“This,” he replied, closing his lips firmly. “I suggest that I heavily iron you men, hand and foot, and take you as far as Corning, where I’ll turn you over to your New York man, unless you think that it would be better for me to continue farther.”
I felt a thrill of relief flash through me. I had been completely mystified, and I guess Shinburn was in no different frame of mind. Seeing that we were not to be trumped out of sight in the last shuffle of the cards, I was in a joyous mood instantly.
“You couldn’t have thought of anything better, sheriff,” I grinned, not forgetting to pat him approvingly on the back. Then we got down to the business that was much more pleasing to him than voluble praise—the payment of the money we’d agreed upon. It was by far the strongest argument I could have put up to him. It was more potent than a plea for justice, and much more so than friendship, in obtaining our escape from the clutches of the Buffalo police.
I handed Lawyer Rumsey a well-swelled fee, and slyly put in the sheriff’s palm one thousand dollars in bills, which he crammed out of sight, and gave orders for our irons to be brought in and put on. For once we were glad to wear the things. In a few minutes, looking very much like a pair of Western bandits, we were marched through the village to the depot, followed by a crowd of curious men and boys. Sheriff Smith, so far as the outsiders were concerned, thought us to be about as desperate a couple as ever came under his control, for he had two stalwart deputies with him, both of whom clung to us like unpaid gas bills.
Detective Watts and his reënforcements and a big crowd were at the depot ahead of us. Watts was angry clear through; verily, he looked as if he would bite a tenpenny nail in pieces. Shinburn and I gave him a glad smile, which he repaid with an angry glare. We got aboard the train, the sheriff and one deputy at our heels. Watts and his men came in the same car, and we were soon at Corning, where we had to wait for a connecting train. In the meantime Sheriff Smith invited us to a substantial meal with plenty of wine. When the latter was served, Smith toasted us, remarking upon the pleasure it gave him to set before us a sample of good country wine.
Of course I said something pleasant to the cunning fellow, but I must confess that there came regretful meditation over the thousand I’d paid him, a part of which was being spent in the wine I was sampling. I consoled myself with the thought that liberty has its price, whether purchased on the battle-field or close by the prison bars.
While we were dining, a Buffalo train pulled in and out again, taking with it Bob Watts, the disconsolate one, and his followers. He realized at last that the game was played; that he’d held the right bower, forgetful of the fact that sometimes there is a joker in the pack. Our train came along presently, and Sheriff Smith handed Frank Houghtaling the New York warrant, and we were off. The handcuffs were on our wrists and the shackles on our ankles as we clanked along to seats selected for us by Houghtaling. Naturally we attracted much attention and comment and drew not a few questions from the passengers. An extremely inquisitive man wasn’t satisfied until he had asked Frank to tell him what crime was charged against us.
“A very serious offence,” solemnly proclaimed our captor. “Indeed, sir, they are accused of a very grave crime.”
“My sakes! What?” he questioned, in a voice that sounded hollow. “You don’t mean murder?”
Houghtaling nodded his head in the affirmative, and looked extremely wise.