“Better give this fellow a drink, before I empty the canteen.” He nodded toward the slack figure. “And if you’ll pardon the suggestion, sheriff, I’d turn him loose for a bit. Pretty rough riding, even when you’ve got all your hands and feet to hang on by.”
The other gave a short, apologetic laugh.
“Say, this feller’s plumb mean—that’s why I got him shackled that way. Car broke down, the other side of Tonopah, and I’m taking him through alone. He’s a slippery cuss. Had us chasin’ him off and on for two years. I can’t take any chances.”
“You’re not.” If the tone was ironic the eyes were friendly enough. “But the man looks sick. A drink of water and a smoke won’t make him any more dangerous, I imagine.”
“Yeah, I know he acts sick, and he looks sick. But it might be a stall, at that,” The officer turned and eyed his prisoner doubtfully. “I don’t want to be hard on anybody—and I don’t want to be bashed over the bean and throwed out on the desert to die, neither! She’s a lonely road—I’ll tell anybody.”
For all that, he got out, unlocked the tool box on the running board, took out a smaller box of screws, bolts, nuts and cotter pins, fumbled within it with thumb and finger and finally produced a small flat key.
“Never pays to be in a hurry to git a pair of handcuffs open,” he muttered to Abington. “This way’s safe as I can make it. He’s a bad hombre.”
Abington nodded understanding and stood back while the deputy sheriff walked around the car and freed his passenger from the handcuffs which were fastened behind his back.
For an appreciable space the fellow drooped indifferently where he was, not even taking the trouble to rub his chafed wrists, though they must have pained him considerably, swollen and discolored as they were with the snug steel bands and the awkward position forced upon him.
“Have a drink of water,” Abington suggested, not too kindly. More as if he were speaking to a man who was free to go where he pleased.