Ash Fork, though only six years old, had advanced far enough toward civilization to have a small jail, and into that we were shoved.  Night was come by the time we were lodged there, and, being in pretty good appetite, I struck the sheriff for some grub.

“I’ll git yer somethin’,” he said, good-naturedly; “but next time yer shove people, Mr. Gordon, just quit shovin’ yer friends.  My shoulder feels like—­” perhaps it’s just as well not to say what his shoulder felt like.  The Western vocabulary is expressive, but at times not quite fit for publication.

The moment the sheriff was gone, Fred wanted the mystery of the letters explained, and I told him all there was to tell, including as good a description of the pony as I could give him.  We tried to hit on some plan to get word to those outside, but it wasn’t to be done.  At least it was a point gained that some one of our party besides myself knew where the letters were.

The sheriff returned presently with a loaf of canned bread and a tin of beans.  If I had been alone, I should have kicked at the food and got permission for my darkies to send me up something from 97; but I thought I’d see how Lord Ralles would like genuine Western fare, so I said nothing.  That, I have to state, is more—­or rather less—­than the Britisher did, after he had sampled the stuff; and really I don’t blame him, much as I enjoyed his rage and disgust.

It didn’t take long to finish our supper, and then Fred, who hadn’t slept much the night before, stretched out on the floor and went to sleep.  Lord Ralles and I sat on boxes—­the only furniture the room contained—­about as far apart as we could get, he in the sulks, and I whistling cheerfully.  I should have liked to be with Madge, but he wasn’t; so there was some compensation, and I knew that time was playing the cards in our favor:  so long as they hadn’t found the letters we had only to sit still to win.

About an hour after supper, the sheriff came back and told me Camp and Baldwin wanted to see me.  I saw no reason to object, so in they came, accompanied by the judge.  Baldwin opened the ball by saying genially—­

“Well, Mr. Gordon, you’ve played a pretty cute gamble, and I suppose you think you stand to win the pot.”

“I’m not complaining,” I said.

“Still,” snarled Camp, angrily, as if my contented manner fretted him, “our time will come presently, and we can make it pretty uncomfortable for you.  Illegal proceedings put a man in jail in the long run.”

“I hope you take your lesson to heart,” I remarked cheerfully, which made Camp scowl worse than ever.

“Now,” said Baldwin, who kept cool, “we know you are not risking loss of position and the State’s prison for nothing, and we want to know what there is in it for you?”

“I wouldn’t stake my chance of State’s prison against yours, gentlemen.  And, while I may lose my position, I’ll be a long way from starvation.”