There were other visits on that afternoon.
One by one the Valentine family came in, for two were not allowed to be present at once.
Charlie was first, straight as a soldier before the tool-proof bars, and as white as when he faced Jud Boone in Dan Carrol's place. He tried to speak.
“Son,” said Jess Dreer very gently, “you run along. You're a clean one, Charlie. I know everything you want to say. I'd a lot rather have you think it than say it. So long, old man!”
And the boy blundered out. Even the guards were moved by him and his silent anguish.
Then Mrs. Valentine and Elizabeth, for the exception was made that the two women might come and stand huddled against the wall and stare at Jess Dreer. It was dusk now; but two big lanterns with powerful reflectors behind them were trained upon Dreer and made his face appear older, more seamed, paler than before. Also, it kept his eyes altering between black shadow as he lowered his head and a flash of the pupils as he looked up.
And these, also, said nothing; they thought that speech was forbidden. But the mother looked on Jess Dreer as some woman of the old days might have looked on a knight of the Holy Grail—a man unapproachable.
Tenderhearted Louis was next to last; and he wept like a child. The guards smiled and nudged one another.
“Pardner,” said Dreer in a voice that the boy never forgot. “You ain't got any call to be ashamed even if these gents grin at you. The day'll come when you'll be a harder-handed man than any of 'em—a harder-handed man than Charlie, even. Good luck to you, pardner.”
And Louis went out with his head high, and he looked the guards fiercely in the face.
Last of all the father came. He was such a man that even the guards stood back from him. They knew Morgan Valentine. He spoke with a ring in his voice that had never been there since his brother died.
“I've sent East for a lawyer,” he said. “And I've started to get at the governor. I know him myself and I know he'll listen. You're going to get every chance that exists, Dreer.”
Then he outlined briefly exactly how his influence would be brought to bear—all the little cogs that would be turned.
But in the end Dreer said: “Valentine, you're wasting your time and your money. I thank you for it, but it won't do any good. Law is law, and a dead man is a dead man. Why, looking at it impersonal, I'd say the law was a joke if it didn't hang me. So long.”
After that, it was night. But just before the complete dark Sheriff Claney came in from the country. He looked over his guards and noted their readiness with words of approbation. They were chosen men. He told them what their duties were, just as a good general keeps repeating his instructions to his subordinates on the day of the battle.
Tomorrow, he said, they would have him on the way south to the county seat, surrounded by men day and night, and well on the way to the gallows—unless he were lynched on the way when he reached his own country. In the meantime the thing to watch for was an attempt from the outside. He might have friends in Salt Springs who would make an attempt. The Valentines were indirectly struck at in this. Four choice men patrolled the outside walls of the jail, and they would keep off any surprise. Yet in spite of bars and shackles, there must always be at least one man in the passage, walking up and down and keeping an eye on the prisoner himself.
“And if he acts queer, don't take no chances. Shoot him down. I'll be your warrant for it.”
He faced Jess Dreer when he said this, and the tall man rose and elaborately bowed.
“Mr. Murderer Clancy,” he said, as though acknowledging an introduction.
And Clancy showed his teeth when he grinned.
To be sure, his part in the actual taking of Dreer had been almost nothing, but the very fact that he was intimately connected with such a man would make him a household word throughout the mountain desert. He would willingly have sacrificed ten years out of his life rather than see this man go free.
He heard himself talked of; in the eye of his mind he saw future thousands point at him. “There's the man who sent Jess Dreer to the gallows.”
And the thought was sweet to Clancy.
After this visit, the night watch began.
Not that Sheriff Clancy retired for the night. He kept coming back at half-hour or hour intervals, and fastened his keen glance on his prisoner, almost as though he feared the famous outlaw would evaporate.
For a time Jess Dreer smoked, talked with the guards, who grunted their answers, and hummed softly to himself.
But after a while, weary but unable to get onto the little couch comfortably because of the leg chain and ball, he slouched over in a corner with one shoulder against the wall. The weight of the manacles seemed to pull his long arms straight down so that they almost touched the floor. At least, it brought his hands upon the leg irons.
As the guards saw him take this position of rest, they were inclined to show one bit of mercy by letting him sleep out the remainder of the night if he could. But the sheriff, the next time he made his rounds, cursed them for their tender-heartedness. Let Dreer sleep with the light in his face. And did they not know that if this devil were able, he'd kill them all in order to get away?
So the guards changed the direction of the light from the two big reflectors, and focused it carefully on the outlaw.
And in that position he was forced to work, with the light flashing full upon him.
In a way it was a help, for even the most suspicious person would not suspect a man of trying to free himself in the glow of such a radiance, with four pairs of eyes turned on him again and again, a dozen times a minute.
Joe Chalmers alone would have been enough. He was the most trusted of the sheriffs henchmen. To him had been given the priceless key to the door of the cell. It hung at his cartridge belt. He had discarded his heavy, sawed-off shotgun, and instead of standing post he walked up and down the passage steadily, hour after hour, and the little eyes never lagged for a moment in their wariness. There was something terrible, something of the animal in this endless patience. To understand it one would only have to watch the wolf slinking ceaselessly up and down behind the bars of the cage.
In sheer bulk of muscle he might have been a match, single-handed, for the sinewy strength of Jess Dreer. And he had the facial conformation of a bulldog, the nose flattened away and the mouth and jaw huge, while his head was that bullet type which is incapable of holding more than one idea at a time. Yet for all his bulk Joe Chalmers was an agile man.
He was proud of the precedence which the sheriff had given to him. His pacing up and down kept him in the center of attraction as he walked in a narrow ellipse, turning toward the cell at one end of his path, and turning away at the farther end. And the other three interior guards naturally fell back and allowed Joe Chalmers to carry the main burden of responsibility. After all, it was he who had been reproved for not following the new position of Dreer with the lantern light, and it would be he who would be praised for their united vigilance.
He was a host of watchfulness in himself. During all his pacing he never took his eye from the prisoner except for the moment when, at the end of his beat nearest Dreer, he turned his back to take the back track down the passageway.
And during this half second, as the big man was turning, the active, strong fingers of Jess Dreer made a single deft movement, and between his fingers the stout little piece of watch spring turned in the lock.
Yet when the guard bent his eye on the prisoner again, the hands were once more motionless. Even if a guard had seen that motion of fingers, he would probably have thought it a convulsive movement, a twitch of the nerves as the man slept. For his head was fallen, and only through the long, sunburned eyelashes did he watch his guards and time the play of that watch spring.
It was tedious work. His arms ached from the awkward position. He had only a second of contact through the spring with the lock within. And after that contact he had to wait, studying the lock in his mind, remembering what he had done before, guessing at the mechanism, and ready with some new movement when the next opportunity came.
Still nothing happened; the lock held firmly; the iron crushed into his ankles, for the manacles were too small.
He had really given up hope some time before. His arms were numb and the nerves asleep from the shoulders down, yet he kept mechanically to his effort—one twitch of the spring each time the guard turned at the near end of his beat.
And then—he hardly knew what happened, except that the spring encountered something which resisted and yet yielded. And suddenly he felt the pressure of the iron about his ankles relax.
His legs were free! They were free, but not yet useful. From having kept off his feet for so long a time, the pressure of the iron had shut off the flow of the blood, and now they were numb, paralyzed.
He looked down; the irons remained apparently in place. Was it the weight of his hand that kept them there? He lifted his fingers—the manacles still stayed in place. But what if some unguarded movement should make the iron fall off with a rattle?
Now that the blood began to flow once more, his feet tingled, and it was almost impossible to keep them motionless. He set his teeth, and the perspiration burst out on his face.
