and labor hardened as a man's, who now laid her big green sunbonnet on
the counter, and stepping to the open end of the bar, advanced toward
her. Mrs. Poor held her hands before her about breast high, at half
arm's length, elbows depressed, palms turned outward, the fingers
curved like a cat's claws. There was an expression of grim
satisfaction on her hard features.

Mrs. Bement stood awaiting her, breathing hard, evidently scared, but
equally evidently, furious.

"Give em the keys, Marthy. She'll kill ye," called out Bement, from
the back of the room.

But she paid no attention to this. Her fingers began to curve back
like claws, and her hands assumed the same feline attitude as Mrs.
Poor's. It was easy to see that the pluck of the little woman extorted
a certain admiration from the very men who had fathers, sons and
brothers in the cells beyond. She was not a bit more than half as big
as her antagonist, but she looked game to the backbone, and the
forthcoming result was not altogether to be predicted. You could have
heard a pin drop in the room, as the men leaned over the counter with
faces expressive of intensest excitement, while those behind stood on
tiptoe to see. For the moment everything else was forgotten in the
interest of the impending combat. Mrs. Bement seemed drawing back for
a spring. Then suddenly, quick as lightning, she put her hand in her
bosom, drew out the keys, and throwing them down on the counter, burst
into hysterical sobs.

In another moment the jail door was thrown open, and the men were
rushing down the corridor.