“Ye’ve got the wrong place, boys. This aint no saloon. This is the county jail.”
“We know it’s the jail!” Otis thought he remembered the voice. “But it’s going to be a bunch o’ junk, with you in the middle of it, ef you don’t come outa there damn quick. We mean business.”
“Don’t you get fresh with me!” piped up the voice of the old man indignantly. “They aint no bunch o’ pie-eyed cowpunchers kin bullyrag me, I tell ye. G’long about yer business, ’fore I call the Sheriff, an’ ye wake up in the mornin’ on the inside lookin’ out, ’stead o’ the outside lookin’ in!”
“Smash down the door!” came the gruff command from outside.
A moment of silence—a rush of spurred boots—and the whole building shook with the weight suddenly thrown against the door.
And then, in a booming but breathless voice, Otis heard Sheriff Lafe Ogden.
“What’s the trouble here, boys? What d’you want?”
“We want Otis Carr!” came from the midst of the crowd. “Unlock that door, an’ there wont be no trouble. If you don’t, we’re goin’ to tear your dinky little jail to pieces.”
Otis heard a sound of muffled cheering from the crowd. A strange shiver ran down his spine.