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Updated: June 7, 2025
The "jail-house" was a small building of home-made brick, squatting at the rear of the court-house yard. Its barred windows were narrow with sills breast-high.
Samson paused for breath, and went on with regained calmness. "I've knowed all along ye was the man, an' I've kept quiet because ye're 'my kin. If ye've got anything else ter say, say hit. But, ef I ever ketches yer talkin' about me, or talkin' ter Sally, I'm a-goin' ter take ye by the scruff of the neck, an' drag ye plumb inter Hixon, an' stick ye in the jail-house.
I know I've fell f'm grace mo' d'n once, but I've done made my peace wid Him in dis here jail-house, suh, an' I ain't 'feared ter die ef I haf ter. I ain' got no wife ner child'n ter mo'n fer me, an' I'll die knowin' dat I've done my duty ter dem dat hi'ed me, an' trusted me, an' had claims on me.
He was in the dead man's house, after being forbidden to shadow its threshold. "Hell!" cried Thornton aloud. "Ef I stayed she'd hev ter come inter C'ote an' sw'ar either fer me or ergin me an' like es not, she'd break down an' confess. Anyhow, ef they put her in ther jail-house I reckon ther child would hev hits bornin' thar. Hell no!"
"They come out with right gay success," responded the other, and in his manner, too, there was just the proper admixture of casualness and established friendship. "Sam Opdyke is sulterin' in ther jail-house now."
"I stand ter be jedged by ther way I demeans myself an' I don't suffer no man ter badger me with questions like es ef I war some criminal in ther jail-house." The grotesque face of the hunchback hardened to the stony antagonism of an issue joined.
When an apple gits ripe enough hit draps offen ther limb." Over at the small county seat to the east the squat brick "jail-house" sat in the shadow of the larger building. There was a public square at the front where noble shade trees stood naked now, and the hitching racks were empty.
But the light at the court-house square was relatively bright and as Brent crossed in front of the squat and shadowy bulk of the old jail-house empty now, though it should have been full he made out a figure hastening about him in a circuitous fashion at a dog trot as though bent on arriving at the hostelry first.
Here's a ha'f pint o' whiskey. Give it to Walter, make 'im happy, den if he talk too much, nobody will b'lieve it." Mr. Ed say, "Come on, Sambo, go wid me." He retched down an' got a han'ful o' goobers an' put 'em in his pocket. We were eatin' 'em on de way down to de jail-house. He say, "Walter, Mr. Sinclair done sent you a dram." Walter say, "Mr.
Without a break the Texan picked up the refrain, improvising words to fit the occasion: "The sheriff's name, it's old Sam Moore, He's standin' down by the jail-house door With seventeen knives an' a gatlin' gun, But you bet your boots we'll make him run Ah wi yi yippie i o-o-o-!" With whoops of approbation and a deafening chorus of yowls and catcalls, the cowpunchers crowded through the door.
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