Dexter's glance traveled past the superintendent's stalky figure and he saw three men in the familiar uniforms of the police lurking outside in the misty dawn. And something within him recalled him to himself, reminded him that he was still on duty.
With a sudden stiffening of his muscles he drew his body straight and, thrusting his revolver into his pocket, he brought his hand up in salute.
"I have finished long patrol," he said, "and can make my completed report, sir. I was forced to shoot and kill one Owen Stark, and I hold myself at your disposal for the inquiries of the court. I have placed under arrest, and now yield to police custody, the following prisoners: Alphonse Doucet, Norbert Croix, Roy 'Pink' Crill, one man whose name I have not yet learned, Archibald Preston, and—and Alison Rayne Preston.
"And—with your permission, sir," he added in a failing voice, "I should like to report off duty. I want to go to sleep."
CHAPTER XXXVII
NEWS FROM OUTSIDE
What happened after Dexter had delivered his prisoners into the keeping of his opportunely arrived comrades, Dexter never afterwards remembered. He may have suffered a sudden physical collapse, or perhaps he simply fell asleep while standing at attention before his officer. But when his eyes opened in reviving consciousness, he found himself stretched comfortably in a warm bunk with a blanket tucked about his chin. He might have been lying there for hours or for days. There was no way of guessing.
Stirring drowsily, he lifted himself on his elbow to gaze about him. He recognized the interior of the cabin where—ages ago, it seemed to him now—he and the outlaw Crill had sat up through the night playing cards together. The lantern was not burning, but the rays of a dying sun entered the open windows, breaking the gloom with ruddy streaks of light.
As his heavy-lidded eyes gradually began to function again, he made out the shapes of men, either seated or sprawled about grotesquely in the shadows. In the far corner, sitting with legs crossed and shoulders propped against the wall, he identified the giant figure of 'Phonse Doucet. The wizened, hangdog face of Norbert Croix was recognizable in the slanting glow of light beneath the west window. The red-bearded man was lying on the floor close by, with his bushy head on his arm. Next in line was Crill, his stout body slumped dejectedly against the logs of the wall, his head bowed to his chest, a picture of cowering abjectness. As Dexter surveyed the silent group before him, one of the men shifted his position, and he heard the clink of a chain. He perceived then that the four prisoners were shackled in pairs with handcuffs.
His glance ranged towards the farther end of the room, and he saw Archie Preston. The boy was seated on a stool under the north window, and he was bending over a newspaper spread on his knees reading by the failing light. Unlike the others, he was not manacled.