Judge Truman, of the district court, reached Las Plumas on Sunday and prepared to open the court and call the case of Emerson Mead on Monday morning. The sheriff and his deputy brought Mead out of the jail and started to conduct him to the court-house. Suddenly the bell of the Methodist church began to ring violently; a moment later that of the Catholic convent added its sharp tones, and the fire bell, over by the plaza, joined their clamor.
“What are those bells ringing for, John,” said Mead to Daniels.
“Haven’t you heard about Frenchy Delarue’s kid? He was lost on the mesa last night and the whole town is turning out to hunt him. They are ringing the bells to call out everybody that hasn’t gone already.”
Mead stopped short at the words “Frenchy Delarue’s kid.”
“Little Paul Delarue?” he asked in quick, sharp tones.
“Yes, the little fellow with the yellow curls.”
Without a word Mead turned sharply on his heel and ran with long strides down Main street toward Delarue’s house. The hands of the two men went instinctively to their revolvers, then their eyes met, and Daniels said:
“I guess we’d better not touch him, Jim.”
At that moment Judge Truman turned the corner, just from the court-house, and saw the escaping prisoner.