Rowan’s thoughts drifted from the problem Matson had left with him and reverted to his wife. He was more unhappy about his relationship with her than about the danger to his life. She had asked for his confidence and he had refused it. What else could he do? But his sick heart told him that she had opened a door to the chance of a better understanding between them and he had been forced to shut it again.
Life was full of little ironies that embittered and made vain the best intentions.
CHAPTER XIX
SAM YERBY SINGS
LATER in the day the sheriff tried out another of his prisoners. He had told McCoy the truth. One of the six was weakening. Matson had his own favourites and wanted to give them a chance before the State’s attorney was pledged. By sunset a confession would be in the hands of Haight, and it would be too late to save his friends.
He found Yerby whittling out a boat for his baby. The Texan looked up with a faint, apologetic smile in his faded blue eyes.
“I was making a pretty for my little trick at home, Sheriff. He’s the dad-blamedest kid you ever saw—keeps his old dad humping to make toys for him to bust. Don’t you blame Steve for loaning me this two-bit Barlow. He takes it back every night. Steve’s a good jailer all right.”
The Southerner was a shabby little man, tobacco-stained, with a week’s growth of red stubble on his face. But it was impossible to deny him a certain pathetic dignity.
“I’ve come to talk to you for that little kid, Sam. You don’t want him to be an orphan, do you?”