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Bluntly he said: "As far as jail's concerned, others might be getting their deserts there too." The senator looked keenly at Grimsby from under his white eyebrows. Then in a calm, decisive tone he replied: "It's no question of a cheque this time. The road could not buy Judge Rossmore with $200,000. He is absolutely unapproachable in that way." The apoplectic face of Mr. Grimsby looked incredulous.
But why you were taking the kid along beats me, unless it was just cussedness." What he said was: "Oh, you'll like Epitaph a heap better. I allow you ought to stay at that old town. It's a real interesting place. Finished in the adobe style and that sort of thing. The jail's real comfy, too." "Would you like something to eat, sir?" presently asked Frank timidly.
Your steward never wrote that note; it was dictated by some of them miserable white prisoners. I can hear no complaints upon such cases as them. If I were to listen to all these nonsensical complaints, it would waste all my time. I wish the devil had all the nigger stewards and their complaints; the jail's in a fuss with them all the time.
Voices outside on the street, the sight of the tops of green trees through bars, dogs barking far away, the travels of the sun as shown by moving bands of light on the walls and in the cells all remind him of the day when he was, as he now sees it, happy and free ... he forgets entirely, in the midst of the jail's black restraints, the lesser evils of outside, daily life.
Into the street outside the jail's main wall, workmen came straggling at this solemn hour, in groups of two or three, and meeting in the centre, cast their tools upon the ground and spoke in whispers.
Jail's too good for you. Doc, have you got a tow rope in that truck?" Ed Michaels was the best shot in town, probably one of the best marksmen in the world. He had been in the Olympics about thirty years ago. He was Waraxe's one claim to fame. But he wasn't a cowboy. He wasn't a fast draw.
He took a step, whirled like a flash and the deafening report of guns crashed and reverberated within the jail's walls. Neal staggered back within the cage, his gun clattering to the floor, his right hand dropping to his side. "If I hadn't been up against a strange gun I wouldn't have hit your finger, sheriff," said Rathburn mockingly. "I was shootin' at your gun."
Fire!" shrilled young Sam Brown Galloway, bouncing out of his father's store, and jumping up and down in the middle of Main Street. "The jail's afire! The jail's afire!" Men added their shouts to his childish squalls and ran toward the jail. Racey and Swing trundled along the sidewalk together. "She's afire, all right," said Racey. "Lookit the smoke siftin' through the window at the corner."
Tuesday's court day tew Barrington, an ef thar ain't more'n a thousand men on han with clubs an guns, tew stop that air court, wy, call me a skunk. An wen that air court's stopped, that air jail's a comin open, or it's a comin daown, one o' the tew naow."
"We trusted the sheriff last night, and he outwitted us; we must not trust him again." The sheriff's eyes flashed, and the blood sprang to his face. The crowd stood eagerly silent; but after a second the sheriff answered, quietly, "You may say what you please to me, Mr. Morris, and I'll not resent it under these circumstances, but I'll swear the jail's empty."
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