Freel sat and watched Skeeter eat his supper, and took away the dishes without a word. There was no question in Skeeter Bill’s mind that Freel was worried over something.
Perhaps, he thought, there was danger of a lynching. Freel had told him of the threats that had emanated from the Tin Cup ranch, and Skeeter had heard enough about the Tin Cup gang to know that they were not given to idle gossip. Their immediate range was almost in smelling distance of the sheep outfits.
The Tin Cup gang had declared openly that a prison sentence was far too lenient for a sheep-herder who had killed a cattleman, and that they were willing to go on record as saying that Skeeter Bill would never serve one day in the penitentiary for this crime.
Because of this threat Freel had delayed taking Skeeter to the penitentiary. He did not want to lose his prisoner to a mob of lynchers, and he knew that a battle might result in dire calamity for the house of Freel.
As long as Skeeter Bill was behind the strong walls of the jail he knew that the Tin Cup outfit would not try to take him. They were no fools, and knew that the jail was built to withstand a heavy assault.
Skeeter Bill had stretched out on his bunk for the night, when Freel came to the cell door without a light and spoke to him. Skeeter got up, and Freel ordered him to dress.
From without came the dull rumble of thunder, and a weak flash seemed to light up the room a trifle.
“Goin’ t’ rain?” asked Skeeter.
“Hope to —— it rips things loose,” said Freel softly. “Suits me fine. Dressed? Put this on.”
He handed Skeeter a full-length slicker coat, which he put on.