"Good evening," he said, pleasantly, "Perhaps I know you and perhaps I don't, for you have seen fit to hide your faces. You have come after Hank."
His accents were deliberate, and he appeared as much at ease as if he were chatting with friends in his own home. His last sentence was not a question, but a declaration.
"Yes, we've come after Hank 'n' we're goin' to git 'im!" came a rough voice from one side.
A leader turned.
"Keep still, will you?" Then to Glenning. "May I ask by what authority you take your place there with two loaded pistols? Are you a sworn deputy, or officer of any sort?"
"I am not, as you well know, and I have no authority, other than a strong feeling for fair play. May I, in turn, ask by what authority you come at dead of night to defy the laws of your State, and seek to place a crime upon your soul?"
"We have the law of might, and that's enough. Stand aside now, or take the consequences!"
The man was deeply in earnest.
"Had it not struck you that you were talking to the wrong man?" asked Glenning. "Do you want to enter this place? Then the jailer is the man you want to see. What's the use of battering these doors down and arousing the town when you might get the keys from him, and maybe get in quietly? You need some one to lead you, men. What good is it to stand dickering with me? Rouse the jailer! He's the man you want to deal with!"
Before the words had left his mouth three or four shadowy forms had detached themselves from the group and run to the front door of the jailer's residence, which connected with the prison proper, only a wall intervening. They thumped, and pounded, and called, forgetting caution in their untrained zeal. They gained no response, and, fearing to force an entrance there, returned to their friends, baffled.