In strange comparison to his formidable personality, a comparison which might have been likened to that of a coyote shackled to a grizzly bear, stood alongside him his slightly-built companion, Scotty. He had sandy hair, closely set, shifty blue eyes, and a large, loose-lipped mouth with a receding chin. It was a cunning, vicious, yet decidedly weak face and, noting its defects, one could easily imagine the truth of old Hiram Bryan’s previous assertion: “Th’ young chap seems ter do as he tells him.”
Ellis, with seemingly careless indifference, but keeping a wary eye on Big George, removed the handcuffs off both men. He then proceeded to relieve them of all their belongings, which he placed in separate bags that were specially made for that purpose, and numbered. Then, after making out an itemized list for each, he began to—ostentatiously—count out their money. Each of the men possessed a small quantity, and this he put in a couple of envelopes, marking the amount on the outside. Gallagher, leaning against the door, watched the performance with curious interest. He had an inkling of what was coming. Benton, seating himself, beckoned the two forward to the table. Shackled together, they awkwardly obeyed. He chose Scotty first, and reckoned up the few bills and silver belonging to that individual.
“Eight dollars and sixty-five cents,” he concluded. “That correct?” Scotty nodded. “All right, then,” said Ellis, licking up the envelope and pushing over a pen. “Look over that list an’ see ’f it’s O. K. before yu’ sign for it.”
Scotty glanced through the items and nervously affixed his signature. The same procedure was gone through with Fisk. As the latter finished signing, the policeman drew the piece of foolscap towards him and, extracting a folded paper from a small wallet, leisurely compared the two specimens of caligraphy. With a satisfied sigh, he thrust them both into his pocket and looked across the table with a sinister smile at Big George.
“Mister Gordon Brown,” he murmured reflectively.
The two culprits started violently, and stared with dismay at the man who had thus outwitted them once more. Fisk strove to recover himself. Over his perturbed, evil face there crept the blank, lifeless expression of duplicity.
“Wha’s that?” he inquired innocently.
The Sergeant’s smile vanished. His face hardened, and he began to speak, drawling out his words one by one.
“I’m chargin’ yu’ both,” he said sententiously, “with stealin’ a team, wagon, an harness, valued at two hundred an’ seventy-five dollars, from one, Lloyd Pryce, of Beaver Dam, on th’ sixth o’ June; afterwards selling the same as your own property to one, Hiram Bryan, on th’ thirteenth o’ th’ same month.” Then followed the customary warning. “That’s all,” he finished, “an I guess it’s sure enough, too.” He eyed them a moment amidst a dead silence, and then broke out irritably:
“What do th’ likes o’ yu’ want to come over this Side for—peddling yore dirty work in a decent, law-abiding country? Why in h—l couldn’t yu’ stay where yu’ both belong? Now, get yu’ away back there an’ sit on that bench.”