When Martha Hale opened the storm door and got a cut of the north wind, she ran back for her big woolen scarf. As she hurriedly wound that round her head her eye made a scandalized sweep of her kitchen. It was no ordinary thing that called her away it was probably farther from ordinary than anything that had ever happened in Dickson County.
But what her eye took in was that her kitchen was in no shape for leaving: her bread all ready for mixing, half the flour sifted and half unsifted. She hated to see things half done; but she had been at that when the team from town stopped to get Mr. Hale, and then the sheriff came ning in to say his wife wished Mrs. Hale would come too–adding, with a grin, he guessed she was getting scarey and wanted another woman along. So she had dropped everything right where it was. “Martha!” now came her husband’s impatient voice. “Don’t keep folks waiting out here in the cold.” She again opened the storm door, and this time joined the three men and the one woman waiting for her in the big two-seated buggy.

After she had the robes tucked around her she took another look at the woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met Mrs. Peters the year before at the county fair, and the thing she remembered about her was that she didn’t seem like a sheriffs wife, She was small and thin and didn’t have a strong voice, Mrs. Gorman, sheriff’s wife before Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a voice that somehow seemed to be backing up the law with every word. But if Mrs. Peters didn’t look like a sheriff’s wife, Peters made it up in looking like a sheriff.

He was to a dot the kind of man who could get himself elected sheriff a heavy man with a big voice, who was particularly genial with the law-abiding, as if to make it plain that he knew the diference between criminals and non-criminals.