CHAPTER VIIIIt was night. Far away, Otis could hear the mournful wail of a coyote. By this time the folks at the Footstool ranch must have extinguished the big oil lamp, and have retired. The bunkhouse would be dark. He imagined he could hear the occasional sound of hoofs from the corral, with now and then a nicker or a squeal—the same sounds he had heard a thousand times before. He wondered if it would ever be his fortune to hear them again.Presently he became conscious of a vague murmur from without the jail, which resolved itself into the sound of scores of pattering hoofs, thudding in the deep dust of the street.“Some of the boys come in to paint the town,” he thought. And then he remembered that pay-day was two weeks distant, and that “the boys” seldom had occasion to come to town in force at any other time.He rose leisurely from his bunk, and stepped to the bars of his cell-room, which were some three feet from the barred window. He peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing but some vague and shadowy forms milling about in the gloom.Suddenly he started at a crashing knock upon the outer door of the little jail. He had heard the knock of a revolver-butt before, and believed he recognized the sound. Three times the knock echoed through the barren interior of the darkened jail. Silence, and then three more knocks, more violent than ever.Then, in the quavering voice of the old jailer:“Ye’ve got the wrong place, boys. This aint no saloon. This is the county jail.”“We know it’s the jail!” Otis thought he remembered the voice. “But it’s going to be a bunch o’ junk, with you in the middle of it, ef you don’t come outa there damn quick. We mean business.”“Don’t you get fresh with me!” piped up the voice of the old man indignantly. “They aint no bunch o’ pie-eyed cowpunchers kin bullyrag me, I tell ye. G’long about yer business, ’fore I call the Sheriff, an’ ye wake up in the mornin’ on the inside lookin’ out, ’stead o’ the outside lookin’ in!”“Smash down the door!” came the gruff command from outside.A moment of silence—a rush of spurred boots—and the whole building shook with the weight suddenly thrown against the door.And then, in a booming but breathless voice, Otis heard Sheriff Lafe Ogden.“What’s the trouble here, boys? What d’you want?”“We want Otis Carr!” came from the midst of the crowd. “Unlock that door, an’ there wont be no trouble. If you don’t, we’re goin’ to tear your dinky little jail to pieces.”Otis heard a sound of muffled cheering from the crowd. A strange shiver ran down his spine.“Oh, I guess you wont do that,” came in the voice of the Sheriff from a point immediately outside the door. Otis thought he detected, if not fear, a note of hesitation in Ogden’s voice. He was afraid the Sheriff was bluffing. “Seems to me I have a little to say as to what happens to this here jail.”“We don’t want no trouble with you-all, Sheriff,” came from the crowd. “Just give us them keys, peaceable, and there wont be none. We don’t want to muss up your little jail.”“I know you, Simp!” responded the shrill voice of the jailer, from behind the door. “I can see ye! An’ you too, Jess, an’ Slim, an’ Spider, an’ Pink, an’—”“Shut up!” boomed the gruff command of Lafe Ogden. Then, addressing the crowd:“Boys, it seems you dont know what you’re try in’ to do. I aint goin’ to let you have Otis, an’ you might as well know it now. What do you want with him? He’s goin’ to have a fair trial, and if he’s guilty he’ll swing for it.”An ominous silence greeted the Sheriff’s words. He went on:“There aint been a lynchin’ here since I was Sheriff, and I don’t intend that this’ll be the first!”Lynching! A shiver ran down Otis’ spine. Was that, then, the object of his erstwhile friends? Was he to be dragged out of the jail and unceremoniously strung up to a pine? He listened with bated breath as the Sheriff continued:“You may be able to break into the jail, all right. I’m not sayin’ you can’t, ’cause I’m just one against forty. But I can promise you this. I can promise you that the first six or eight that start for this door will get punctured proper. I—”“Where’s that rope?” came from somewhere in the crowd. The words struck home with chilling effect upon Otis. “All ready? Yip--yip--ee-e-e!”Otis heard the rattle of spurs and the rush of feet. A shot rang out from the jail door. It was followed almost instantly by another. He heard a sharp cry of pain—from the lips of the Sheriff, he thought. Then the sound of raw oaths, grunts, and the trampling of feet on the wooden platform outside the door.He heard a clanging slam from the rear of the jail. He knew that it must have been caused by the fleeing jailer as he banged the rear door behind him.Now there was nothing but the confused murmur of hushed voices. Otis could catch but a word here and there.“Too bad.... We had to do it.... He might ’a’ known better.... No, there’s no use o’ smashin’ it now—git them keys outa his pocket.... Here, gimme that—turn him over.... That’s right.... Gimme a hand here, Slim—don’t leave him lay here—we’ll dump him inside.... You git that horse ready, Spider—that’s the ticket.... Shut yore mouth an’ get busy, Curley.”To Otis, locked within the cell, it seemed many minutes that the murmur of lowered voices continued outside the jail door. He threw himself against the flat steel bars of the cell door, but succeeded only in bruising his shoulder sorely. With one foot braced, waist-high, against the jamb, he wrenched and tugged at the door.Was this to be the end? Was he to be dragged out and strung up without a chance for his life? Well, if need be, he hoped that he could meet even the horrible death of lynching like a man. Then, perhaps, when they learned the truth of the murder of Joe Fyffe, they’d remember that he’d met his fate without flinching.A key grated in the lock of the outer door. A moment later the door of the cellroom was flung open, and a dim mass of human figures surged in. Otis conquered his first impulse to shrink back against the bars, and stepped forward to meet them.“H’lo, Otis,” came in the unmistakable voice of Simple Sample. “Jest dropped in to pay you-all a social call. Thought mebbe you couldn’t he’p gettin’ lonesome like in this here dump. I bet you’re ’bout ready to move, aint ye?”What sort of a farce was this? Was this the way the victim of a lynching bee was taunted before he was dragged out to his death? Otis could swear there hadn’t been a trace of animus in Simple’s words.“Wake up, Otis! Are you dumb?” It was Jess Bledsoe speaking. “Don’t you know we’ve got Pie-face waiting for you outside, honin’ to take you through the Tetons to Idaho?”“What—what?” stammered Otis, astounded. “What are you going to do? What—”“Shut up an’ git out o here!” commanded Spider Ponsonby joyously. “Like as not, some o’ the honest citizens o’ this town will think we’re holdin’ a necktie party, and ’ll take a pot shot at us in the dark.”“But I don’t underst—” Otis was being hurried out of the jail in the midst of the throng of cow-men. From time to time he was dealt enthusiastic slaps upon the back. In the dim light he discerned Sheriff Lafe Ogden, reclining against the wall just inside the outer door. The Sheriff’s left wrist was shackled to his right ankle with his own handcuffs. His holster swung empty at his thigh. He was fully conscious and unharmed, and was shaking his tingling right hand, from which his revolver had been sent spinning by a well-directed bullet.“But I thought you shot him!” exclaimed Otis in surprise as he saw the Sheriff.“He fired in the air to scare us,” explained Simple. “So Jess Bledsoe, thinkin’ he might hurt somebody next time, shot the gun outa his hand. Jess could hit a dime in the dark at forty paces!”They were outside now. Otis heard a familiar whinny. Pie-face was being held by a grumbling cow-hand, indignant because his duties as horse-holder had caused him to miss part of the fun.“But why—” began Otis, not entirely recovered from his astonishment. “Why did you—”He was standing with his bridle in his left hand, which rested lightly on Pie-face’s mane, preparatory to mounting. A dozen of the cow-hands clustered about him, striving to grip him by the hand or to slap him upon the shoulder in token of their approbation.“’Cause we didn’t think you had the guts to do it,” answered Simple, who appeared to be their spokesman. “Otis, when you beat it last night after we-all had picked you for—for that job, you had us all plumb fooled by your talk. When you said you wouldn’t do it, we thought you was scared.“But you was a sight smarter than we was. You wasn’t goin’ to run your neck in no noose by agreein’ to no such con-speeracy. No sir. We figured it all out today. You jest went over to the ranger cabin an’ done your duty, without sayin’ a word to nobody. You don’t s’pose we was goin’ to let you rot in jail after that, do ye?”Otis raised his hand. “But I tell you I didn’t kill Joe Fyffe. I—”A chorus of laughter greeted his words.“That’s good—plumb good, Otis,” Simple cried. “All right. We understand. You didn’t do it. Oh, no, you didn’t. You’re sure plumb up on the law, Otis. Don’t catch you confessin’ to no such crime. That’s right, Otis. I reckon we understand. Don’t worry; we wont admit you done it, neither.“But remember, Otis, you didn’t make no promises to the Sheriff this time. You can hit the trail an’ go as fur as you like, an’ we’ll guarantee nobody aint goin’ to stop you.”Otis was exasperated at the stupidity of the cow-men, which would not permit them to believe him when he said he was innocent of the slaying of the ranger. But his heart went out to the loyal men who had flocked to his aid, endangering their own lives to rescue him from the jail. He swung into the saddle.“Boys,” he called, one arm upraised as he strove to quell the eagerness of Pie-face, “boys, I sure appreciate what you’ve done for me. It was mighty white of you. You don’t believe me when I say I didn’t kill Joe Fyffe. You tell me to hit the trail and keep going.“All right. I’ll do it. I tell you I’ll not come back—” he stopped to calm Pie-face with a stroke of the hand—“until I’ve found out who really did kill Joe Fyffe!”
It was night. Far away, Otis could hear the mournful wail of a coyote. By this time the folks at the Footstool ranch must have extinguished the big oil lamp, and have retired. The bunkhouse would be dark. He imagined he could hear the occasional sound of hoofs from the corral, with now and then a nicker or a squeal—the same sounds he had heard a thousand times before. He wondered if it would ever be his fortune to hear them again.
Presently he became conscious of a vague murmur from without the jail, which resolved itself into the sound of scores of pattering hoofs, thudding in the deep dust of the street.
“Some of the boys come in to paint the town,” he thought. And then he remembered that pay-day was two weeks distant, and that “the boys” seldom had occasion to come to town in force at any other time.
He rose leisurely from his bunk, and stepped to the bars of his cell-room, which were some three feet from the barred window. He peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing but some vague and shadowy forms milling about in the gloom.
Suddenly he started at a crashing knock upon the outer door of the little jail. He had heard the knock of a revolver-butt before, and believed he recognized the sound. Three times the knock echoed through the barren interior of the darkened jail. Silence, and then three more knocks, more violent than ever.
Then, in the quavering voice of the old jailer:
“Ye’ve got the wrong place, boys. This aint no saloon. This is the county jail.”
“We know it’s the jail!” Otis thought he remembered the voice. “But it’s going to be a bunch o’ junk, with you in the middle of it, ef you don’t come outa there damn quick. We mean business.”
“Don’t you get fresh with me!” piped up the voice of the old man indignantly. “They aint no bunch o’ pie-eyed cowpunchers kin bullyrag me, I tell ye. G’long about yer business, ’fore I call the Sheriff, an’ ye wake up in the mornin’ on the inside lookin’ out, ’stead o’ the outside lookin’ in!”
“Smash down the door!” came the gruff command from outside.
A moment of silence—a rush of spurred boots—and the whole building shook with the weight suddenly thrown against the door.
And then, in a booming but breathless voice, Otis heard Sheriff Lafe Ogden.
“What’s the trouble here, boys? What d’you want?”
“We want Otis Carr!” came from the midst of the crowd. “Unlock that door, an’ there wont be no trouble. If you don’t, we’re goin’ to tear your dinky little jail to pieces.”
Otis heard a sound of muffled cheering from the crowd. A strange shiver ran down his spine.
“Oh, I guess you wont do that,” came in the voice of the Sheriff from a point immediately outside the door. Otis thought he detected, if not fear, a note of hesitation in Ogden’s voice. He was afraid the Sheriff was bluffing. “Seems to me I have a little to say as to what happens to this here jail.”
“We don’t want no trouble with you-all, Sheriff,” came from the crowd. “Just give us them keys, peaceable, and there wont be none. We don’t want to muss up your little jail.”
“I know you, Simp!” responded the shrill voice of the jailer, from behind the door. “I can see ye! An’ you too, Jess, an’ Slim, an’ Spider, an’ Pink, an’—”
“Shut up!” boomed the gruff command of Lafe Ogden. Then, addressing the crowd:
“Boys, it seems you dont know what you’re try in’ to do. I aint goin’ to let you have Otis, an’ you might as well know it now. What do you want with him? He’s goin’ to have a fair trial, and if he’s guilty he’ll swing for it.”
An ominous silence greeted the Sheriff’s words. He went on:
“There aint been a lynchin’ here since I was Sheriff, and I don’t intend that this’ll be the first!”
Lynching! A shiver ran down Otis’ spine. Was that, then, the object of his erstwhile friends? Was he to be dragged out of the jail and unceremoniously strung up to a pine? He listened with bated breath as the Sheriff continued:
“You may be able to break into the jail, all right. I’m not sayin’ you can’t, ’cause I’m just one against forty. But I can promise you this. I can promise you that the first six or eight that start for this door will get punctured proper. I—”
“Where’s that rope?” came from somewhere in the crowd. The words struck home with chilling effect upon Otis. “All ready? Yip--yip--ee-e-e!”
Otis heard the rattle of spurs and the rush of feet. A shot rang out from the jail door. It was followed almost instantly by another. He heard a sharp cry of pain—from the lips of the Sheriff, he thought. Then the sound of raw oaths, grunts, and the trampling of feet on the wooden platform outside the door.
He heard a clanging slam from the rear of the jail. He knew that it must have been caused by the fleeing jailer as he banged the rear door behind him.
Now there was nothing but the confused murmur of hushed voices. Otis could catch but a word here and there.
“Too bad.... We had to do it.... He might ’a’ known better.... No, there’s no use o’ smashin’ it now—git them keys outa his pocket.... Here, gimme that—turn him over.... That’s right.... Gimme a hand here, Slim—don’t leave him lay here—we’ll dump him inside.... You git that horse ready, Spider—that’s the ticket.... Shut yore mouth an’ get busy, Curley.”
To Otis, locked within the cell, it seemed many minutes that the murmur of lowered voices continued outside the jail door. He threw himself against the flat steel bars of the cell door, but succeeded only in bruising his shoulder sorely. With one foot braced, waist-high, against the jamb, he wrenched and tugged at the door.
Was this to be the end? Was he to be dragged out and strung up without a chance for his life? Well, if need be, he hoped that he could meet even the horrible death of lynching like a man. Then, perhaps, when they learned the truth of the murder of Joe Fyffe, they’d remember that he’d met his fate without flinching.
A key grated in the lock of the outer door. A moment later the door of the cellroom was flung open, and a dim mass of human figures surged in. Otis conquered his first impulse to shrink back against the bars, and stepped forward to meet them.
“H’lo, Otis,” came in the unmistakable voice of Simple Sample. “Jest dropped in to pay you-all a social call. Thought mebbe you couldn’t he’p gettin’ lonesome like in this here dump. I bet you’re ’bout ready to move, aint ye?”
What sort of a farce was this? Was this the way the victim of a lynching bee was taunted before he was dragged out to his death? Otis could swear there hadn’t been a trace of animus in Simple’s words.
“Wake up, Otis! Are you dumb?” It was Jess Bledsoe speaking. “Don’t you know we’ve got Pie-face waiting for you outside, honin’ to take you through the Tetons to Idaho?”
“What—what?” stammered Otis, astounded. “What are you going to do? What—”
“Shut up an’ git out o here!” commanded Spider Ponsonby joyously. “Like as not, some o’ the honest citizens o’ this town will think we’re holdin’ a necktie party, and ’ll take a pot shot at us in the dark.”
“But I don’t underst—” Otis was being hurried out of the jail in the midst of the throng of cow-men. From time to time he was dealt enthusiastic slaps upon the back. In the dim light he discerned Sheriff Lafe Ogden, reclining against the wall just inside the outer door. The Sheriff’s left wrist was shackled to his right ankle with his own handcuffs. His holster swung empty at his thigh. He was fully conscious and unharmed, and was shaking his tingling right hand, from which his revolver had been sent spinning by a well-directed bullet.
“But I thought you shot him!” exclaimed Otis in surprise as he saw the Sheriff.
“He fired in the air to scare us,” explained Simple. “So Jess Bledsoe, thinkin’ he might hurt somebody next time, shot the gun outa his hand. Jess could hit a dime in the dark at forty paces!”
They were outside now. Otis heard a familiar whinny. Pie-face was being held by a grumbling cow-hand, indignant because his duties as horse-holder had caused him to miss part of the fun.
“But why—” began Otis, not entirely recovered from his astonishment. “Why did you—”
He was standing with his bridle in his left hand, which rested lightly on Pie-face’s mane, preparatory to mounting. A dozen of the cow-hands clustered about him, striving to grip him by the hand or to slap him upon the shoulder in token of their approbation.
“’Cause we didn’t think you had the guts to do it,” answered Simple, who appeared to be their spokesman. “Otis, when you beat it last night after we-all had picked you for—for that job, you had us all plumb fooled by your talk. When you said you wouldn’t do it, we thought you was scared.
“But you was a sight smarter than we was. You wasn’t goin’ to run your neck in no noose by agreein’ to no such con-speeracy. No sir. We figured it all out today. You jest went over to the ranger cabin an’ done your duty, without sayin’ a word to nobody. You don’t s’pose we was goin’ to let you rot in jail after that, do ye?”
Otis raised his hand. “But I tell you I didn’t kill Joe Fyffe. I—”
A chorus of laughter greeted his words.
“That’s good—plumb good, Otis,” Simple cried. “All right. We understand. You didn’t do it. Oh, no, you didn’t. You’re sure plumb up on the law, Otis. Don’t catch you confessin’ to no such crime. That’s right, Otis. I reckon we understand. Don’t worry; we wont admit you done it, neither.
“But remember, Otis, you didn’t make no promises to the Sheriff this time. You can hit the trail an’ go as fur as you like, an’ we’ll guarantee nobody aint goin’ to stop you.”
Otis was exasperated at the stupidity of the cow-men, which would not permit them to believe him when he said he was innocent of the slaying of the ranger. But his heart went out to the loyal men who had flocked to his aid, endangering their own lives to rescue him from the jail. He swung into the saddle.
“Boys,” he called, one arm upraised as he strove to quell the eagerness of Pie-face, “boys, I sure appreciate what you’ve done for me. It was mighty white of you. You don’t believe me when I say I didn’t kill Joe Fyffe. You tell me to hit the trail and keep going.
“All right. I’ll do it. I tell you I’ll not come back—” he stopped to calm Pie-face with a stroke of the hand—“until I’ve found out who really did kill Joe Fyffe!”