way in Arkansaw,” said the chatty neighbor, as the company made a circle to hear the story—a tight, cautious circle—with the prisoner and the officer beside him standing in the centre.
“The man’s wife had good judgment,” continued the narrator, “but she went and died on him.”
“Well, I guess that was good judgment,” said the neighbor.