“I don’t know what his game is, Mannix; but he could have drawn down on you in a wink and shot you in your tracks if he’d wanted to,” said Carlisle.
“So you were taking the play in your own hands,” Mannix accused.
The deputy looked at Rathburn angrily. Then he advanced and took the prisoner’s six-shooter from him. He brought handcuffs out of his pockets.
Rathburn’s face went white. “If what Carlisle says is true, it doesn’t look as if I was trying to get away, does it, sheriff?” he asked coldly.
Mannix was thoughtful for a moment. “Well, come along,” he ordered, thrusting the steel bracelets back into his pocket.
“I’ll go with you,” Carlisle volunteered.
“That’s up to you,” snapped out the deputy. “I ain’t asking you to.”
The trio left the place as the spectators gazed after them in wonder. There was a hum of excited conversation as the deputy and his prisoner and Carlisle passed through the door.
No word was spoken on the way to the small, two-room, one-story structure which served as a detention place for persons under arrest until they could be transferred to the county jail in the town where the railroad touched. Petty offenders served their sentences there, however.
In the little front office of the jail, Rathburn looked with interest at some posters on the walls. 116 One in particular claimed his attention, and he read it twice while the deputy was getting some keys and calling to the jailer, who evidently was on the other side of the barred door where the few cells and the “tank” were.