Rathburn sat down on the bunk which was to serve as his bed. He smoked his brown-paper cigarette slowly and with great relish while he stared, not through the bars to where the dim light of a lamp showed, but straight at the opposite steel wall of his cell. His eyes were thoughtful, dreamy, his brow was puckered.
“An’ there’s that,” he muttered as he threw away the stub of his smoke and began to roll another. “Somebody’s been playing the Dixie Queen for a meal ticket. That sign said ‘robberies.’ That means more’n one. The truck driver was the last. Two thousand reward. An’ me headed for the desert 118 where I belong. What stopped me? I reckon I know.”
He smiled grimly as he remembered the insolent challenge in Carlisle’s eyes and the reference to the bath.
After a time Rathburn stretched out on the bunk, pulled his hat over his face, and dozed.
He sat up with a catlike movement as a persistent tapping on the bars of his cell reached his ears. Blinking in the half light he saw Carlisle’s dark features.
“Well, now’s your chance to smoke me up good an’ plenty an’ get away with it,” said Rathburn cheerfully. “I’m shy my gun which the sheriff has borrowed.”
“You figure he’s just borrowed it?” sneeringly inquired Carlisle.
Rathburn rose and surveyed his visitor. “I reckon I’ve got to tolerate you,” he drawled. “I can’t pick my company in here.”
“I’ve got your number,” snarlingly replied Carlisle in a low voice.
Rathburn sauntered close to the bars, rolling a cigarette.