‘I’ll tell you one thing, nephew,’ Brady Anchor remarked, sitting comfortably on one of the bunks in the centre cell. ‘I’ve been in worse jails.’
‘We didn’t have to come to it,’ Jeff protested as he paused in his restless pacing up and down. ‘You could’ve ... ’
‘Thrown down on Barnstaple while he was covering you,’ Brady finished for him. ‘Maybe. Only I wouldn’t’ve wanted to chance doing it. He’s handled a gun plenty, nephew, or I’ve never seen a man who has.’
‘I’m not gainsaying it.’
‘And, even had I gotten away with it, we’d only have dropped deeper into that lard-gutted banker’s trap.’
‘Damn it!’ Jeff ejaculated bitterly. ‘I sure let him slicker us into a box canyon.’
‘It could’ve been worse,’ Brady pointed out. ‘If Barnstaple hadn’t got to that Smith & Wesson ahead of Cuthbert-son, one, or both, of us would most likely have wound up dead.’
‘That ranch sure must be worth plenty for him to be willing to kill us to get hold of it.’
‘It must. Enough for us to set up Uncle Ephraim’s place so’s it will be the fanciest saloon in El Paso.’
‘We can’t do that sitting on our butts in the pokey,’ Jeff objected.
‘Or by getting killed foolishly,’ Brady countered and continued with a warning. ‘So, no matter how they’ve been treating us, you talk polite and act real careful around those tin-stars. You can bet that by now the banker’s told them he’d rather we didn’t walk out of here alive, happen it can be rigged some other way.’
‘Minter’s too scared of Barnstaple to make any such play,’ Jeff guessed.
‘I’d’s soon not gamble on it,’ Brady contradicted. ‘And even if he is, that young cuss, Briskow, might take a chance. He’s a pushy cuss with his eye on the sheriff’s star, unless I miss my guess.’
‘Having the banker grateful to him’d be a right good start to getting it,’ Jeff admitted. ‘And the banker’d be real grateful was we to be shot “trying to escape”.’
‘You’re right enough about that, nephew. And Briskow’s the boy who’d try to do it. All in all, I’m not sorry that Barnstaple was in the bank.’
‘Or me, I reckon,’ Jeff conceded. ‘Even if it was him who got us so’s we could be fetched here.’
‘The way he did it likely saved our lives,’ Brady drawled. ‘And he let them all know where he stands, which’s saved us from having trouble with them.’
Once Brady and Jeff had surrendered their weapons to the peace officers, Barnstaple had done some straight talking which had sounded most impressive and discreetly menacing. He had stated that the Texas Bankers’ Protective Association did not countenance the bullying or abuse of prisoners. Making certain that even the obtuse Sheriff Minter could appreciate what he was driving at, he had hinted at complaints being lodged with the Governor if Brady and Jeff should be ill-treated whilst held in custody.
Leaving the still dazed Briskow in Dilkes’ care, Minter and Haggerty had escorted their prisoners to the one-storey stone building which housed the sheriff’s office and the jail’s three cells. Whoever had designed the structure had clearly known more about law enforcement than its present occupant. It was a strong, well-made building, with sturdy steel bars for the cells’ walls. One thing was for sure, it would be human error and not structural weakness which would have permitted any prisoner to escape.
Brady and Jeff had been somewhat amused by Minter’s behavior and amazed at his apparent ignorance of basic peace officer precautions. Although he had placed their revolvers in a drawer of his desk, he had not bothered to search them for other weapons. Instead, he had taken the key ring from its hook on the side of the desk and asked them to go into the rear section of the building. He had given them the choice of cells. Showing that he had taken Barnstaple’s warning very much to heart, he had done almost everything except apologies for the formality of locking them up.
Having assured them that they would be well looked after during their incarceration, the sheriff had promised that he would have them taken before the local justice of the peace in the morning. Then he had offered to have food brought in for them. Not just the ordinary jail-house meal, he had hastened to explain, but the best that the hotel could supply. This had been forthcoming and Minter had departed, showing his relief when his prisoners had declared they were satisfied and had no complaints regarding their accommodation.
After eating, Brady and Jeff had been left in peace. They were separated from the front portion of the building by a solid stone wall. Two lamps gave adequate illumination to their quarters and they had made themselves as comfortable as possible.
At first, the connecting door had been left open, allowing them to see and hear at least something of what went on in the office.
Nursing a swollen lower jaw and clearly in an evil humor, Briskow had stormed in shortly after they had finished eating. Apparently, from his profane comments, Barnstaple had warned him about his future conduct; especially where it touched the two prisoners. So, although Minter and Haggerty had left him in charge while they went for their suppers, he had contented himself with slamming the connecting door and ignoring the occupants of the cells.
That had suited Brady and Jeff, for they had wished to discuss their affairs in private. Both had been very concerned about the missing money. Neither had believed that it might have been in the sacks. Not even Cuthbertson would have imagined that he could get away with such a blatant piece of skullduggery. So the gang must have been carrying it on their persons.
Jeff had suggested that maybe the hold-up had been rigged for their benefit, but Brady had not agreed. There had been no way in which the banker could have known they would return at that particular time. Nor would pretending owl-hoots have bothered with making the demands on the teller for exactly fifty thousand dollars, or having him split open the packets.
Everything, they had concluded, now depended upon what arrangements they could make with the banker regarding an extension of time which could allow them to hunt down the gang and recover the money. Left to his own devices, Cuthbertson would not be so obliging. Perhaps Barnstaple would exert his influence to persuade the banker to act in an honorable manner. Despite his intervention, which had been done with the best of intentions, Brady and Jeff believed that the distinguished-looking man might be willing to take their side in the issue.
Brady had removed his jacket on entering the cell. Sitting in his shirtsleeves, he displayed the manner in which he carried his weapon.
Carefully cut and wet-fit to the shape of the Colt Thunderer’s two-and-a-half-inch-long barrel, frame and cylinder, iii the shoulder holster hung horizontally instead of in the more usual vertical position. Its figure-eight supporting strap passed across his broad shoulders and around the left armpit, so there was no sign of it when he wore his jacket. The revolver was held in place by straps, equipped with a press-stud, iv passing on either side of the trigger guard. That basically simple device retained the weapon securely, yet allowed it to be snapped free easily and without delay should the need for extreme rapidity arise.
Low voices coming from the office reached Brady’s and Jeff’s ears. With the connecting door closed, they could not hear what was being said. All they managed to make out was that a woman had arrived and Briskow appeared to be surprised by what she was telling him. Then the door swung open and the deputy stepped through.
‘Here’s your wife, nephew’ Briskow announced, leering at the red-head. ‘She’s come asking to see you and Uncle Brady.’
Before Brady, or especially Jeff, could respond to the remarkable statement, a young woman followed the deputy into the cells’ section. They looked at her with considerable interest, although displaying less than the amount of approval they would have afforded her in less puzzling circumstances.
Slim, yet shapely, about five feet seven inches in height, the young woman was quietly, but tastefully attired in a respectable fashion. A dainty gray jockey hat, with a black silk ribbon, bow and twin tassels, perched on her piled-up blonde hair. Her face had a sweet, unspoiled, almost elfin charm and beauty. The figure under the severely cut gray jacket and long, flared tweed skirt was good without being blatant in its feminine contours. A neatly-knotted black silk bow set off the frilly-bosomed white blouse. She had thin black leather gloves on her hands, concealing her marital status, and a medium-sized vanity bag dangled by its strings from her left wrist.
While the newcomer was the kind of girl in whom Jeff might have taken an interest, provided her parents did not object—which he suspected they certainly would have—he had never seen her before.
Despite that, the girl advanced towards the door of the cell with her hands held out and a warm smile on her face.
‘Jefferson-honey!’ she greeted in a piping, slightly lisping, ‘little-girl-in-need-of-protection’ kind of voice that went well with her angelic features. ‘Whatever in the world have you and Uncle Brady been doing to get yourselves thrown into prison?’
‘We wasn’t thrown in, ma’am,’ Jeff objected. ‘We walked. But I...’
‘Stand back there, Mrs. Trade!’ Briskow ordered, before the girl reached the cell. ‘Don’t you go reaching through them bars.’
‘Why, officer,’ cooed the girl, turning and looking as if butter would be hard put to melt in her mouth. She returned in his direction, raising her arms outwards at shoulder level. ‘Surely you don’t think that I’d be carrying concealed weapons?’
‘Well, I...’ Briskow began.
‘As if I’d do such a terrible thing!’ the girl protested, with simple and injured dignity in her soft tones. ‘You can search me, if you’re so minded.’
A grin twisted at Briskow’s lips and he darted a mocking stare in Jeff’s direction. To start pawing at the girl in front of her husband would be a sweet revenge for the blow under his jaw. The longer he prolonged the searching, the more angry Trade would grow. Yet the prisoner would be unable to do anything, other than glower helplessly, unless it was to yell at Briskow to quit. Handled properly, the situation might be developed to produce a result which Banker Cuthbertson had told the deputy was desirable and would meet with his full approval.
Savoring in anticipation the pleasures of mauling the attractive girl, at the cost of considerable distress to her ‘husband’, and maybe setting himself in a position to earn the banker’s approbation, Briskow reached towards the smiling and apparently unsuspecting, submissive blonde.
Slowly, hesitantly it seemed, the girl’s hands moved inwards. They closed on the lapels of the deputy’s calfskin vest. With a sudden jerk, she opened the vest and dragged it down to elbow-level so that his arms were trapped. Still looking as innocuous as the fairy on top of a Christmas tree, she stepped aside a pace. Inserting her left foot between his ankles, she twisted her torso and tugged forward with her hands. By doing so, she caused him to lose his balance and propelled him across the passage between the connecting door and the cells.
Such was the girl’s strength, taken with the leverage she exerted and her amazing change of character, that Briskow was unable to resist. He could not prevent himself from plunging forward and, with his arms trapped, was unable to regain his equilibrium. So he went towards the steel bars at a speed that would be dangerous, or could even prove fatal, unless it was checked.
Although Jeff did not know the girl and could not even start to guess what had brought her to the jail posing as his wife, he realized the full extent of Briskow’s peril. Much as Jeff disliked the deputy, he had no wish to see him crash head-first into the bars. So the red-head thrust out his arms, catching Briskow by the shoulders. Halting the deputy’s forward rush, he helped the other to straighten up.
‘Y—You bastards!’ the deputy spluttered furiously. He reached, as best he could, towards his gun’s butt instead of displaying gratitude for being rescued. I’ll fix your wag...’
Cold anger bit into Jefferson Trade.
After helping Briskow, he felt that he deserved better at the other’s hands. So Jeff acted on impulse; but most effectively.
Straightening his arms, without releasing Briskow’s shoulders, Jeff bent them again sharply. Snatched forward, Bnskow’s forehead finally came into contact with the unyielding bars of the cell. While the impact was less than if he had pitched headlong into them, it proved to be sufficient for Jeff’s simple needs. The deputy went limp and, on being set free by the red-head, he crumpled to the floor as if he had. been boned.
‘That taught the nasty man!’ enthused the girl, sounding as if Jeff had done no more than slap a recalcitrant youngster across the wrist,
‘Who the... ?’ Brady began, but chopped off his words as he objected to using profanity in the presence of a lady.
‘I won’t be a moment,’ the girl promised, and disappeared through the connecting door.
‘Who was that?’ Jeff asked numbly, staring from the door to his uncle, then down at the motionless deputy.
‘There’s some would say you’re the best one to answer that,’ Brady replied. ‘You haven’t done anything I should know about and don’t, have you?’
‘If you mean like getting married secret-like,’ Jeff answered, ‘I’d have to say “no”.’
‘I didn’t reckon you would have,’ Brady admitted. ‘Trouble is, no matter who she might be, she’s put us in an even worse tight than before.’
The girl, looking as elfin and harmlessly pretty as ever, returned before any more could be said. In her right hand, she carried the ring of keys—one of which the sheriff had used to lock the cell’s door. Her left forefinger was hooked through the trigger guards of their revolvers, which she carried without any of the usual feminine qualms about handling firearms.
‘What’re you fixing to do now, ma’am?’ Jeff asked, as the girl started to test the keys in the lock.
‘Why, let you out before that horrid man recovers, of course,’ was the gentle reply. ‘You do want to come out and get after the men who stole your money, don’t you?’
‘Well, ma’am,’ Brady replied, before his nephew could speak. ‘I’m not at all sure that we do.’
‘Why ever not?’ gasped the girl, looking at the stocky man like a good fairy whose offer of magical assistance was being queried.
‘Because that could be called “escaping from custody”, ma’am,’ Brady explained. ‘And we could get shot on sight for doing it.’
‘Oh!’ the girl ejaculated, pouting and showing puzzlement Then she gave a gentle cluck of remembrance and snapped her fingers. ‘Oh yes! Of course! You don’t know who I am, or why I’ve come.’
‘You know something, ma’am,’ Jeff put in. ‘Considering you’re my “wife” and all, I don’t know either ways.’
‘Oh, I had to tell that nasty deputy something to get me in here, and that was the first thing to come to mind,’ the girl told them, still testing the keys. Finding the right one, she unlocked and opened the door. ‘Mr. Barnstaple told me to come and let you out of prison.’
‘Mr. Barnstaple?’ Brady repeated incredulously.
‘Yes. He’s arranged with Banker Cuthbertson and Sheriff Minter for you to be set free. But he wants it to look as if you’ve escaped.’
‘That’s what it’s going to look like for sure,’ Brady said quietly, watching the girl with eyes long accustomed to reading what should have been hidden expressions. He failed to detect anything that might hint that the beautiful blonde was lying, or trying to trick him. ‘Fact being, that’s what I’m afraid of it looking like.’
‘Oh, do please hurry!’ the girl pleaded, anxiety the major emotion on her angelic features, as she indicated the groaning deputy. ‘He’s recovering and I’m sure we might do him a mischief if we have to stun him again.’
‘Why didn’t Mr. Barnstaple come himself?’ Brady inquired, making no attempt to leave the cell and shaking his head briefly when Jeff glanced at him and made as if to do so.
‘He’s been so busy dealing with Mr. Cuthbertson that he hadn’t time,’ the girl replied. ‘But he sent me to do it and to take you to him so he can explain everything.’
‘Why you, ma’am?’ Jeff wanted to know, guessing what his uncle was thinking and curious to learn more.
‘I work for him,’ answered the girl, opening and fumbling in her vanity bag. She produced a couple of items. ‘He gave me this letter and said that I should show you my identification card.’
‘We’d best make up our minds what we’re going to do, Uncle Brady,’ Jeff advised, nodding at Briskow. ‘Or he’ll wake up and start hollering for help afore we can do anything.’
Despite the urgency, Brady refused to be rushed into what could be a wrong decision. Taking the sheet of paper and small card from the girl, he quickly but thoroughly studied each of them. As she had said, the paper bore a message in a neat masculine handwriting. It told much the same story as she had concerning the arrangements which had been made for their release.
‘I’d hate to be thought doubting of a lady’s word,’ Brady drawled. ‘But how do I know Mr. Barnstaple really wrote this?’
‘His signature is on my identification card,’ the blonde pointed out. ‘If I was working for Banker Cuthbertson, trying to trick you into escaping so you could be shot, I’d hardly be likely to have the card. Would I?’
That was, Brady conceded, a telling—if not decisive—point in the girl’s favor. He gave his attention to the document in question.
‘TEXAS BANKERS’ PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION
Hereby appoints Sybil Maureen Cravern as Special
Investigator No. 8312 in our service and requests all members to render her every assistance on production of this card.
Signed: Arnold D. Barnstaple III, Vice-President’
There was a small photograph of the girl affixed to the right hand top corner of the card and it carried a signature that matched the one on the letter in every detail.