“Comin' down the planin'-mill road into Jefferson Street,” explained Jeff, gasping out the words.
As the old judge, with Jeff in his wake, emerged from the shadows of the tall hallway into the blinding glare of the portico they met Dink Bynum, the deputy jailer, just diving in. Dink was shirtsleeved. His face was curiously checkered with red-and-white blotches. He cast a backward glance, bumped into the judge's greater bulk and caromed off, snatching at the air to recover himself.
“Are you desertin' your post, Dink?” demanded the judge.
“Jedge, there wasn't no manner of use in my stayin',” babbled Bynum. “I'm all alone and there's a whole big crowd of 'em comin' yonder. There'll git that nigger anyhow—and he deserves it!” he burst out.
“Dink Bynum, where are the keys to that jail?” said Judge Priest, speaking unusually fast for him.
“I clean forgot'em!” he quavered. “I left 'em hangin' in the jail office.”
“And also I note you left the outside door of the jail standin' wide open,” said the judge, glancing to the left. “Where's your pistol?”
“In my pocket—in my pocket, here.”
“Git it out!”
“Jedge Priest, I wouldn't dare make no resistance single-handed—I got a family—I—” faltered the unhappy deputy jailer.