Allen told him briefly where he could find the letters, and Slivers slid through the darkness toward the door that led to the saddle room of the livery stable. He was back again, five minutes later, with the letters.
“Come on, kid,” said Allen. “We’ll go over to the jail to read ’em. I figger we’ll have a minute alone there.”
When they reached the jail he ripped open the letters and at last found the one he sought. He read it eagerly and then looked up at Slivers. Allen’s face was split in one of his broadcast grins. Young Hart was walking about impatiently. He thought it a crazy act to return to the jail one has just succeeded in breaking. Yet Jim’s expression was that of a delighted schoolboy who had no other thought in the world but that he had won a prize.
“Read that,” Jim said.
Slivers hastily read the letter. When he had finished, he said: “That sure puts Bill Tucker an’ Steve Brandon in plenty bad.” A sound outside caused him to whisper: “Some one’s comin’!”
“Yeh, I heard ’em,” grunted Allen. “When they knocks, yuh open the door an’ stand behind it.”
A knock came. Steve Brandon entered and found himself staring into a heavy .45 held by Jim Allen. Slivers again closed and locked the door. Quickly and deftly the stupefied Brandon was tied, gagged, and rolled into a cell.
“Where’s Jack?” Allen asked.
“Last I see of him he was eatin’ in the chink joint an’ talkin’ to Hard-rock,” Slivers replied.
“We got to find him,” Allen said, as they slipped out of the jail again.