JOSé VILLEGAS sat at the desk in the sheriff’s office tranquilly smoking. It was mid-afternoon, and José had been sitting there almost continually since Bob had left for Redrock. The office door was open, and from his position Joe was able to see into the corridor and, consequently, anyone who attempted to reach the cells to which it led. Thus far the job had been a dull, uninteresting one; but Joe had determined that his chief’s instructions would be carried out to the full.
Somebody ascended the stairs at the front of the building, and Joe sat up expectantly; but the footsteps died as the person entered an office at that end of the hall, and Joe relaxed once more. Presently the footsteps sounded again, and this time they were undoubtedly approaching. Furthermore, Joe decided that the one man had now become two.
He got up from his chair and gliding softly to the doorway leaned against the frame. The two were Thaddeus Poole and Sylvester Fish. They would have passed Joe without noticing him had he not said softly, almost apologetically, “One moment, señores.”
They halted, and the prosecuting attorney turned to survey him. “Oh, it’s you. We were going back to the jail.”
Joe smiled gently. “That ees not permit’.”
“Oh, yes it is,” contradicted the pompous Poole. “Mr. Fish is the legal adviser of the men who are being held.”
“Ees mak no difference. She can not go back.”
Poole fixed a cold hard eye upon the Mexican. “I shall have to instruct you, sir, in the ethics of jurisprudence.”
Joe bore up bravely under this. “I’m not spik ver’ good Ingles,” he explained. “May be you don’t too, eh?”
The brick red of Poole’s cheeks deepened. He turned curtly to his companion. “No use arguing with this fellow, Sylvester. I will accompany you.”
He started again for the jail section of the courthouse, but halted abruptly as the muzzle of Joe’s gun prodded him in the ribs.
“I’m say eet ees not permit’ that you go to the jail. The sheriff she tell me nobody ees to see these men until she return.”
“Why that is ridiculous! I tell you this man is their lawyer; he has a perfect right to speak with his clients.”
“W’en the sheriff return, may be she weel geeve the permission. Until then,” Joe shrugged expressively, “ees toff lock.”
Fish exclaimed his irritation. “I’ll fix him, Thad. I’ll get an order from Bleek. Come on.” They turned and walked down the corridor to Judge Bleek’s office. Joe shifted his weight and hummed a little tune.
In a short while they back back again, this time triumphantly waving a paper before Joe’s eyes. “Now maybe you’ll let us pass,” snapped Fish.
“W’at ees eet?” asked Joe blandly.
“It’s a court order authorizing me to visit my clients. Read it.”
Joe glanced indifferently at the paper. “I’m mos’ sorry, but I’m not read the Ingles.”
“A fine deputy you are! Can’t even read English. Well, I’ll read it for you. It says—”
“Ees no matter.” Joe dismissed the whole affair with a wave of the hand. “You are not permit’ to enter.”
“Why you ignorant fool!” blazed Fish. “Do you know that you stand in contempt of court?”
“You are talk through my hat. I’m stand in door. The sheriff say no man ees to spik weeth these prisoner. Eef you try to pass, señores, I mus’ weeth moch regret arres’ you.”
“Well then, arrest me! That’s one way of reaching my clients.”
Again Joe smiled, almost sadly. “The señor Feesh ees meestake. I’m not lock heem weeth rustlers. No; not beeg good man lak heem. I’m han’cuff heem to the ring in the safe, then even eef the floor she ees saw, the señor weel not fall t’rough.”
Whereupon both Sylvester Fish and Thaddeus Poole abandoned their legal phraseology, which, by this time, they were convinced was being wasted, and resorted to good old-fashioned cuss words, the intent if not the meaning of which is perfectly understandable to all nationalities. They read Joe’s pedigree from the time of Adam to the present, and then into the future for several generations, the while Joe listened with perfect courtesy, even smiling a bit. When they had exhausted their breath, he spoke gently.
“The steam she ees all blow off, eh? Then the señores weel oblige by walk somew’ere and jump een reever.”
He was no longer smiling, and his eyes were hard; furthermore, the gun in his hand was extended suggestively. The two lawyers, trembling with rage, abruptly turned and stamped down the hall.
Supper time brought a man from the hotel with several pots of food and a basket of utensils. Joe watched while he dished out the nine portions, then assisted in carrying it to the prisoners. When they had finished their meal he helped collect the dishes, and after the hotel man had gone, again searched both prisoners and cells.
The night jailer arrived, and Joe asked the two day men to remain on duty until he had eaten his own supper.
“No one ees to see the prisoners,” he told them impressively. “These ees w’at Sheriff Bob say.”
“Not even with a court order?” grinned one of the day men who had witnessed the clash between the deputy and the combined legal talent of both prosecution and defense.
Joe eyed him blandly. “May be you no read Ingles too, eh?”
“Not a word,” the jailer assured him, “except newspapers, magazines, stock journals, reward notices, mail order catalogs, and letters from home.”
“You are well educate’,” said Joe approvingly, and went to supper.
When he returned it was dark. Instead of going directly to the jail he circled the courthouse and glanced upward at the barred windows in the rear of the second story. They were inaccessible without the use of a ladder, and even an indifferent jailer would be sure to hear the sound of file or saw on the iron bars. Escape at this point was well nigh impossible.
Joe next visited the corral where twelve captured horses nibbled contentedly at their hay, and the saddle shed with its rack of twelve captured saddles. Some of these bore dark stains on their leather. Satisfied, Joe returned to the jail and dismissed the day men.
For a while he talked with the night jailer, then went into the office. The lamp in the corridor had been lighted, and Joe left the office door open. Placing his gun on a chair by the cot, he stretched out for a nap. About eleven he awoke, and, after visiting the jail, went downstairs and circled the building again. He found nothing to arouse his suspicion, and returned to the office for a bit more of much needed sleep.
Hardly had he entered the building when a dark-clothed figure left the shadows of the adjacent building and walked quickly to the corral. One by one he led horses from the inclosure and saddled them until nine of the animals stood tied to the rails. The moon was shining, but so quietly was the work accomplished that no attention was directed to the space behind the courthouse.
Going to a point directly beneath the second story window nearest the corner of the building, Duke Haslam produced a ball of soft cord. Stepping back a pace or two he looked upward, gauged the distance, and tossed the ball. It struck beneath the sill without a sound and dropped to the ground. He picked it up, threw it again. This time it passed between two of the bars.
Duke quickly moved to the shadows from whence he had emerged and waited. Presently the white ball appeared, unwinding as it fell. Duke stooped, picked up a bag which lay at his feet, and carried it to the corner of the courthouse building.
From the bag he took a Colt revolver and, breaking the cord, tied the end to the trigger guard. A foot above the weapon he tied a short length of wood, then tugged at the line gently and stepped back ino the shadows.
Slowly the gun was drawn upward, occasionally bumping softly against the wall. It reached the sill of the window, disappeared inside. Then the string, weighed by the wood, was let down, and the operation was repeated until four of the sinister weapons were in the hands of the prisoners. When the cord descended again, Duke jerked it and the far end was released. He rolled it into a ball and tossed it to one side, then vanished in the darkness.
Some time later the dozing turnkey was awakened by a low moaning which came from the center cell. He opened his eyes, sat up quickly, and asked, “What’s the matter in there?”
His answer was another low groan. Getting to his feet he walked over to one cell and peered through the bars.
“Freeze where you are!” came a low hissed command from the cell to his right. The jailer turned his head. The two inmates were on their knees, a sixgun in the hand of each pointing at him through the bars. He glanced to his left to find a man in the cell there covering him. When he dazedly looked back at the center cell, the prisoner who had been doing the groaning also held a threatening gun. The jail seemed suddenly to have sprouted lethal weapons.
“Unlock the door, and do it without makin’ no noise,” came the order.
Reluctantly the jailer did as he was told. He required no one to tell him that these men were desperate and would shoot at the drop of a hat. He unlocked the center door and passed the keys to one of the two men who emerged. Without waste of time they liberated their seven companions, then bound and gagged the jailer and tiptoed from the room.
It was probably the extinguishing of the corridor lamp which awoke Joe, for the escaping prisoners made no sound as they passed along the hall in their stockinged feet. The Mexican’s eyes blinked open, and for a moment he lay on the cot staring toward what should have been the lighted quadrangle of the doorway. In that first moment the thought occurred to him that he must be facing the blank wall, to be followed by the realization that if this was so he should be lying on his right side instead of his left.
Joe sat up and orientated himself by the moonlight which showed through the office window. The corridor light, he decided, must have gone out. Ever wary, he buckled on his sixgun and walked out into the hall. Striking a match, he applied the flame to the wick of the lamp which stood on a wall bracket, then turned toward the cell room. Might as well make a round now that he was awake.
He opened the door of the dimly lighted room and stared down at the trussed form of the jailer. Bending over, he tore the gag from the man’s mouth. His Latin temperament called for futile oaths and a hearty berating of the unfortunate jailer; but his long association with Bob had taught him tolerance and restraint.
“How eet ’appen?” he asked tersely.
“Got me over to the cell by groanin’ like he was sufferin’, then four of ’em stuck guns in my face. Four of ’em! I had to let them out. They ain’t been gone more than a minute.”
Joe did not wait to sever the bonds, but turned and sped along the corridor and down the stairs. He moved swiftly but noiselessly. As he rounded the rear corner of the building he met a file of horsemen who were walking their mounts along the alley. Joe raised his gun and fired.
A man cried out and sagged over the saddle horn. Then a half-dozen guns spoke, and Joe went down. Rolling over on his stomach he fired again. In the moonlight and with such tall targets he could not miss. Again and again he fired, until the gun was empty and a red mist before his eyes obscured the forms of the moving horsemen.
Bullets thudded into the dust about him, snatched at his clothing, seared his arm and leg and side; but he was lying in the shadows and after his five shots were exhausted they had no more flashes at which to shoot. Somebody shouted a command and the survivors broke their horses into a run. One of the riders, bent far over in agony, clung desperately to his saddle horn; the arm of another hung limply. Sprawled on the ground between courthouse and corral were two who would never rustle cows again. And back in the shadows of the building lay José Villegas.
People were stirring now, rushing out of houses half dressed. Somebody found the bound turnkey, who, as soon as he had been freed, led the way to the rear of the building. He sent a man after Doc Witherspoon, then, as the only representative of the law present, formed a posse and set out in pursuit of the escaped prisoners.
The doctor was working over Joe when Bob drove up in the spring wagon. He had stopped at Witherspoon’s house and had been directed here by the doctor’s wife. Having finished dressing Joe’s wounds, the doctor went out to look at Deuce, and Bob knelt by his swarthy but loyal deputy.
“How you makin’ it, old-timer?” he asked softly.
Joe looked up at him gravely. “Me, I’m mak out fine,” he gasped. “But I am desolate’. The prisoners you lef’ in my charge are go. I’m dumb peeg!”
“You’re solid gold, Joe. You should have let them go. The whole bunch is not worth yore little finger. I’m proud of you. You got two of them, and I’ll bet some more are carryin’ yore trademark.”
Joe’s face lighted up. “Ees good! Me, I’m theenk I’m heet more den pack-’orse dis tam!”
“I’ll tell a man! Listen, Joe. The doc is workin’ on Deuce. The little fella got Shab Cannon, but Cole Bradshaw shot him up considerable. Deuce is on some mattresses in a spring wagon, and I’m goin’ to take him to the Tumblin’ T. How’d you like to go along?”
“I’m lak dat fine!”
It was dawn when the spring wagon arrived at the Tumbling T. June prepared beds, and Tomlinson’s men carried the two wounded deputies into the house. Bob remained only long enough to snatch a bite to eat, then borrowed a horse from Tomlinson and started back toward Redrock.
Since noon of the preceding day he had been driving the spring wagon at a snail’s pace so as not to jolt the wounded Deuce. He had not slept, and the meal he had just eaten was the first since breakfast of the day before. But he could not stop to rest now. Things were approaching a climax. Two of his deputies had been desperately wounded, and he owed it to them and to the office he held to bring justice to those who were responsible.
He had deliberately avoided meeting June, reluctant to confirm her fear about Dick. No longer could he spare Markley and be true to the oath he had taken. As long as he believed there was a chance to win the young man from the company he was keeping he had been lenient to the point of disloyalty to his badge; but Dick had turned his back on the offer which would have meant financial independence and a life of respectability.
Bob rode steadily all morning, and when, half way to Redrock, he saw a rider approaching at a rapid pace, he drew rein and waited for him.
The man pulled up his blowing horse. “You don’t happen to be Sheriff Bob Lee, do you?”
“I’m Lee. What is it?”
“I’m one of two boys yore deputy picked up to help chase them holdups. He sent me after you. We got them bottled up in a cabin three miles the other side of Redrock. Come a-humpin’.”
Bob felt a tightening about his chest. The showdown with Dick had come.