IN JAIL.
Great was the disgust of the crowd when it was found that Hank Kildare
had taken his prisoner to jail without passing along the main street of
the town. It was declared a mean trick on Hank's part, and some excited
fellows were for resenting it by breaking into the jail at once and
bringing the boy out and "hangin' him up whar everybody could see him."
The ones who made this kind of talk had been "looking on the bug-juice
when it was red," and they finally contented themselves by growling and
taking another look.
In the meantime, Frank found himself confined in a cell, and he began to
realize that he was in a very bad scrape.
Throughout all the excitement at the railroad station, he had remained
cool and collected, but now, when he came to think the matter over, his
anger rose swiftly, and he felt that the whole business was most
outrageous.
Still, when he remembered everything, he did not wonder that the mob had
longed to lynch him.
Black Harry was a youthful desperado of the worst sort. He had
devastated, plundered, robbed, and murdered in a most infamous manner,
his last act being the shooting of Robert Dawson, the Eastern banker.
And Lona Dawson, the banker's daughter, had looked straight into our
hero's face and declared that he was Black Harry!
"It is a horrible mistake!" cried Frank, as he paced the cell into which
he had been thrust. "She believed she spoke the truth. This young
outlaw must resemble me. I cannot blame her."
The manacles chafed his wrists.
"Are they going to leave those things on me, now that they have me safe
in jail?" he cried.
His door opened into the corridor, and he called to the guard, asking
that the irons might be removed.
"I believe Hank has gone fer ther key," said the guard "He didn't take
it from ther detective what put them irons on yer."
"Will they be removed when he returns with the key?"
"I reckon."
"Then I hope he will hurry. I am tired of carrying the things."
He turned back, to pace the cell once more.
"This is a flimsily-constructed building," he said. "It would be an easy
thing to break in here and drag a prisoner out. I escaped death at the
hands of the mob because I had friends at hand to fight for me, and
because Hank Kildare is utterly fearless, and was determined to bring me
here. But the whole town may become aroused, and to-night---- What if
Robert Dawson should die!"
The thought fairly staggered him, for he knew the death of the wounded
banker would again inflame the passions of the citizens, and a night
raid might be made on the jail.
"They would stand a good show of forcing their way in here, and then it
would be all up with me."
It was a terrible thing to stand in peril of such a death. Frank felt
that he could not die thus; he would live to clear his honor.
But what could he do? He was helpless, and he could not fight for
himself. Must he remain impassive, and let events go on as they might?
"I do not believe fortune has deserted me," he whispered. "I shall be
given a chance to fight for myself."
It seemed long hours before the sheriff appeared, accompanied by Burchel
Jones, the foxy-faced private detective.
"Has he been disarmed?" cautiously asked Jones, as he peered at the boy
through the grating in the door.
"Yep," replied Kildare, shortly. "Do you think I'm in ther habit o'
monkeying with ther prisoners yar?"
"H'm! Ha! No, no--of course not! But, you see, this fellow is
dangerous--very dangerous. He is not to be trusted."
"Wa'al, he's been mild as milk sense he fell inter my hands."
"Trickery, my dear sir--base trickery! By the time you have handled so
many desperate criminals as I have, you will see through them like
glass."
Kildare grunted.
"Now," continued Jones, with the wisdom of an old owl, "mark the curl of
his lip, and the bold, defiant stare of the eye. Mark the covert smile
on that face, as if he were really laughing at us now. All those things
are significant--mighty significant. You do not dream of the treachery
hidden beneath that boyish exterior; but I, sir, can see by his eye that
he had rather cut a throat than eat a square meal. The peculiar shape of
his lips denote blood-thirstiness, and his nose, which seems rather
finely formed to the casual observer, is the nose of a person utterly
without conscience. His forehead indicates a certain order of
intelligence, but this simply makes him all the more dangerous. He has
brain power and force, and that explains why he has succeeded in
becoming a leader of desperadoes. That chin is a hard, cruel feature,
while the shape of his ears indicates an utter disregard for anything
sweet and harmonious of sound, like music. That is an ear which finds
more music in the shrieks of murdered victims than in anything else."
Frank literally staggered.
"Great Scott!" he gasped. "I never before dreamed that I was such a
villainous-looking creature!"
Kildare began fitting a key to the lock of the door.
"Are you sure he is disarmed?" asked the private detective.
"Yep."
"Well, you are at liberty to do as you like, but I should not remove
those irons. It would be far better to keep them on him."
"Why?"
"Well, you see--that is--hum!--ha!--such a creature cannot be held too
fast. There is no telling what he is liable to do."
Kildare gave a grunt of disgust, entered the cell, and removed the
manacles from Frank's wrists.
"Thank you," said the boy, gratefully. "They were beginning to get
irksome. I am glad to get them off."
"Ther man what calls hisself Professor Scotch has dispatched East fer
yer," said the sheriff. "He sw'ars thar has been a mistake made, an' he
kin prove you are what ye claim, an' not Black Harry at all."
"That can be easily proven," smiled Frank. "All we want is a little
time."
"Trickery! Trickery!" cried Jones from the corridor. "They will do their
best to get his neck out of the noose; but he is Black Harry, and I
shall receive the reward for his capture."
"You'll receive it when it is proved thet he is Black Harry, so don't
yer worry," growled Kildare, who had taken a strong dislike to the
foxy-faced detective.
"He has been identified by Miss Dawson; that is proof enough."
To this Kildare said nothing; but he spoke again to the boy:
"Make yerself as easy as yer kin, an' be shore ye'll hev a fair show
from Hank Kildare. Thar's talk in town about lynchin', but they don't
take yer out o' hyar so long as I kin handle a shootin' iron. I'm goin'
ter stay hyar ter-night, an' I'll be reddy fer 'em ef they come."
"Thank you again," said Frank, sincerely. "All I ask is a square deal
and a fair show. I know it looks black against me just now, but I'll
clear my honor."
Burchel Jones laughed, sneeringly.
Kildare said nothing more, but left the cell, locking the door behind
him.
At noon Frank was brought an assortment of food that made his eye bulge.
He asked if that was the regular fare in the jail, and was told it had
been sent in by his friends.
"The professor and Barney, God bless them! I wonder why they have left
me alone so long? But I know they are working for me."
It was late in the afternoon when Barney appeared, and was admitted to
the cell. The Irish lad gave Frank's hand a warm squeeze, and cried:
"It's Satan's own scrape, me lad; but we'll get ye out av it if th'
spalpanes will let yez alone ter-noight. Av they joomp yez, we'll be
here ter foight ter ther last gasp."
"I know you will, Barney!" said Frank, with deep feeling. "You are my
friend through thick and thin. But, say, do you think there is much
danger of lynchers to-night?"
"Av Mishter Dawson dies, there will be danger enough, and, at last
reports it wur said he could not live more than two ur thray hours."