Once more the scout turned to the clerk.
“Keep your eyes on the Jew, will you,” he asked, “while Jordan and I go to the jail for a talk with Nate Dunbar? If he tries to get away, pull a gun on him. This robbery business is going to be sifted to the bottom, and those who have got Dunbar into this fix are going to suffer for it.”
“I’ll watch him, ye kin bet on that,” said the clerk. “He won’t leave here, Buffler Bill, an’ when ye want him ye’ll know whar ter find him.”
“Buenos!” The scout whirled away towards the door. “Come on, parson,” said he; “we’ll now move toward the jail.”
The jail was an isolated shanty at the end of the street. Gloomy shadows hung around it. As the scout and the sky pilot came up in front of the small structure, a man started up out of the shadows and planted himself in front of them.
“That’s far enough!” the man snapped.
“It’s not far enough to suit me,” returned the scout.
“Well, I’m the one that’s boss here.”
“Who are you?”
“Bloom, the sheriff.”