"I'm in charge here; yes, sir."
"I am Captain Curtis, the agent. This is Cut Finger, charged with the
murder of a white man. I have brought him in. The sheriff is just
behind." He turned to the prisoner and signed. "Get down! Here is the
strong-house where you are to stay!"
Cut Finger clambered slowly down, his face rigid, his limbs tremulous
with emotion. To go to the dark room of the strong-house was the worst
fate that could overtake a free man of the hills, and his heart
fluttered like a scared bird.
"It would be a good plan to let his wife go in with him," suggested
Curtis. "It will save trouble."
The poor, whimpering girl-wife followed her culprit husband up the steps
and into the cold and gloomy hall to which they were admitted, her eyes
on the floor, her sleeping child held tightly in her arms. When the
gate shut behind him Curtis signed to the prisoner this advice:
"Now be good. Do not make any trouble. Do what these people tell you.
Eat your food. I will ask the sheriff to let your wife see you in the
morning, and then she will go home again. She can come once each month
to see you." He touched the wife on the arm, and when she comprehended
his gesture she uttered again that whimpering moan, and as she bent her
head in dumb agony above her babe, Curtis gently led her to the door,
leaving Cut Finger to the rigor of the white man's law.