There was a silence for a moment. In the moonlight the body of men looked like a snowdrift against the jail. The same voice spoke again:
"Don't you keep us waitin' long, nuther, Tarp. You kin know what sort we are by our grave-clothes ef you'll take the trouble to peep out o' the winder."
"What do you-uns want?" It was the quavering voice of the jailer, from the wing of the house occupied by him and his family.
His voice roused a sleeping infant, and it began to cry. The cry was smothered by some one's hand over the child's mouth.
"You know what we-uns want," answered the leader. "We come after Toot Wambush; turn 'im out, ef you know what's good fer you."
"Gentlemen, I'm a sworn officer of the law, I—"
"Drap that! Open that cell door, ur we'll put daylight through you."
This was followed by the low, pleading voice of the jailer's wife, begging her husband to comply with the demand, and the wailing of two or three children.
"Wait, then!" yielded the jailer. Westerfelt heard a door slam and chains clank and rattle on the wooden floor; a bolt was slid back, the front door opened, and the white drift parted to receive a dark form.
"Whar's my hoss?" doggedly asked Toot Wambush.