“You see,” explained Tom Baker, as he bustled around, “the Governor just grants paroles; he can’t grant pardons. Some sort of a board has to pass on the pardons. But I got him out all right, and that’s the main thing. Eh, Pierre, old man?”
The sheriff nodded with great friendliness to his protégé. Luzon responded with a wan smile that silently spoke his thankfulness. His face was deathly pale, but there was wonderful snap and vitality in the black bead-like eyes that roamed around the room and searched each countenance.
Buck was now standing by the rocker. He laid a hand familiarly on the Frenchman’s shoulder.
“You see, Pierre, old scout, I don’t forget you”—he pointed to the bottle on the table. “Kentucky bourbon, the best I’ve got in the house, and the very label you used to call for. Now we’ve got to drink to your speedy recovery. Fill up all round, boys. The drinks are on me tonight.”
“Hip, hip, hooray!” shouted Tom, as the glasses tinkled.
“Hush!” exclaimed Buck, warningly. “We don’t want to bring any booze fighters prowlin’ around here tonight. You see, Pierre, we four are in cahoots and understand each other. You know Tom and myself—we ain’t in need of any guarantee. And you can trust Mr. Chester Munson and Jack Rover here to the limit.”
Luzon bowed acknowledgment of the informal introduction.
“It was we who put up the cash to get you out of San Quentin,” continued Buck, as he dropped into a chair close beside Tom Baker.
“Together with Dick Willoughby,” interjected Munson.
“Oh, yes, not forgettin’ Dick,” resumed the storekeeper, “as fine a young feller as ever walked on shoe leather. But, by God, he’s in jail just now.”