“It seems to me, you fellows ain’t as careful as you might be. Had a visitor sent by the British consul, did he? Well that won’t save his neck. I tell you, Bub,” he said, directly addressing the prisoner, “saltpetre won’t save you. You’ve got to go, by G—d. D——n these newspaper men I say; a set of ornery skunks; meddling with business that don’t consarn ’em. But they don’t euchre me this deal.”
Warren made no answer, and in a short time the visitor passed on. With senses strained to their utmost tension, he watched the shades of night envelope the landscape. He listened to the striking of the clock in the corridor outside his cell, tolling the lagging hours, with beating heart. Gradually all sound died away and the hush of night fell upon the earth, broken only by the fury of the storm which now broke scattering destruction in its wake. Far off the river sounded a mimic Niagara as it swelled beyond its boundaries. In the midst of his anxiety the young man noted the strange coincidence of the storms which had attended three critical periods in his history while in America. With this thought in his mind he heard the clock toll off twelve strokes. As the last one died slowly away there came a thundering knock at the outer prison door. It came again, and yet again. He heard a door slam and then the voice of the jailer, “What do you want?”
“We are from Andrew County, with a prisoner we want put in jail for safe keeping.”
“Who is he?”
“A notorious horse thief.”
“Have you a warrant?”
“No; but it’s all right.”
“I can’t take a man without authority.”
“If you don’t it will be too bad; he’s a desperate character, and we’ve had hard work to catch him. We’ll satisfy you in the morning that it’s all right.”
The jailer went down and let them in. When they were inside where the light fell upon their faces he started back with the cry: