“He certainly looks it,” was Baker's comment, in a tone of well-assumed only half-bridled rage. “Give 'im ten seconds to drap them keys, boys. I'll count. When I say ten blaze away, an' let a yawnin' hell take 'im.”
“Gentlemen, I—”
“Burt! Burt! what do you mean?” the woman cried again. “Are you plumb crazy?”
“One!” counted Pole—“two!—three—”
“I want to do what's right,” the jailer temporized. “Of course, I'm overpowered, and if—”
“Five!—six!” went on Pole, his voice ringing out clear and piercing.
There was a jingling of steel. The spectators, peering through ragged eye-holes in their white caps, saw the bunch of keys as it emerged from Barrett's pocket and fell to the doorstep.
“Gentlemen, you may live to be sorry for this night's work,” he said.
“What do you care what we're sorry for,” Pole said, grimly, “just so you ain't turned into a two-legged sifter? Now”—as he stooped to pick up the keys—“you git back in thar to yore wife an' children. We simply mean business an' know what we are about. An' look here, Burt Barrett”—Pole nudged Carson, who stood close to him—“thar'll be another gang here in a few minutes on the same business. You kin tell 'em we beat 'em to the hitchin'-post, an', moreover, you kin tell 'em that we said that when we settle this nigger's hash them nor nobody else will ever be able to find hair or hide of 'im. A buryin' to the general run o' niggers is their greatest joy an' pride, but they'll never cut up high jinks over this one.”
“Good, by Heaven!” Garner chuckled, as he recalled Pole's diplomatic suggestion at the store.