“Gimme yore six-shooter. . . . Now unlock the door. Let out a squawk an’ I’ll pump lead into you.”
The jailer obeyed orders. Dutch hustled him into the cell, then tied and gagged him. He took the keys, went downstairs, unlocked the outer door, and walked into the night a free man.
He stood for a moment at the door, hesitating. Which way should he go? The first thing was to get a horse at some stable. That would be easy enough. All he had to do was to go in and ask for it. But should he go back to Piodie, try Virginia City, or cut across the Sierras to California and say good-bye to Nevada?
Before he had made up his mind which road to take his thoughts were deflected into another channel. A young woman passed on the other side of the street. He recognized her immediately. The light, resilient step, the gallant poise of the slender body identified their owner as Victoria Lowell. He was sure of it even before the moonlight fell full upon her profile.
His eyes lit with a cunning tigerish malice. Softly he padded down the street after her. There was in his mind no clear idea of what he meant to do. But he was a born bully. She was alone. He could torment her to his heart’s content.
He moved faster, came abreast of her after she had turned into a dark side street. His step kept pace with hers. She looked up to see who her companion was.
A gasp of surprise broke from her throat.
His grin was a leer, hideous and menacing. “How are you, m’dear? Didn’t expect to meet up with old Sam, did you? But tickled—plumb tickled to death to see him.”
Involuntarily she quickened her step. His arm shot out and his great hand closed on her wrist. A shriek welled up inside her, but she smothered it unvoiced. The shudder that ran through her body she could not control.
He purred on: “Came to meet old Sam soon as he got out. Had to see him right away, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait a minute.”