CHAPTER XXIII.
S the prisoner's counsel, Carson had no difficulty in seeing him. At the outer door of the red brick structure, with its slate roof and dormer windows, Dwight met Burt Barrett, the jailer, a tall though strong young man, who had once lived in the mountains and had been a moonshiner, and was noted for his grim courage in any emergency.
“I understand the trial is set for to-morrow,” he remarked, as he opened the outer door which led into a hallway at the end of which was the portion of the house in which he lived with his wife and children.
“Yes,” Carson replied; “the judge has telegraphed that he will come without fail.”
The jailer shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “I feel a sight better over it than I did last night. I understand that the mob is going to let us alone till they can catch Sam Dudlow; if they lay hands on that scamp they certainly will barbecue 'im alive. As for Pete, I can't make up my mind about him; he's a trifling nigger and no mistake. He's got a good, old-time mammy and daddy, and none of Major Warren's niggers have ever been in the chain-gang, but this boy has talked a lot and been in powerful bad company. If you can keep him out of the clutch of the mob you may save his neck, but you've got a job before you.”
“I want to ask what you think about putting a guard round the jail,” Carson said, when they were at the foot of the stairs leading to the cells on the floor above.