The room into which the cowboy had passed was a harness shop. It was littered with saddles and bridles and broken bits of traces. A workman's bench and tools were in one corner of the shop. A door, bolted and padlocked, led to a rear room.
Jack put down his rifle and his belt on a shelf and sat down on the bench.
"Yore prisoner's in there all right," said the saddler with a jerk of his thumb over his left shoulder.
Since no one else in town would take the place, Yorky had been unanimously chosen jailer. He did not like the job, but it gave him an official importance that flattered his vanity.
"He's not my prisoner any more, Yorky. He's yours. I quit being a Ranger just twenty-five minutes ago."
"You don't say! Well, I reckon you done wise. A likely young fellow—"
"Where's yore six-shooter?" demanded Jack.
Yorky was a trifle surprised. "You're sittin' on it," he said, indicating the work bench.
Roberts got up and stood aside. "Get it."
The lank jaw of the jailer hung dolefully. He rubbed its bristles with a hand very unsure of itself.