A movement with his arms was now necessary. He covered it adroitly by openly yawning—a sound that made every one of the guards whirl toward him. But they saw him straighten a little and drop his hands so that the manacles rested exactly between his knees. And then the pacing of Joe Chalmers began again, and the others relaxed. They were beginning to envy the resting figure of the prisoner.
Once more Jess Dreer began the subtle, careful movements. Of a different kind this time and necessarily more open. For each time that Joe Chalmers turned his back, he had to fold his hands together and strive to draw them back through the handcuffs. But the manacles fitted close, and these tugs were far more obvious. Yet the looseness of the sleeves of his shirt covered the careful movements of his arms to some extent. Also, the four guards were convinced that the man was now asleep.
Only Joe Chalmers continued to keep his eye on the figure under the brilliant light.
Still that patient work went on—until his hands were wet with perspiration and the skin was chafed from his wrists. Indeed, it was the perspiration which made the thing possible. The bruised wrist bones suddenly slipped through—the broad part of the hand was crushed together under the strain, and now—oddly light—his hands lay free upon his knees. He thrust them quickly down between his knees and waited. Though what he waited for, he could not tell. At least, it was impossible to do anything with four men waiting there in the passage. He suddenly realized how foolish, how futile, all his work had been.
Yet a great happiness was surging through his veins. His hands were free! Strength seemed to be descending upon him, showered out of the air.
And then—it came like a bolt on him: “Hey, Jess Dreer!”
He looked up. There stood the sheriff outside the bars, grinning at him. Had the sheriff seen all those futile efforts and now come to mock the prisoner with his knowledge? Or, worse still, was it dawn, and time for the journey to begin?
He looked up beyond the brilliance of the shaft of lantern light and saw that the square of the trapdoor onto the roof of the passage was indeed gray. The early light of day! Despair fell upon him. He was suddenly weak with it.
And this was what Sheriff Claney said: “Dreer, I forgot to tell you: Angelina gets a slug through her head as soon as it's light enough for me to see her.”
“The boys tried to ride her yesterday, and she pitched Gaston and then tried to eat him. We're going to put her out of trouble, seeing that you won't have no more use for her.”
“Claney,” said Jess, when he could speak, “give the old hoss a chance. Take her out into the hills and turn her loose.”
“Sort of riles you, don't it, Dreer?”
“Why does any honest man hate a man-killing thief?” returned the sheriff.
There was a long pause. Even the guards were stirred. Joe Chalmers stood scratching his head, and his face was troubled. Plainly he felt that all was not right, but he could not discover just why. Only something did not please him.
“I'll tell you why you hate me,” said Dreer. “You're one of them small-souled skunks that hate a man they're afraid of.”
The sheriff burst into a torrent of curses.
“I'll find ways of making this up to you, Dreer!”
But the big man did not hear him. He said at length: “Well, good-by, Angelina. And Heaven help you, Claney, if I ever get clear of the jail!”
The sheriff smiled again. He had a most evil smile.
“It'll be over behind Carrol's place in the corral,” he said as he went out. “If you listen sharp, maybe you'll hear the shot. It'll be in about half an hour.” And he was gone.
The guards for a moment muttered together, but their commiseration of Dreer was interrupted by a clangor of tin in the outer office of the jail, and then a cheery voice calling: “Chuck, boys. Leave one of you gents to keep watch, and the others tumble out here and have doughnuts and coffee.”
It brought a shout from the three, but Joe Chalmers shook his head.
“I ain't hungry,” he said. “This is meat and drink for me!” he gestured at the prisoner in the cage.
So the three went out. They left the door wide. One of them came back and stood in the lighted opening, tempting their companion with the steaming cup and a handful of doughnuts. But Joe Chalmers shook his head doggedly and went on.
“What if something happens?” he said. “Who'll get the blame? You gents have your lunch. I don't need none.”
He took a tug at his belt and continued the pacing, grumbling in his deep voice. He vented his anger by pausing at the bars and glaring at the prisoner. Then he resumed his pacing, but the moment he was on his way, a change began to take place in Jess Dreer's position. He did not wait now for the guard to have his back turned before he began to move. He had not time. For his plan was formed, and in that plan the saving of every available second was essential.
He began to move, but very slowly, gradually, steadily. He drew his hands back, he straightened by fractions of inches, he pushed himself forward on the bed so that his weight fell more and more on his feet.
Then, when he had gone as far as he dared, he began to gather himself for the attempt. If it failed, there would be either instant death, or else a certain death in the future. But he was ready for the chance. He began to gather his muscles under him as the football linesman crouches and grows tense as he hears his quarterback calling the signal and knows that the next play is coming his way. His way, and the goal inches ahead!
Down the passage swung the bulky form of Joe Chalmers. He paused halfway. Had he seen? No, he went on again; he turned at the end, and the moment his eyes had swung away, Dreer sprang.
One leap swept him out of the shaft of light, across the cell, and up to the bars. The back of Joe Chalmers was squarely turned, but as though he had eyes in the back of his head—perhaps some play of shadows had startled him—he whirled.
It was too late for the outlaw to swing the handcuffs with which he had intended to strike down the guard. In midair literally he saw the big man swerve and changed his plan. His feet struck the stone floor; he bounded forward again, and just as Chalmers swung fairly about, the fist of Dreer drove out the length of his sinewy arm with two hundred pounds of plunging weight behind it.
The blow struck Chalmers fairly on the point of the chin and flung him back against the wall. Back against the wall. That was the thing that broke the heart of Dreer, for if he fell there, Chalmers' body would be out of reach.
And it was even doubtful if he would fall. The brutal jaw might have absorbed the shock without transmitting enough of it to daze that brutal mind. Now Chalmers stood with sagging mouth, his shoulders against the wall, his eyes utterly senseless.
His knees buckled; he sank gradually, and then rolled on the floor.
Dreer waited, his heart knocked at his teeth. But the question was not repeated. Looking through the open door he saw big, shapeless shadows brushing across the farther wall. He could make out the caricature of a head.
Then he dropped to his knees and stretched out his arm. His fingers fell short of the senseless body. He tried again, grinding the flesh of his shoulder against the iron, and this time his fingertips reached the shirt. He gathered it into a handful, cautiously, and when his grip was sound, tugged the big body slowly toward the bars. The shirt began to give way under the strain, and before it should tear with a loud noise, he shifted his hold, and this time he barely was able to reach the belt. Now the body came easily enough, the legs and the head trailing back. It was near; it was close to the bars. One moment of fumbling and the key was in the hand of the outlaw.
Now a door opened into the outer office. There was a tumult of shadows on the wall as Jess ran silently to the door.
That call could not go without an answer.
“To the devil with the booze,” Jess Dreer answered, deepening his voice as close as possible to the tone of the guard.
And in the excitement of the moment in the office they did not note the difference.
Now the lock gave under the key silently, for it was well oiled and new. A moment later Jess Dreer stood with the belt of Chalmers buckled around his waist and a gun in his hand.
Well for the guards in the outer room that one of them did not look in on the prisoner at that moment!
Yet he was still far from liberty. Far, indeed, for the only two exits lay either through the office itself or through the skylight and out onto the roof. He turned the chances swiftly in his mind. He might rush through that outer office and escape without being shot in the flurry of excitement, but the chances were large against him. On the other hand, if he gained the roof, there were the four men who walked their posts, one for each side of the prison. Yet the dull light of the dawn would make for bad shooting.
He made up his mind, and drew back for a run and a jump at the edge of the trapdoor.
