Both the man in the cage and the man in the aisle recognized the sheriff’s step as Neal closed the door, paused for a look about the office, and then walked toward the door leading into the jail proper.
The jailer opened his mouth to sound a warning, but something in Rathburn’s gaze and posture held him silent. Rathburn’s body was tense; his gaze was glued to the doorway; his right hand with its slim, brown, tapered fingers, hung above the gun at his side.
The sheriff loomed in the doorway. Without a flicker of surprise in his eyes he took in the situation. His lids half closed as his lips tightened to a thin, white line. He met Rathburn’s gaze and knew that he now faced The Coyote in the role which had won him his sinister reputation.
“Did I mention to you that I wasn’t used to jails, sheriff?” said Rathburn evenly, his words carrying crisp and clear. “I don’t fancy ’em. But I needed the sleep and the meal. Now I’m going. Do you recollect I said no one ever took my gun from me but what I got it back? I had to borrow this one from the gent in the cage. I’ll take my gun, sheriff––now!”
Neal had watched him closely. He saw that while he was speaking The Coyote did not for an instant relax his vigilance. The merest resemblance of a move would precipitate gun play.
He turned abruptly, and with Rathburn following 91 him closely, went into the private room off the jail office. He pointed to the other’s gun which lay upon the flat desk where many had curiously inspected it.
Rathburn took it in his left hand and ascertained at a glance that it wasn’t loaded. Therefore he elected to carry it in his left hand.
“I won’t take a chance on feeding it right now, sheriff,” he said. “Under the circumstances it would be right awkward. If you make up your mind to draw I’ll have to depend on a strange gun.”
Sheriff Neal’s eyes glittered; his lips parted just a little.
“Now if you’ll walk back toward the cage, sheriff,” Rathburn prompted. “Correct––don’t stumble.”