“I haven't got 'em.”
“Gosh!” and Doty's eyes got big as saucers.
Very soon the outer door was down, and the crowd came trooping in, all save John Morris, who stopped in the hallway. He seemed to be unable even to look at the sheriff, and the sheriff felt the averted face more than he would have felt a blow. “We want the keys,” Mitchell said.
The sheriff, who had risen, stood with his hands in his pockets, and his eyes, filled with sympathy, fastened on Mr. Morris, standing looking blankly down the empty hall.
“I haven't got the keys, Mr. Mitchell,” he answered.
“Oh, come off!” cried one of the townsmen. “Rocky!” cried another. “Yo' granny's hat!” came from a third; while Doty Buxton said, gravely, “Give up, Partin; we've humored this duty business long enough.”
“Do I understand you to say that you won't give up the keys?” Mitchell demanded, scornfully.
“No,” the sheriff retorted, a little hotly, “you don't understand anything of the kind. I said that I didn't have the keys; and further,” he added, after a moment's pause, “I say that this jail is empty.”
There was silence for a moment, while the men looked at one another incredulously; then the jeering began again.
“There is nothing to do but to break open the cells,” Morris said, sharply, but without turning his head. “We trusted the sheriff last night, and he outwitted us; we must not trust him again.”