Marion frowned. She knew mountain ways and mountain courts, knew how seldom justice was done. She recalled a word Ransom Turner had let fall. “Reckon a word of honor given by a mountain man’s a heap site surer than a jury trial.”
“I’ll take his word, if he gives it freely,” Marion said.
“Black John, do we have your word of honor?”
“Jedge, hit’s mighty hard to see through; plumb hard, but I reckon hit’s right. I give my word, Jedge.”
The judge bowed. Then, followed by the judge, they all filed out of the cabin.
At ten o’clock, in her room at the whipsawed cabin, with great events hanging in the air all about her, Marion closed her weary eyes for a few winks of sleep. Little Hallie slept peacefully beside her.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE STRANGE PROCESSION
When Florence awoke next morning at dawn she stared wildly about her for an instant, then settled back luxuriously among the covers.
“Home,” she breathed. “Back at the whipsawed cabin!”
She lay there gazing dreamily at the time browned ceiling. Suddenly her gaze fell upon the misplaced board that covered the opening leading to the attic.