“Now just edge this way about two steps so your holster will be against the bars,” Rathburn instructed. “I can drop you where you stand, reach through the bars an’ drag you close if need be; but I’m banking on you having some good sense.”
The jailer, without moving the hands which held the pencil and his pocketknife, sidled up against the bars.
Rathburn leaned forward. Keeping his right hand high and tipped back, ready for the throw, he reached 88 out with his left, just through the bars, and secured the jailer’s gun.
“Now it’s all off,” he said quietly. “If the sheriff or anybody else comes before I get out of here I’m just naturally going to have to live up to the reputation for shooting that they’ve fastened on me. Unlock the door.”
The jailer wet his lips with his tongue. The pencil and pocketknife fell to the floor. Covered by his own gun, now in Rathburn’s hand, he moved to the door, brought out his key, and opened it. Still keeping him covered, Rathburn backed to the bench, snatched up his coat, and walked out of the cage, motioning to the jailer to precede him into the office.
There he slipped the gun in his holster and put on his coat. The jailer reckoned better than to try to leap upon him while he was thus engaged; the prisoner’s speed with a six-gun was well known.
Rathburn drew a peculiar leather case from within his shirt, put the knife in it, and stowed it away in a pocket. Then he turned on the jailer.
“Maybe you think that was a mean trick––resorting to a knife,” he said pleasantly; “but all is fair in love and war and when a man’s in jail. You better sort of stand in one place while I look around a bit.”
He backed behind the desk in the big office, opened two or three drawers, and brought out a pair of handcuffs. He moved around in front of the jailer again.
“Hold out your hands,” he commanded. “That’s it.” He snapped the handcuffs on with one hand while he kept the other on the butt of his gun.