“I hope so,” said I, more calmly in manner than in feeling, I have to acknowledge, for I didn’t like the look of things. That they were in earnest I felt pretty certain, for I understood now why they had let my companions out of jail. They knew that angry cowboys were a trifle undiscriminating, and didn’t care to risk hanging more than was necessary.
A long time seemed to pass after they were gone, but in reality it wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before I heard some one steal up and softly unlock the door. I confess the evident endeavor to do it quietly gave me a scare, for it seemed to me it couldn’t be an above-board movement. Thinking this, I picked up the box on which I had been sitting and prepared to make the best fight I could. It was a good deal of relief, therefore, when the door opened just wide enough for a man to put in his head, and I heard the sheriff’s voice say, softly,—
“Hi, Gordon!”
I was at the door in an instant, and asked,—
“What’s up?”
“They’re gettin’ the fellers together, and sayin’ that yer shot a woman in the hold-up.”
“It’s an infernal lie,” I said.
“Sounds that way to me,” assented the sheriff; “but two-thirds of the boys are drunk, and it’s a long time since they’ve had any fun.”
“Well,” I said, as calmly as I could, “are you going to stand by me?”
“I would, Mr. Gordon,” he replied, “if there was any good, but there ain’t time to get a posse, and what’s one Winchester against a mob of cowboys like them?”