“I said, ‘let us be done with this,’ a moment ago,” he reminded her.
She drew back as if he had struck at her, flushing, her under lip quivering—more from anger than any other emotion, I think. Almost at once she leaned forward again, glaring straight at Barreau.
“It would be of a piece with your past deeds,” she cried, “if you should break this flimsy jail and butcher my father and myself while we slept. Oh, one could expect anything from such as you!” And then she was gone, the guard striding heavy-footed after her. A puzzled expression crept over Barreau’s face, blotting out the ironic smile.
“It was a dirty trick of me to speak so,” he muttered, after a little. “But my God, a man can’t always play the Stoic under the lash. However—I daresay——” He went off into a profound study, resting his chin in the palms of his hands. I kept my peace, making aimless marks with my pen. It was an odd turn of affairs.
“Bob, what did I say about Destiny awhile ago?” he raised his head and addressed me suddenly. “I will take it back. I am going to take Destiny by the nape of the neck. Being grilled on the seat of the scornful is little to my liking. It was a bit of ill-luck that you fell in with me. I seem to be in a bad boat.”
“Ill-luck for which of us?” I asked. It was the first time he had sounded the personal note—aside from the evening we were landed in MacLeod, when he comforted me with the assurance that at the worst I would spend no more than a few days in the guardhouse.
“For you, of course,” he replied seriously. “My sins are upon my own head. But it was unfortunate that I should have led you to Sanders’ place the very night picked for a raid. They can have nothing against you, though; and they’ll let you out fast enough when it comes to a hearing. Nor, for that matter, are they likely to hang me, notwithstanding the ugly things folk say. However, I have work to do which I cannot do lying here. Hence I perceive that I must get out of here. And I may need your help.”
“How are you going to manage that?” I inquired, gazing with some astonishment at this man who spoke so coolly and confidently of getting out of prison. “These walls seem pretty solid, and you can hardly dig through them with a lone pen-nib. That’s the only implement I see at hand. And I expect the guard will be after that before I get my letter done.”
“I don’t know how the thing will be done,” he declared, “but I am surely going to get out of here pretty pronto, as the cowmen have it.”
He settled back and took to staring at the ceiling. I, presently, became immersed in my letter to Bolton. When it was done I thrust a hand through the bars of my cell and wig-wagged the Policeman—they were good-natured souls for the most part, tolerant of their prisoners, and it broke the grinding monotony to exchange a few words with one under almost any pretext. Barreau was chary of speech, and the Sanders brothers were penned beyond my sight. Sheer monotonous silence, I imagine, would drive even peace-loving men to revolt and commit desperate deeds when they are cooped within four walls with nothing but their thoughts for company.