“Well,” began the sheriff severely, “ain't it enough to make 'em bloody-minded? Any one of 'em might have taken your money and got stuck. Just to think of that is what hets them up.” He regarded the judge with a glance of displeasure. “I hate to see a man so durn unreasonable in his p'int of view. And you picked a lady—a widow-lady—say, ain't you ashamed?”
“Well, sir, what's going to happen to me?” demanded the judge angrily.
“I reckon you'll be tried. I reckon the law will deal with you—that is, if the public remains ca'm. Maybe it will come to the conclusion that it'd prefer a lynching—people are funny.” He seemed to detach himself from the possible current of events.
“And, waking and sleeping, I have that before me!” cried the judge bitterly.
“You had ought to have thought of that sooner, when you was unloading that money. Why, it ain't even good counterfeit! I wonder a man of your years wa'n't slicker.”
“Have you taken steps to find the boy, or Solomon Mahaffy?” inquired the judge.
“For what?”
“How is my innocence going to be established—how am I going to clear myself if my witnesses are hounded out of the county?”
“I love to hear you talk, sir. I told 'em at the raising to-day that I considered you one of the most eloquent minds I had ever listened to—but naturally, sir, you are too smart to be honest. You say you ain't been convicted yet; but you're going to be! There's quite a scramble for places on the jury already. There was pistols drawed up at the tavern by some of our best people, sir, who got het up disputin' who was eligible to serve.” The judge groaned. “You should be thankful them pistols wasn't drawed on you, sir,” said the sheriff amiably. “You've got a heap to be grateful about; for we've had one lynching, and we've rid one or two parties on a rail after giving 'em a coat of tar and feathers.”
The judge shuddered. The sheriff continued placidly: