"Ye
hain't no army of men, I reckon."
They wrestled with her in argument for the better part of an hour but
she was as immovable as the bed-rock of her mountains.
Brent even raised the point, despite the withering contempt with which
he knew she would greet it, that he might decline to recognize her
authority to act for her father but from a hip pocket of her trousers
she produced a worn wallet and from the wallet she extracted a general
and properly attested power of attorney to transact all business.
"I hed ter hev thet," she announced coolly, "because so many damn fool
men 'lowed thet a woman couldn't do business."
The end of it was that Brent himself cashed his check, and counted out
in specie and currency a sum large enough to become in effect a price
on her head. When the money had been done up in heavy paper, sealed by
the cashier with wax, and identified with her own signature, she
consented to permit it to lie in the safe overnight since the roads
were not yet passable, though even then she cannily inquired of the
bank employe: "I reckon ye hain't got no objection ter my countin' hit
up afresh afore I sets out, hev ye?"
Later that day Lute Brown, who it may be said in passing, had served a
term in state prison for house-breaking, dropped casually into the bank
and asked the cashier to "back a letter" for him, since writing was not
one of his own strong points.
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