Larsen strode near authoritatively. "You got to stop that fresh talk,
Sally. Sinclair won't stand for it."

"Oscar Larsen," she cried, whirling on him, "I always thought you were
a man. Now I see that you're only big enough to bully a woman. I--I
never want to speak to you again!"

"Silence!" thundered Riley Sinclair, smiting his hard brown hands
together. "Take that witness away and we'll hang Gaspar without her
testimony. We don't really need it--anyways."

There was a shrill cry from Sally. "Let me talk!" she pleaded. "Let me
stay! I won't make no more trouble, Mr. Sinclair."

"All right," he decided without enthusiasm. "Now, what's your name?"

"Sally Bent." She smiled a little as she spoke. That name usually
brought an answering smile, particularly from the men of Sour Creek.
But Sinclair's saturnine face showed no softening.

"Mr. Clerk, swear the witness."

Judge Lodge rose and held forth the book and prescribed the oath.

During that interval, Riley Sinclair raised his head to escape from the
steady, reproachful gaze of John Gaspar. Down in the valley bottom,
Sour Creek flashed muddy-yellow and far away. Just beyond, the sun
gleamed on the chalk-faced cliff. Still higher, the mountains changed
between dawn and full day. There was the country for Riley Sinclair.