"Been trying the honest lay, I suppose—handing in your name and number wherever you went?" he suggested.
I nodded, adding that there was nothing else to be done, as I saw it.
He laughed scornfully. "A minute ago I said you were a fool, but you're worse than that—you're an infant! Why, good hell, Weyburn, there are a dozen ways to beat the parole game! Look at me: I'm here, ain't I? And the warden knows all about it, does he? Not on your life! Every four weeks he gets a letter from me telling him what a fine time I'm having on Dad's farm down in Wayne, and how I'm all to the good and thanking him every day for all he did for me. What?"
"Somebody mails those letters for you in Wayne?" I asked.
"Sure! And a little split for the marshal in the nearest town does the rest. Bimeby, when I've collected enough of the debt I spoke of, I'll shake the dust and disappear."
"They'll find you and bring you back."
"Not without a fine-tooth comb, they won't. This old world is plenty good and wide when you learn how to use it."
"I suppose I haven't learned yet; and I don't want to learn—in your way, Kellow."
Again he gave me the sneering laugh.
"You may as well begin, and have it over with. It's all the same to you, now, whether you cracked the bank or didn't. You may think you can live square and live the prison-smell down, but you can't. It'll stick to you like your skin. Wherever you go, you'll be a marked man."