FREEDOM BEHIND BARS
In the early afternoon the little cavalcade rode into Dry Lake.
Rathburn was nodding in his saddle, nearly asleep.
"We'll keep him here to-night till I can get the facts straight," he
heard Sheriff Neal say to Brown.
They dismounted at a small square stone building with bars on the
windows. Then Rathburn was proudly led between a line of curious
spectators into jail.
Three rooms comprised Dry Lake's jail. The front of the building, for
a depth of a third of the distance from the front to the rear, was
divided into two of these rooms; one, the larger, being the main
office, and the other, much smaller, being the constable's private
office. The balance of the building was one large room, divided into
two old-fashioned cages with iron and steel bars. The doors to these
cages were on either side of the door into the front office and there
was an aisle between the cages and the wall separating them from the
offices.
Rathburn was taken immediately to the cage on the left of the office
door. Sheriff Neal hesitated as he stood in the cell with him, thought
for a minute, then removed the handcuffs.
"That's right fine of you, sheriff," said Rathburn sleepily, but
cheerfully, nevertheless.
"Oh, you'll be watched well enough," said Neal as he closed the barred
door behind him and locked Rathburn in. "You'll find somebody around
if you try to tear the place down."
"That wasn't just what I was getting at, sheriff," said the prisoner
with a glitter in his eyes. "I meant it was right fine of you to give
me freedom behind the bars."
Rathburn's taunting laugh rang in the official's ears as the latter
pushed the men with him into the outer office. Rathburn listened,
yawning, to the sheriff giving instructions that the prisoner be
watched constantly.
He looked about the cage which was separated from the other cell by a
wall of sheet iron. It contained nothing except a bench and a stool.
He pushed the bench against the stone wall at the rear and reclined
upon it, using his coat for a pillow. Then he turned his face toward
the wall, shading his eyes from the light, which filtered through two
windows high in the wall beyond the bars on the left side by tipping
his hat over his face.
Immediately he fell asleep.
The news that The Coyote had been captured, spread rapidly through the
town and many came to the jail hoping they might be able to see the
prisoner. All of these were denied admittance, but Sheriff Neal told
the few who stated that they had been among the number the bandit had
lined up at the point of his guns, that they would be called to
identify The Coyote on the following day. He asked each if they were
sure the bandit had two guns, and the reply in each case was in the
affirmative.
"That's funny," Neal muttered. "He only had one gun on him."
"More'n likely the other's on his horse with his saddle," Brown
pointed out. "I believe he left his horse somewheres an' made that
fellow Lamy take him to the house thinking he could get something to
eat there, and that they wouldn't be so likely to be seen in the open
on foot. You got to remember that man's more or less clever."
This explanation satisfied Neal, and in the minds of the men who had
been in the resort when it was held up, there was no question as to
the identity of the robber. Even if they had suspected otherwise it is
doubtful if they would have acknowledged it because they considered it
less of an ignominy to be held up by the notorious Coyote than by a
bandit of lesser reputation.
Thus did the bonds of evidence tighten about Rathburn while he slept
through the late afternoon and the twilight.
When he awoke a faint yellow light dimly illuminated his surroundings.
He lay thinking for several minutes. He knew night had fallen and
surmised that he had slept a full eight hours. He could tell this
because he was fully awake and alert. He turned noiselessly on his
bench and saw that the light came from a lamp burning near the door to
the outer office.
Rathburn could hear the hum of voices, and by listening intently,
ascertained that two men were talking, one of whom was the sheriff. He
could not recognize the voice of the other speaker as a voice he had
ever heard before, and he could not hear what they were saying.
He listened dully to the voices until he heard a horse's hoofs in
front of the jail. He turned back with his face to the wall, and his
hat tipped over his eyes, as a man entered the jail office with a
stamp of boots and jingle of spurs.
"Hello, constable," he heard the sheriff say. "What luck?"
"Couldn't find the hoss," came a disgruntled voice. "Looked all
afternoon an' till it got dark for him."
"Confound it!" exclaimed Neal. "The horse must have been somewhere
aroun' close. He sure didn't walk down the valley."
"That's probably right," said the other. "I left a couple of your men
out there to keep up searching when daylight comes. That feller Lamy
showed us about where they left the hosses--his hoss an' The
Coyote's--but they wasn't there. He said there was a bunch of wild
hosses in the valley an' that they'd probably got away an' gone with
'em. We saw the wild hosses, but we couldn't get anywhere near
'em--couldn't get near enough to see if any of 'em was wearin' saddles
or not. We had some chase while it lasted, I'll recite."
"Did Lamy say how they came to leave their horses?" asked the sheriff
in an annoyed tone.
"It was The Coyote's orders. Thought they'd be safer in the middle of
the posse or something like that. Made Lamy leave the hosses an' run
for the house an' made him get down in the cellar with him. Don't know
if he knew Lamy lived there or not, but reckon it wouldn't have made
any difference."
The sheriff was pacing the floor of the office as his footfalls
attested. "I've ordered that Lamy in to-morrow. I've a lot more
questions to ask him. Well, you might as well get a few winks,
constable; Brown and the rest of 'em have hit the hay. Even the
prisoner is tired out, and that's sayin' something for as tough a bird
as he is. But I wish I had his horse. I've got to have his horse!"
Rathburn was smiling at the wall. He heard Neal walk to the door and
look in. Receding footsteps told him that the constable was leaving.
For a time there was silence in the outer office.
Rathburn sat up quietly and began easing off his right boot. The boot
came slowly, very slowly, as Rathburn worked at it, careful not to
make any noise. Then, just as it came free, the sheriff again strode
to the door and looked in.
He saw Rathburn yawning, as the boot dropped on the floor.
Rathburn looked at the sheriff sleepily as the official strode into
the aisle and peered in between the bars. He tipped the bootless foot
back on its toes as he lifted his other foot and tugged at the boot.
"That you, sheriff?" he asked with another yawn. "The lights are so
bad I can't see good. Guess I'm a little groggy anyway. I was too
danged tired when I went to sleep to take off my boots."
"You've got another ten hours to sleep," said Neal with a scowl. "An'
you'll have plenty of time to get rid of your saddle soreness. You'll
ride in automobiles and trains for a while an' keep in out of the hot
sun an' the wet."
The sheriff laughed harshly at his own words.
Rathburn let the other boot drop. "I expect I'll get something to eat
now an' then, too?"
"Feel hungry?" asked Neal.
"Might chaw on a biscuit before I take another nap," yawned the
prisoner.
"I'll see if I can scare you up a bite," said the sheriff, leaving.
Rathburn heard him say something to some one in front. Then the
sheriff went out of the building. The other man came in and looked at
Rathburn curiously.
He was of medium build, with white hair and a face seamed and lined
and red. Rathburn instantly recognized in his jailer a man of the
desert--possibly of the border country.
"So you're The Coyote," said the jailer in a rather high-pitched
voice.
Rathburn winked at him. "That's what they say," he replied.
"You size up to him, all right," observed the man of the desert. "An'
I can tell quick enough when I get a good look at you an' inspect your
left forearm. I've had your descriptions in front of my eyes on paper
an' from a dozen persons that knowed you for three years!"
"You been trailing me?" asked Rathburn curiously.
"I have; an' it ain't no credit to this bunch here that they got you,
for I was headed in this direction myself an' arrived 'most as soon as
you did."
"You from Arizona?" asked Rathburn, grasping his right foot in his
left hand.
"I'm from Arizony an' Mexico an' a few other places," was the answer.
"I've helped catch men like you before, Coyote."
Rathburn frowned, still keeping his hand over his right foot. "I don't
like that word, Coyote," he said softly, holding the other's gaze
between the bars. "A coyote is a cowardly breed of animal, isn't it?"
"An' a tricky one," said the jailer. "I ain't sayin' you're a coward;
but you're tricky, an' that's bad enough."
"Maybe so," agreed Rathburn. "Ah--here's our friend, his nibs, the
sheriff. He went out to rustle me some grub. He wants to keep me fat
for hanging!"
His laugh rang through the jail, empty save for himself and the two
officers. But the temporary jailer hesitated, looking at Rathburn's
eyes, before he turned to the sheriff.
"Open the door and I'll take it in to him," ordered the sheriff.
"Can't get this stuff through the bars. You might keep him covered."
The jailer's hand flew to his hip for his gun as he also brought up a
large key on a ring. He unlocked the door to the cage and held it open
while he kept his gun trained upon Rathburn.
The sheriff entered and placed the food on the stool and a large bowl
of coffee on the floor beside it. Then he backed out, watching
Rathburn keenly as the latter sat on his bench with his right foot in
his hand.
When the door clanged shut and the key rattled in the lock, Rathburn
let down his right foot, took two steps, and pulled the stool to the
bench. He stepped back and secured the coffee. Then he began to eat
and drink, keeping his right foot tipped on its toes, while the two
officials watched him attentively.
"Sheriff," said Rathburn suddenly, between bites on a huge meat
sandwich, "could you let me have a stub of a lead pencil an' a sheet
of paper to write a letter on?"
"Easy enough," answered Neal. "Course, you know all mail that goes out
of the jail is read by us before it's delivered--if it's delivered at
all."
"I'll chance it," snapped out Rathburn.
As the sheriff left to get the writing materials, with the jailer
following him, doubtless for a whispered confab as to what Rathburn
might be wanting to write and its possible bearing on his capture, the
prisoner hastily ran his left hand down into his right sock and with
some difficulty withdrew a peculiar-shaped leather case about ten
inches long and nearly the width of his foot. This he put within his
shirt.
When the officials returned he had finished his repast and was
waiting for them near the bars with a smile of gratitude on his lips.
"This may be a confession I'm going to write," he said, grinning at
Neal. "It's going to take me a long time, I reckon, but you said I had
something like ten hours for sleep, so I guess I can spare two or
three for this effort at literary composition. I figure, sheriff, that
this'll be my masterpiece."
His look puzzled the sheriff as he took the pencil and paper through
the bars and returned to his bunk. He drew up the stool and sat upon
it. It was a little lower than the bench, so, putting his paper on the
bench, he had a fairly good makeshift desk. He began to write
steadily, and after a few minutes the sheriff and jailer retired to
the office.
It did not take Rathburn a quarter of an hour to write what he wished
on the first of the several pieces of paper. He tore off what he had
written, doubled it again and again into a small square, took out his
sack of tobacco which he had been allowed to retain, and put it
therein with the loose tobacco.
Then he wrote for a few minutes on the second sheet of paper.
When the sheriff looked in later he evidently was slowly and
laboriously achieving a composition.
Rathburn heard the sheriff go out of the front door a few minutes
later. Instantly he was alert. He drew on his boots. He surmised that
the sheriff had gone out for something to eat and, though he wasn't
sure of this, it was true.
"Oh, jailer!" he called amiably.
The wrinkled face of the desert trailer appeared in the office
doorway.
Rathburn looked about from his seat on the stool. "This job ain't none
too easy, as it is," he complained. "As a writer I'm a first-rate cow
hand. Lemme take your knife to sharpen this pencil with. When I asked
the sheriff for a stub of a pencil he took me at my word."
"Sure I'll let you have my knife," said the jailer sarcastically. "How
about my gun--want that, too?"
"Oh, come on, old-timer," pleaded Rathburn. "The lead in this pencil's
worn clean down into the wood."
"Hand it over here an' I'll sharpen it," said the jailer, drawing his
pocketknife.
Rathburn walked to the bars and held out the pencil. An amiable smile
played on his lips. "You'll have to excuse me," he said contritely. "I
forgot it wasn't jail etiquette to ask for a knife. But I ain't had
much experience in jail. Now according to his nibs, the sheriff, I'm
in to get pretty well acquainted with 'em, eh?"
He watched the jailer as he began sharpening the pencil.
"Speaking of knives, now," he continued in a confiding tone, "I got in
a ruckus down near the border once an' some gents started after me.
One of 'em got pretty close--close enough to take some skin off my
shoulder with a bullet. He just sort of compelled me to shoot back."
"I suppose you killed him," observed the jailer, pausing in his work
of sharpening the pencil.
"I ain't saying," replied Rathburn. "Anyways I had a hole-up down
there for a few days, an' as luck would have it, I had to put up with
a Mexican. All that Mex would do was argue that a knife was better
than a gun. He claimed it was sure and made no noise--those were his
hardest talking points, an' I'll be danged if there isn't something in
it.
"But what I was gettin' at is that I didn't have nothing to do, an'
that Mexican got me to practicing knife throwing. You know how slick
those fellows are at throwing a blade. Well, in the couple of weeks
that I hung aroun' there he coached me along till I could throw a
knife as good as he could. He thought it was great sport, teaching me
to throw a knife so good, that a way.
"Since I left down there I've sort of practiced that knife-throwing
business now and then, just for fun. Anyways I thought it was just for
fun. But now I see, jailer, that it was my luck protecting me.
Anything you learn is liable to prove handy some time. _Don't move an
inch or I'll let you have it!_"
Rathburn's hand snapped out of his shirt and up above his right
shoulder.
The man from the desert shuddered involuntarily as he saw the yellow
light from the lamp play fitfully upon a keen, white blade.