"We might as well go and see what's up," said another. "I guess he's where he'll keep. He'll be here when we come back, Bill. He can't get out till we open the door, so what's the use cussin' about ten or fifteen minutes' delay? Come on! I don't take any stock in this talk about Indians, but, great snakes, if they want to get up a company to go out and—"
The rest of the remark was lost to Martin when the group turned the corner of the jail.
"Ten or fifteen minutes," he groaned. In ten or fifteen minutes the whole town would be out there, breaking down the door—the work of a few seconds. He remembered hearing people laugh and joke about the new jail. No less a person than Cap' Redberry had said, after a casual inspection of the calaboose, that if THAT was what they called a jail he'd hate to be inside of it if a woodpecker started to peckin' at it, 'cause if such a thing happened the whole blamed she-bang would cave in and like as not hurt him considerable. And Cap' was not the only one who spoke derisively of the new jail. Ed Bloker declared he had quit walkin' past it on his way home from the grocery because he was in mortal terror of staggerin' up against it and knockin' it all to smash. Of course, Martin knew that it was not as bad as all that, but, even so, it could not hold out for more than a minute if some one began pounding at the door with a sledge-hammer.
There were two rooms, or compartments, to the jail; a little ante-room and the twelve-by-sixteen foot "cage," of which he was the sole occupant. A single cornhusk mattress had been put in for him that afternoon. He never seemed quite able to fix its position in his mind, a circumstance that caused him to stumble over it time and again as he tramped restlessly about the place in the darkness.
Suddenly he stopped as if shot. A tremendous idea struck him, and for a moment his head spun dizzily. If it was so blamed easy to break into the jail, why should it be so all-fired difficult to break out of it? Why, he hadn't even tried the door, or the bars in the window; now that he thought of it, the grate in the south window had appeared to be a little shaky. Inspired by a wild, alluring hope, he sprang over to the window and gripped the thin iron bars; with all his might and main he jerked, bracing his feet against the wall. No use! It would come just so far and no farther. He tried the other window, with even less encouraging results. In eight or ten minutes now, the crowd would be,—he leaped to the barred door. It, too, resisted his crazy strength. The huge padlock on the other side clattered tauntingly against the grating, but that was all. All the while he was grunting and whining: "If I ever get out of this, it'll take a streak o' greased lightnin' to ketch me. Oh, Lordy! That drum's gettin' closer! They're comin'! If I ever get out of this, nobody'll ever see me closer'n a hundred mile o' this here town,—never as long as I live. Gimme a half hour's start an'—Jehosophat!"
He had shoved a trembling hand between the bars and was fumbling with the padlock. His ejaculation was due to a most incredible discovery. Some one had forgotten to take the key out of the padlock! He laughed shrilly, witlessly. Twenty seconds later he was out in the little anteroom or vestibule, panting and still chortling. The outer door opened readily to the lifting of the latch. He peeped out cautiously, warily. The square was deserted save for a few men hurrying along the street toward the drill ground up beyond Horton's tanyard,—where the drum and fife were playing and men were shouting loudly.
Thereupon Martin Hawk did the incomprehensible thing. He squared his brawny shoulders, set his hat rakishly over one ear, and sauntered out of the jail, calmly stopping to latch the door—and even to rattle it to make sure that it had caught!
He was far too cunning to dart around the corner and bolt for safety. That would have been the worst kind of folly. Instead, he strode briskly off in the direction from whence came the strains of martial music! So much for the benefit of watchful, suspicious eyes. But as he turned the corner of Baker's store his whole demeanour changed. He was off like a frightened rabbit, and as soft-footedly. He ran as the huntsman or the Indian runs,—almost soundlessly, like the wind breezing over dead leaves or through the tops of reeds. Three men stepped out from behind a wagon on the far side of the square. The flare of a bonfire reached dimly to the corner around which the fugitive had scurried. One of the men gave vent to a subdued snort and then spat hurriedly and copiously.
"We'll never see hide nor hair of him again," quoth he. "He won't stop running till daybreak. I guess you'd better wait about ten minutes, Jake, and then fire a few shots. That'll put new life into him. Course, a lot of blamed fools will cuss the daylights out of me for letting him get away right under my nose, and all that, but let 'em talk. He's gone for good, you can bet on that,—and the county's lucky to get rid of him so cheaply."
"I guess you're right, Sheriff," agreed one of his companions. "From all I hear, Mrs. Gwyn would have a hard time provin' it was him as stole her—"