"There y'are," said Jonesy. "You don't need a warrant for the girl. All you have to do is to give your orders to Shotgun and Riley. They'll do the rest."
"But after turning her loose thisaway—" began the thoroughly frightened district attorney.
"You can rearrest her and have her tried on that butcher-knife evidence," insisted the stubborn Jonesy. "Just going by what she says herself, there's enough to fix her clock twice over. You dump her, Rale, and dump her quick."
"Or we'll fix your clock," inserted Tim Mullin.
The hapless district attorney cast his distressed gaze this way and that. But every eye that met his either was unfriendly or wrathfully hostile. Certainly there was no help for him in that room. The district attorney shuddered. He knew Jonesy and the rest of the Tuckleton outfit; knew, too, if he did not do as these men of violence demanded, that they would make him hard to find. On the other hand, if he obeyed them, Bill Wingo would as surely kill him. The district attorney shuddered again.
"What you shivering about?" demanded the sarcastic Tim Mullin.
The district attorney squared his afflicted shoulders and did the obvious,—chose the more remote of the two evils. "I'll send Shotgun and Tyler to Prescott's to-morrow," he said, rose to his feet and,—the door flew open, and, Jerry Fern, wild-eyed with liquor, stumbled into the room. The stage driver rolled straight to Felix Craft and pawed him. "Fuf-felix," he babbled, "I wan' shush-shome mon-money."
The furious Felix shook him off. But Jerry Fern was nothing if not persistent. He returned with bellowings.
The grinning faces of Guerilla Melody, Johnny Dawson, Shotgun and Riley looked in through the open doorway.
"Come along, Jerry," called Guerilla. "We been hunting you all over."