It is always good to know that one has friends, and when one is among comparative strangers it is gratifying indeed.
And yet, as the day came to an end and the sudden mountain darkness fell, it found Florence with a heavy heart. To be tried by a Justice of the Peace for a crime, this was a cross indeed.
“Tried by a Justice,” she thought to herself. “Who is the Justice? Pellage Skidmore! One of Black Blevens’ henchmen! It’s a plot. They’ll fine me and let me go; perhaps give me ten days in the county jail. Ten days in that place!” Her heart stopped beating. She had seen that jail—a dark and dirty place full of vermin.
“Oh, I couldn’t!” she breathed.
Then of a sudden a new thought came to her. The least fine that could be imposed was twenty-five dollars; one of the men had told her that.
“In the Constitution of the United States,” she whispered to herself, “it says that in trials over matters amounting to twenty-five dollars, or over, the defendant may call for a jury. I’ll call for one. If I must have a trial, I’ll have a real one!”
At that she stamped the ground with her foot and felt immensely relieved. There is a great comfort to be had sometimes when one has something to say about his own hanging.
CHAPTER VIII
THE SILENT WATCHER
Troubles never come singly. Florence’s second shock came close on the heels of the first. Having decided to make the best of a bad situation and to allow her friends and fellow clansmen to arrange the legal battle over her trial for carrying a concealed weapon, she went to her work next day with a brave heart.
With all her strong resolves, the look on the faces of her smaller charges came near melting her to tears. All knew of the impending trial. A few greeted her with a glassy stare. These were children of her enemies. For the most part they looked at her with such a sad and sorrowful longing as one might expect to find on the face of a mother whose son has been ordered shot.