Nothing more was said for perhaps a full half hour; all were nodding or busy with their brooding thoughts.
At last Buck Ashley rose and tiptoed toward the bedroom.
“Guess I’ll see if poor Pierre has gone to sleep again,” he murmured.
A moment later he shouted out from the inner chamber:
“Hell, boys!—he’s gone! He’s given us the slip—the damned old jail-bird!”
CHAPTER XIX—The Jail Delivery
AROUND Dick Willoughby there had been woven a web of circumstantial evidence that even before his trial had convinced most people of his guilt. Only a few tried friends who absolutely refused to believe him capable of shooting down an unarmed man from ambush clung to their faith that he had had nothing to do with the slaying of young Marshall Thurston. Among the general public the only question in discussion was whether the jury were likely to find extenuating circumstances and, should the life of the prisoner come to be spared, how long would be his sentence.
Ben Thurston had lavished money with a free hand toward securing every possible piece of testimony in support of the prosecution, and before his return home even the cautious New York lawyer, Mr. Hawkins, had admitted that the case against Willoughby appeared to be conclusive. It was only a matter of a few weeks now when Thurston would be leaving the district.