Turning with gracious Spanish courtesy, Sheriff Ulloa bowed low before the serene, powerful presence of Gaitskill, and murmured:
“I thank you. You saved my life!”
“Nothing of the sort!” Gaitskill snorted. “A mob can’t work to the tune of Suwanee River! Where’s that fool who’s blowing that horn?”
“I’ll conduct you to him,” Ulloa answered.
A minute later Gaitskill and Ulloa had secured another key to the jail, had entered, and stood in the presence of Mustard Prophet and Pap Curtain. The two negroes were too overcome to speak. Crazed by their horrible experiences, they sat wildly mumbling their prayers and uttering exclamations of thanksgiving.
“These are the men I telephoned you about,” Ulloa said.
“These are not the men we want,” Gaitskill replied in a disappointed tone. “One of these darkies is the overseer on my Nigger-Heel plantation.”
“You asked me over the telephone if one of them was yellow?” Ulloa said, pointing to Pap Curtain.
“Pap’s yellow, all right,” Gaitskill smiled. “But he’s not the man. He’s the well-digger of Tickfall. The coon we want is a nigger named Mobile Boone. He was seen early Sunday morning coming this way with my bag of money.”
Sheriff Ulloa opened his mouth to speak; then he closed it without saying a word.