“Jack Flatray.”
They spoke together in whispers. Though both were keyed to the highest pitch of excitement they were as steady as eight-day clocks. O’Connor stretched his limbs, flexing them this way and that, so that he might have perfect control of them. He worked especially over the forearm and fingers of his right arm.
Flatray handed him a revolver.
“Whenever you’re ready, Lieutenant.”
“All right. It’s the cabin next to this.”
They climbed out of the window noiselessly and crept to the next hut. The door was locked, the window closed.
“We’ve got to smash the window. Nothing else for it,” Flatray whispered.
“Looks like it. That means we’ll have to shoot our way out.”
With the butt of his rifle the sheriff shattered the woodwork of the window, driving the whole frame into the room.
“What is it?” a frightened voice demanded.