I waited until she had
reassured herself of its safety, and continued my questions, my
finger-nails sinking deeper all the time into the palms of my hands.
"Did you make the whiskey?"
"No, it was Martin Young's whiskey. My husband works for him. Martin
sent the kag down one day, and I sold it to the men. I give the money
all to Martin 'cept the dollar he was to gimme for sellin' it."
"How came you to be arrested?"
"One o' the men tol' on me 'cause I wouldn't trust him. Martin tol' me
not to let 'em have it 'thout they paid."
"How long have you been here?"
"Three months next Tuesday."
"That baby only two weeks old when they arrested you?" My blood ran hot
and cold, and my collar seemed five sizes too small, but I still held on
to myself.
"Yes." The answer was given in the same monotonous, listless voice--not
a trace of indignation over the outrage. Women with suckling babies had
no rights that anybody was bound to respect--not up in Pineyville;
certainly not the gentlemen with brass shields under the lapels of
their coats and Uncle Sam's commissions in their pockets.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37