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Updated: August 20, 2024
"P'raps you think it's fair play for a great brute of a man to bully a woman and six children." "P'raps I do," said Rankin, still deliberating, "but I guess 't ain't likely." Another man came out of the court-house, leaving the door open behind him. They could see Rumpety pulling on a thick overcoat and winding his ears and throat in a heavy muffler.
Straight in the teeth of the wind they travelled; in the teeth of the south wind, that stung their faces like a whiplash. Before very long they sighted the Rumpety wagon showing plainly against the snow in the starlight. The road went most of the way down-hill, and wagon and bronco made good speed. The air grew colder every minute. "About ten below, shouldn't you say, Pincher?"
This brute was up for cruelty to those four shivering creatures on the bench in the corner, and they would never dare testify against their persecutor. In all those abject countenances there was not one ray of courage visible. Now began the process of weeding out the jury, which, when it came his turn, Rumpety performed with a free hand.
It used to seem to Rankin, before he knew Myra Beckwith, that freedom was all he wanted in life. This shy, awkward, longlimbed fellow had desired nothing so much as room enough, and he had wrested it from Fate. He wondered, as he stood out under the stars, why Mrs. Rumpety and her children did not run away. The world was big enough and to spare.
In the sudden pause of sound and motion his voice sounded distinctly throughout the room. "I have just killed Dennis Rumpety," he said. For ten seconds there was absolute silence; then a rough voice growled, "Thunder! But you done a good job!"
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