CHAPTER XIII
Hardly had the gate of the prison yard closed against the crowd when Hilma swayed in her saddle and would have fallen had Zang not pushed his horse to her side and caught her in his unwounded arm. The strain of that ride through town, following more than twelve hours in the saddle, had sapped the girl's resistance to the last nerve volt. For a minute she wavered on the border line of hysteria, then she straightened with a scowl stamped between her eyes, a scowl for her own weakness.
"That comes of being a woman," she whispered fiercely as Zang helped her to dismount. Sheriff Agnew's wife—a florid giantess with the features of a nursing sister—was now in the yard; she urged Hilma to "come in and get a bracer right this minute", but the girl would not quit the scene until she knew what might be the Sheriff's disposition not only of the prisoner but of Zang and herself. The gate banging behind her, the high spiked wall and the barred windows in the side of the courthouse building so near her, all these things of a sudden spelled menace, a threat direct against her. The spirit of outlawry that had grown within her these past few days of tumbled incidents was potent to make her believe the law's eyes could read outlawry on her features.
Uncle Alf was holding forth as Sheriff Agnew busied himself loosing the rope that held the Killer's legs under the horse's belly. Sonorously and with frequent interjection of Biblical quotation the evangelist detailed how the calling in the wilderness had directed him to the man of blood. As for the Killer, his ugly face registered manifest relief that the passage of Main Street had been concluded with no unhappy consequences to his person. He appreciated keenly what might be the temper of the town toward him.
"Now," quoth Agnew, "just you folks hop into the house with the missis and get a feed of hot cakes and some coffee while I lock this bird into a cell." Hospitality possessed his voice; there was no hint of a lurking sense of official duty which might carry beyond the disposition of the prisoner.
They were in the midst of a satisfying breakfast when Red Agnew came in and sat down at the table with them. He had to hear all over again the story of the Killer's capture. He was tremendously pleased.
"Strayman, the district attorney, is going to be mighty tickled over this," he commented, "and I reckon certain people down in Cheyenne who 've been settling lump cash for every stone found on a dead man's forehead are going to hunt cover. We 'll drag a confession out of this Killer which 'll bust the State wide open. We 'll have a whale of a fight on our hands to swing him off a gallows." Then, suddenly linking Hilma with the events that had made the Killer such a fat prize to the law's net: "I need not tell you, ma'am, your dad met his death while doing his duty. He was a good citizen, and I 'm mighty sorry he had to check in because he was serving the law as he saw it his duty to do."
Breakfast finished, a heavy embarrassment fell upon the little company in the cheery room. With the exception of the self-centered Uncle Alf, each was wondering just what the next move would be, how inevitable circumstances would befall. A much-sought-for outlaw under a score of indictments breakfasts with a sheriff, then
"I see you got a game hand, Zang," said Agnew with forced comradery. "Something recent?"
"Oh, just what you might call a accident," was Zang's careless answer. "But the fever 's got in it some an'"
"I 'll just run round and fetch Doc Bowers over to give a look at it," the sheriff was quick to interpose. "You folks just make yourself comfortable; I won't be gone ten minutes."
"No call for you to take that trouble, Red," Zang ventured hesitantly; "I could amble over to the doc's an' then—come back."
"Not with that crowd outside, Zang. Reckon the town 's pretty fired up, and I would n't want you to get into a jam with some cow-punch, more especial since you'd have to use your left hand."
Sheriff Agnew cast a covert glance toward Hilma, then let his eyes return to Zang with a significant lifting of the brows. Plainly he felt the presence of the girl a bar to plain speaking.
"I 'll just mosey outside in the yard an' see how my little hoss has stood up under a purty long spell of work," Zang drawled. Agnew accompanied the outlaw out of the room.
"Well?" queried Zang, when they had walked down a hallway out of earshot of the dining room.
"Nothing to it, Zang. I 'll have to lock you up," Agnew declared heavily. "You sorta caught me between wind and water riding into town this way. What was the main idea? You know I haven't been wearing myself to a frazzle trying to serve any warrants out against you—and I 've got enough to paper a room with."
"Well, you see, Red, I just had to do it. That girl"
"Oh, I savvy! Well, I don't rightly blame you, Zang. Fella would ride plumb into a Sioux war party trailing eyes like hers—and, say, that hair she wears!"
"Don't get me wrong, Red," Zang corrected. "I count 'bout as high as a trey spot in a sanded pack with her, but since her pappy died she's sorta got in a jam with Original Bill an' I was aimin' to break trail for her through all this range war. Now" He lifted his shoulders and smiled wearily.
"You see where I stand, Zang," Agnew urged. "All the cattle outfits roaring their heads off they can't get protection against your boys, can't get an even break with the sheriff or with the district attorney. If I was to meet up with you somewhere out in the country, of course I could say you were too many for me and got away. But when you prance right up to the jail, even riding herd on a bad man badly wanted like the Killer, why—there 's no choice for me. I 'll let you go back and stay with the girl until I fetch Doc Bowers if"
"No, do it now," Zang suddenly commanded. "I got no call to make any lingering farewells like a East Lynn actor in a theater show. But just promise you 'll steer her right if Original starts buildin' any trouble for her—which I don't reckon he 'll do, he not bein' a woman fighter. Come on, Red; all I ask is pick me out a coop not too near that Killer. I don't favor him none."
Ten minutes later Sheriff Agnew, alone, entered the dining room where sat Hilma and Uncle Alf with their sunny hostess, Mrs. Agnew. The sheriff made a great pretense of covering the circumstances of Zang's absence with a noisy command that his wife instantly bundle the girl off to bed; she could hardly prop her eyes open, he vociferated.
Hilma asked no questions. The fencing and sparring that had preceded Zang and the sheriff's withdrawal had been all too plain to her. She knew Zang was behind bars.
The girl suffered bustling Mrs. Agnew to lead her to a bedroom, apathetically watched her pull down the shades and put the coverlet into place.
"Right round the clock," the lady conjured with a monitory forefinger from the door. "Don't you dare show your face outside this room until you 've slept right on till to-morrow morning, or I 'll have Red swear out a charge against you."
Once under the covers, Hilma tried to focus her attention upon a review of the circumstances the morning had capped: Zang Whistler, who had refused to leave her side, now a prisoner of the law; she, homeless, friendless, penniless, in bed under a jail roof, and helpless did only Original Bill Blunt care to put his name to a warrant charging her with attempt to do murder.
This Original Bill with his mocking black eyes and that tantalizing smile—fighter of women, tool of the imperious cattle clan. Oh, how she hated him—hated