BENSON ACTS.
The quiet little man who came along the prison wall and turned toward
the high barred gate, peered before him curiously, then stopped
before the gate and looked at it.
He was dressed neatly in a suit of light English tweed, wore
eyeglasses, a tall hat, and had a vacant air. Any one seeing him
would have said he was a high-browed college professor or scientist
who had strayed out of his proper range. All but Gopher Gabe. Having
sighted him from his saloon over the way, Gopher Gabe came to the
door with some of his patrons, and opined wisely that the stranger
scanning the prison gate was “one of these yere newspaper writers,
lookin’ for somethin’ to write up.”
In that, Gopher Gabe was a prophet; though his ability at accurate
forecasting had been gained by a recognition of the clothing as the
same which White-eyed Moses had taken out to the Ute village the day
before, and the fiddler’s statements on his return.
Finding the way open as far as the prison office, the stranger
entered it and fished out his card, which he threw on the desk of
Matt Shepard.
Shepard, a bushy-browed man with keen eyes, whose heels were at the
moment lifted to the top of the desk, looked at the card, then at the
little man. Though he had seen Tim Benson, there was no recognition
in his eyes.
“Well, what is it?” he asked.
“You can see by that I am a representative of the San Francisco
_Oracle_,” said the little man quietly. “I am studying the prison
systems of the West, and want to look this one over. When I publish
my article I shall have a good word to say of you personally, I hope.”
“Never heard of this hyer San Francisco _Oracle_,” said Shepard
severely, though his tone was milder than before.
“Well, it’s the leading paper of its kind in the city of San
Francisco,” the little man assured him. “Sorry I neglected to bring
a copy with me, but I have some down at the Eagle House, and will
see that you have one. In last week’s issue I had a write-up of the
Comstock Mine, at Virginia City.”
“When will this hyer write-up come out?” said the jailer, flattered
and interested.
“In two weeks, if I can get the copy in on time, and I think I can.
I’ve got to look at the prisons at Deming and Nueces first; but that
can be done yet this week.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“Simply conduct me through the prison, or such parts of it as you
wish to show me; and I’d like a look at some of the most notorious of
the prisoners you’ve got in here. A little spicy talk about them will
help to give my write-up the necessary tang.”
Shepard didn’t know what “tang” was, but it sounded well. So he
tumbled.
He got out of his comfortable chair, grumbling a little, but more
than ever pleased, for he had the usual vanity of men of his class;
and a few minutes later he was piloting Mr. Osgood Fleming--that was
the name on the card--through the prison of Blossom Range.
It was a new prison, with strong walls; as good as could be found
within five hundred miles; Shepard knew that, and was proud of it.
Proud he was, likewise, of the fact that he was the sheriff of the
county, and by virtue of it keeper of this magnificent jail.
“We’ve got a mighty fine assortment of jailbirds in hyer right now,”
he said, warming up under the influence of the ingratiating manner
of the polite little man. “Road agents, murderers, horse thieves--y’
can’t name any of that class o’ criminals we ain’t got. Last one put
in was Juniper Joe. He was the real ringer out of all of ’em; took
the hull blamed town in in the neatest way y’ could ever think of.”
He had to tell the whole story, it seemed so good to him, even if it
was at the expense of Blossom Range.
The narrative so interested the little man that he insisted he must
see this “graceless scamp,” and, if possible, have a talk with him.
“You can talk with him through the bars of his cell, standin’
outside,” said the jailer, who was of the honest kind. “Against the
rules, ye see, to do otherwise, when a man is in hyer on a charge of
murder.”
The little man was sure that was all he would care to do. He even
asked if there would not possibly be danger, even though he stood
outside in the jail corridor.
Shepard laughed hoarsely at that; it was not a joke, it seemed, for
the little man actually trembled.
“Well, he’s shore some quick on the shoot,” avowed Shepard; “but y’
needn’t be afraid of him; he ain’t got a gun on him. Been searched
thoroughly; I seen to it m’self.”
When they came to the cell occupied by Juniper Joe the little man
stood back against the opposite wall of the corridor, apparently
fearing that Juniper Joe might reach out his long arms and seize him,
like some caged gorilla.
Shepard stepped up to the cell door, thus putting himself in front of
the little man.
The jailer was hazy as to what took place after that; but something
whacked him on the back of the head, and he fell against the cell
door, then tumbled heavily to the floor.
When he came to himself, half an hour afterward, he was still hazy;
but he could see that the cell door was open and that Juniper Joe was
gone.
Feeling in his pockets, he found that his keys and his pistols were
gone, too.
That aroused him.
He delivered himself of a howl that sounded like a war whoop, and
flinging himself out of the corridor, raced down to his office and
the outer gate, passing on his way a guard who had been stationed
in the corridor. It is to be stated that the guard was lying on the
floor, and was as unconscious as Shepard had been a few minutes
before.
When Shepard reached the outer gate he found it locked.
He had no keys--and was locked in his own jail.
He now set up a terrible howling, which brought the other guards and
caused citizens to gather round outside.
The upshot of it was that when the outer gate was opened, and
Shepard got into the street, he found that Juniper Joe and Osgood
Fleming were nowhere to be found.
Two men had been seen, by people in Gopher Gabe’s saloon, to issue
from the jail; one being Osgood Fleming, the other a tall man wearing
a linen duster and a soft crush hat.
“It was Juniper Joe!” howled Shepard. “Though where he got the duster
and hat beats me.”
“Why, if that feller that went in was a fake,” said Gopher Gabe, “he
must ’a’ furnished Joe with the things.”
“But he couldn’t--he didn’t have ’em; didn’t have any place to carry
’em, er hide ’em.”
“He might have had ’em in his high hat,” said Gopher Gabe, smiling.
“A linen duster and soft hat might be rolled up into a very little
ball.”
Shepard smote himself on the forehead, sank weakly on a bench, and
called loudly for a drink, to steady his shaking nerves.
“I’m a fool!” he howled. “I’m a blithering idiot!”
A crowd was gathering round him.
Gopher Gabe brought the drink himself.
“I’ve got to send out an alarm,” said Shepard, when he had swallowed
the whisky. “It ain’t too late to round them fellers up, maybe.
Where’s Buffalo Bill? Somebody jump down to the Eagle House and let
him know. And git word to the mayor, somebody; thar’s got to be a
reward offered. The Wells Fargo will want to give a reward, anyhow.
Gee whittaker! Juniper Joe out of jail ag’in, and I done it! Gabe,
give me another drink; this knocks me all out.”
When Buffalo Bill came down to see the perspiring jailer, he asked a
number of questions.
“You were fooled neatly,” was his comment, when he had heard the
story.
“But--but,” stammered the jailer, “who was the brass-plated high brow
that carried the job through?”
“Tim Benson,” said the great scout quietly.
Shepard fell back against the wall.
“Benson!” he gasped. “Wow! The feller that played woman and fooled
the whole town!”