“You see,” was the manner in which Claney greeted his brother sheriff from the southland, “that you was wrong, Caswell, and that Jess Dreer wasn't taken near the Valentine ranch.”
“But the theory was right enough,” protested Caswell. “And it was on account of the Valentines that he got into this mix-up.”
Sheriff Claney smiled benevolently on his companion.
“Theory is one way, but practice may be a mighty long ways off from it. It was this time.”
“Well, I'm free to say that you're right. I ain't one that falls in love with my mistakes, pardner. Besides, you're a gent with a pretty good head, Clancy, which makes it a whole pile easier to be beaten out by you.”
It was a very neat little tribute, and it was delivered in a voice so sincere that Sheriff Claney had the grace to blush.
“Here I was,” pursued Caswell, “after follering this Jess Dreer for years, and knowing him like I knew myself, almost, and yet you step in at the right minute and grab him. It's a pretty piece of work. I thought you'd be miles away from Salt Springs hunting for the trail of him.”
Sheriff Claney cleared his throat; it would be long before he explained the purely adventitious circumstances which had brought him to Salt Springs that day.
“But,” ran on the man from the southland, “now that you got him, you want to look sharp that you keep him. I looked over your jail and it don't look none too man-proof, to say nothing of being Dreer-proof!”
“Leave all that worry to me, pardner, because I ain't going to let my bird get away ag'in.”
“Got an iron on his feet and got his hands shackled in front of him.”
“The hound tried to make a mock of me, Caswell. He had worse'n the irons coming to him. But—tomorrow morning I start south with him, so I won't have to bother with him long in that paper-walled jail. And while he's there he's got to grin and bear the irons.”
Sheriff Caswell was deep in thought.
“Well,” and he sighed, “I wouldn't be in your boots for considerable money if he was to get away. He'd most likely drop in for a call.”
“Let him call,” replied the sheriff stoutly, though his mouth tightened a little. “I ain't been a sheriff such a short time that I'm afraid of lawbreakers. They ain't none of them that can get the jump on an honest man.”
“H'm,” remarked Sheriff Caswell.
At this, the other became markedly uneasy.
“Matter of fact,” he said, “I'd like to have you look him over. You know him better'n I do. You might look him over in the cell and see if you think he's safe there. I got to go out in the country now, but this afternoon—”
“I'll be on my way south this afternoon maybe.”
“Well, go over by yourself, Caswell.”
“All right. But they ain't any real call for it, I guess.”
And that was the reason that Sheriff Caswell entered the Salt Springs jail that day.
It was a little square, squat building of homemade brick. It looked like a fort of the primitive days. Through such narrow, barred windows the defenders could have fired at Indians, say. A battered old fort, for the weather had nicked and chipped and scarred it as much as a prolonged musketry fire. In reality it was not ten years old. The sheriff had his office here. Behind the two rooms which served for that purpose, there were two rooms fenced with the finest tool-proof steel both on the sides and above. Sheriff Claney had refused to run for reelection unless he was given the proper cage for his prisoners, and Claney was so valued as a man catcher in Salt Springs that the citizens provided him with his man-proof trap. Beyond these two cells was a narrow passageway in which the citizens could flock to look over the captives.
There were not many on this day, for Claney feared that some one of the sympathizers—and for some reason Salt Springs was singularly interested in the southland outlaw who had killed Jud Boone—might convey to Dreer a tool with which he could effect his escape. For this reason he allowed only those who carried special passes signed by himself to enter the jail today. The mob stayed outside.
Sheriff Caswell found one of the favored coming out as he entered. It was Mary Valentine, whose father was too powerful near Salt Springs for the requests of his children to be denied. She walked with her head high, her face white, her eyes starry, and her mouth so firmly set that the sheriff knew she would burst into tears as soon as she was beyond the public eye.
But at sight of the sheriff the tears were whipped from her eyes and a color of anger mounted into her cheeks.
“You're one of those who've hounded him down to this,” she said softly and fiercely. “And I want you to know one woman's opinion—that he's worth a thousand of men like you—ten thousand!”
The sheriff looked mildly upon her. He took off his hat and turned it thoughtfully in his hands while she spoke. Then he said with his one-sided, whimsical smile: “My dear, you're not alone. You'll find Salt Springs full of people who agree with you about Jess Dreer. And all of them aren't girls.”
She was about to break out in a storm of scorn again, but something in the patient eyes of Sheriff Caswell made her stop, look at him very closely, and then go on without another word. At the end of the passage she turned again—he had not moved foot or hand—and looked back at him. One might have said that there was a misty appeal in the eyes of Mary Valentine.
For some time longer the sheriff remained in this singularly devout attitude—just as if he were standing before the painting of some difficult and high-priced master. At length he sighed, and replacing his hat on his head, far back, he sauntered on into the interior of the jail.
He was amazed at the precautions with which this rare prisoner was surrounded. At the door to the inner passage past the cells were two guards, each with a pair of revolvers swung at his belt and each with a sawed-off shotgun.
That was intended, no doubt, to check a rush which might be made by friends of Dreer—other outlaws, perhaps, though it was known that Dreer usually rode alone. The sheriff looked with a bright eye on those shotguns. In his experience with men of action he had never found anything with quite such a sedative effect as the sawed-off shotgun with its big bullets and scattering murder at short range.
These two guards examined the slip of paper which Sheriff Claney had signed. They both had seen Caswell before, but they were exceedingly strict in their surveillance. Finally, when he was admitted, the sheriff remarked two other guards walking up and down in the passageway, both equally armed to the teeth.
And all this on account of a man lodged behind tool-proof steel bars and beneath bars of the same nature, with a floor beneath him of closely set stones of huge size. Suppose a man could loosen one of those stones, he would have to call for help before he could budge it. But even if he budged it, there was still a trick remaining; the outer edge of the walls were projected deep into the ground with the same tool-proof steel, covered with tar paint.
One might have turned a giant loose in such a prison and scoffed at his attempts to escape. No human force could either cut that steel or bend it, and unless one of these things were done, the only possible means of entering or leaving that cell was through the door with its ponderous lock which only one key could turn.
Yet Sheriff Claney was not satisfied with surety. He added something more. He had locked the ankles of Jess Dreer to a hundred-and-fifty-pound iron ball and his hands were shackled before him with the most approved manacles. And in this wise Dreer sat on his cot smoking a cigarette of his own making. It was an odd thing to see him raise both ironed hands and laboriously place that little cigarette between his lips and remove it again.
“So,” said the sheriff, “here you are, Jess!”
Jess Dreer started; then his long, lean face wrinkled into a kindly smile.
“Why, Caswell, I'm glad to see you again. Wait till I work my way over to the bars, and we'll shake hands.”
“Never mind, Jess. I'll come inside.”
“No, you won't,” put in one of the guards.
“Look here,” explained the patient sheriff. “I'm Sheriff Caswell. I've followed that man for years. Do you think they's any danger of me helping him to get loose?”
“Pardner,” said the guard, scratching his head, “I dunno but what you're right, but orders is orders, and Claney was downright positive about what he said. Nobody is to go into that cell. Nobody, not even to take him grub. It's all got to be passed through the bars.”
Jess Dreer was already standing up. The manacles on his ankles gave him a play of about four inches, and that was the length of his step. Moreover, every time he took a step, the weight of the iron pried at him and often nearly toppled him to the floor. Only the exercise of the greatest leg power enabled him to struggle painfully across the floor. Yet he maintained the greatest good nature. And though the perspiration started on his forehead, he chuckled whenever the tug of the iron ball nearly threw him off his balance.
Sheriff Caswell cursed softly, and the guard, flushing, declared that this was none of his work.
“Claney ain't taking no chances,” he declared. “And the sheriff says that if anybody can get something to Dreer with four of us gents looking on, he's welcome to it.”
At this Sheriff Caswell grinned.
“I'm glad to see Claney has the sporting spirit,” he said. “A little chance is better'n none at all.”
