“I’ve only got f-f-five dollars,” said the Justice, producing it from his vest pocket.
“Roll it up,” came the order, “and stick it in the end of this here gun-bar’l.”
The bill was crisp and new. Even fingers that were clumsy and trembling found little difficulty in making a spill of it and inserting it (this with less ease) into the muzzle of the rifle.
“Now I reckon you kin be goin’ along,” said the robber.
The Justice lingered not on his way.
The next day came the little red bull, drawing the cart to the office door. Justice Benaja Widdup had his shoes on, for he was expecting the visit. In his presence Ransie Bilbro handed to his wife a five-dollar bill. The official’s eye sharply viewed it. It seemed to curl up as though it had been rolled and inserted into the end of a gun-barrel. But the Justice refrained from comment. It is true that other bills might be inclined to curl. He handed each one a decree of divorce. Each stood awkwardly silent, slowly folding the guarantee of freedom. The woman cast a shy glance full of constraint at Ransie.
“I reckon you’ll be goin’ back up to the cabin,” she said, “along ’ith the bull-cart. There’s bread in the tin box settin’ on the shelf. I put the bacon in the b’ilin’pot to keep the hounds from gittin’ it. Don’t forget to wind the clock to-night.”
