“Chuck,” says I, “would yuh like to hear a big, big noise?”
“That’s the idea, Henry—a great big noise. Can’t be too big. Where yuh going to get it?”
I tells him about them loaded cans down at the jail, and he’s for me. We enthuses over the jug a little more, and then goes down to the jail. I posts Chuck about a hundred feet from the jail, and tells him to watch for anybody coming from town.
The Paradise jail ain’t much. It’s one story, mostly dobe, and stands way out from any other shack, a grim reminder that there still is law and order—at times. A strong man might kick the walls loose if they wasn’t afraid the roof would fall on ’em. I takes a rock and busts the padlock. There’s only one cell in the place, and when I lights a match I sees the faces of Scenery Sims and the old man.
I busts the lock off the cell door, and lets ’em out.
“Vamoose!” I whispers. “Get a-going. We don’t want no lynching in Paradise on the Fourth of July.”
“But, Henry—” squeaks Scenery.
“No time for argument!” I snaps. “You’ll find out later. Go fast and far. Sabe?”
“I’ll make this right with you, Henry,” says the old man, earnest-like, and I nods in the dark and says to myself—
“You’ll likely try.”