"Men, I want to talk to you about this case--will you be the jury? Consider what kind of man swore out that warrant against Brick--the leader of a band of highwaymen! And who's his chief witness? You don't know Mr. Gledware. I do. You've heard he's a rich and influential citizen in the East. That's true. But I'm going to tell you something to show what he IS--and what Brick Willock is; just one thing; that's all I'll say about the character of either. As to Red Kimball, you don't have to be told. I'm not going to talk about the general features of the case--as to whether Brick was ever a highwayman or not; as to whether he killed Red's brother to save me and my stepfather, or did it in cold blood; as to whether he held up the stage or not. These things you've discussed; you've formed opinions about them. I want to tell you something you haven't heard. Will you listen?" At first no one spoke. Then from the crowd came a measured impartial voice: "We got lots of time." She was not discouraged by the intimation in the tone that all her speaking was in vain. Several in the crowd looked reproachfully at him who had responded, feeling that Lahoma deserved more consideration; but in the main, the men nodded grim approval. They had plenty of time--but at the end of it, Bill would either tell all he knew, or.... Lahoma plunged into the midst of her narrative: "One evening Brick came on a deserted mover's wagon; he'd traveled all day with nothing to eat or drink, and he got into the wagon to escape the blistering sun. In there, he found a dead woman, stretched on her pallet. He had a great curiosity to see her face, so he began lifting the cloth that covered her. He saw a pearl and onyx pin at her throat. It looked like one his mother used to wear. So he dropped the cloth and never looked at her face. She had died the evening before, and he knew she wouldn't have wanted any one to see her THEN. And he dug a grave in the sand, though she was nothing to him, and buried her--never seeing her face--and covered the spot with a great pyramid of stones, and prayed for her little girl--I was her little girl--the Indians had carried me away. You'll say that was a little thing; that anybody would have buried the poor helpless body. Maybe so. But about not looking at her face--well, I don't know; it WAS a little thing, of course, but somehow it just seems to show that Brick Willock wasn't little--had something great in his soul, you know. Seems to show that he couldn't have been a common murderer. It's something you'll have to feel for yourselves, nobody could explain it so you'd see, if you don't understand already." The men stared at her, somewhat bewildered, saying nothing. In some breasts, a sense of something delicate, not to be defined, was stirred.