“Threatened 'im?” the woman cried; “well, what does that prove? A nigger will talk back an' act surly on his death-bed if he's mad. That's all the way they have of defendin' theirselves. If Pete hadn't talked some after the lashin' he got from them men, thar'd 'a' been some'n' wrong with him. Now, you let 'im loose. As shore as you start off with that boy, he'll be lynched. The fact that you've got 'im in tow will be all them crazy men want. You couldn't get two miles in any direction from here without bein' stopped; they are as thick as fleas on all sides, an' every road is under watch.” “I'm sorry I can't take yore advice, Mrs. Parsons,” Braider said, almost out of patience. “I've got my duty to perform, an' I know what it is a sight better than you do.” “If you start off with that boy his blood will be on yore head,” the woman said, firmly. “Left alone, and advised to hide opt till this excitement is over, he might stand a chance to save his neck; but with you--why, you mought as well stand still and yell to that crazy gang to come on.” “Well, we've got to git horses to go on with, and yours are the nearest.” “Huh! you won't ride no harmless nigger to the scaffold on _my_ stock,” the woman said, sharply. “I know whar my duty lies. A woman with a thimbleful of brains don't have to listen to a long string of testimony to know a murderer when she sees one; that boy's as harmless as a baby and you are trying your level best to have him mobbed.” “Well, right is on my side, and I can take the horses if I see fit in the furtherance of law an' order,” said Braider. “If Jabe was here he'd tell me to go ahead, an' so I'll have to do it anyway. Bill, you stay here on guard an' I'll bridle the horses an' lead 'em out.” A queer look, half of anger, half of definite purpose, settled on the strong, rugged face of the woman, as she saw the sheriff stalk off to the barn-yard gate, enter it, and let it close after him. “Bill King,” she said, drawing nearer the man left in charge of the bewildered prisoner, who now for the first time under the words of his defender had sensed his real danger--“Bill King, you hain't agoin' to lead that poor boy right to his death this way--you don't look like that sort of a man.” She suddenly swept her furtive eyes over the barn-yard, evidently noting that the sheriff was now in the stable. “No, you hain't--for I hain't agoin' to _let_ you!” And suddenly, without warning even to the slightest change of facial expression, she grasped the end of the shot-gun the man held, and whirled him round Like a top. “Run, boy!” she cried. “Run for the woods, and God be with you!” For an instant Pete stood as if rooted to the spot, and then, as swift of foot as a young Indian, he turned and darted through the gate and round the farm-house, leaving the woman and King struggling for the possession of the gun. It fell to the ground, but she grasped King around the waist and clung to him with the tenacity of a bull-dog.