"What's your name?"
"Samanthy North."
"What's your husband's name?"
"His name's North." There was a trace of surprise now in the general
monotone Then she added, as if to leave no doubt in my mind,
"Leslie North."
"Where is he?" I determined now to round up every fact.
"He's home. We've got another child, and he's takin' care of it till I
git back. He'd be to the railroad for me if he knowed I was coming; but
I couldn't tell him when to start 'cause I didn't know how long
they'd keep me."
"Is your home near the railroad?"
"No, it's thirty-six miles furder."
"How will you get from the railroad?"
"Ain't no way 'cept walkin'."
I had it now, the whole damnable, pitiful story, every fact clear-cut to
the bone. I could see it all: the look of terror when the deputy woke
her from her sleep and laid his hand upon her; the parting with the
other child; the fright of the helpless husband; the midnight ride, she
hardly able to stand, the pitiful scrap of her own flesh and blood
tight in her arms; the procession to the jail, the men in front chained
together, she bringing up the rear, walking beside the last guard; the
first horrible night in jail, the walls falling upon her, the darkness
overwhelming her, the puny infant resting on her breast; the staring,
brutal faces when the dawn came, followed by the coarse jest. No wonder
that she hung limp and hopeless to the bars of her cage, all the spring
and buoyancy, all the youth and lightness, crushed out of her.