In the county jail were Sheriff Scannell, Harrison his deputy, Marshal North, Billy Mulligan the jailor, and a small guard. Some of these watched proceedings from the roof, now and then descending to report to Scannell. Cora, in his cell, played solitaire and Casey made pretense of reading a book.
Presently Scannell entered the room where Casey sat; it was not a cell nor had the door been locked since the withdrawal of the Vigilante guard. Casey looked up quickly. "What's the latest news from King?"
"He's dying, so they say," retorted Scannell.
"Dave," it was almost a whisper. "You've been to Broderick? Curse him, won't he turn his hand to help a friend?"
"Easy, Billy," said the Sheriff. "Broderick's never been your friend; you know that well enough. Your boss, perhaps. But even so, he couldn't help you. No one can.... This town's gone mad."
"What d'ye mean?" asked Casey in a frightened whisper.
"Billy," spoke the Sheriff, "have a drink." He poured a liberal potion from a bottle standing on the table. Casey drained the glass, his eyes never leaving Scannell's. "Now," resumed the Sheriff, "listen, boy, and take it cool. THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU!"
At first Casey made no reply. One might have thought he had not heard, save for the widening of his eyes.
"You--you'll not let them take me, Dave?" he said, after a silence. "You'll fight?"