“Chuck,” says I, “would yuh like to hear a big, big noise?”
“That’s the idea, Henry—a great big noise. Can’t be too big. Where yuh
going to get it?”
I tells him about them loaded cans down at the jail, and he’s for me.
We enthuses over the jug a little more, and then goes down to the
jail. I posts Chuck about a hundred feet from the jail, and tells him
to watch for anybody coming from town.
* * * * *
The Paradise jail ain’t much. It’s one story, mostly dobe, and stands
way out from any other shack, a grim reminder that there still is law
and order—at times. A strong man might kick the walls loose if they
wasn’t afraid the roof would fall on ’em. I takes a rock and busts the
padlock. There’s only one cell in the place, and when I lights a match
I sees the faces of Scenery Sims and the old man.