Lorry closed his door.  He had heard enough for one evening.

He did not want to go to bed.  He felt anything but sleepy, so he tiptoed downstairs again and out into the night.  He found Buck Hardy in a saloon up the street.  Men in the saloon joked with Lorry about his capture.  He seldom drank, but to-night he did not refuse Hardy’s invitation to “have something.”  While they were chatting a rider from the Starr Rancho came in.  Edging up to Lorry, he touched his arm.  “Come on out a minute,” he whispered.

Outside, he told Lorry that High Chin, with several of the men, was coming to town that night and “put one over” on the sheriff by stealing the prisoner.

“And you know what that means,” said the Starr cowboy.  “High Chin’ll get tanked, and the hobo’ll be lucky if the boys don’t string him up.  High Chin’s awful sore about something.”

Lorry’s first idea was to report all this to Buck Hardy.  But he feared ridicule.  What if the Starr cowboys didn’t come?

“Why don’t you tell Buck yourself?” he queried.

His companion insisted that he dare not tell the sheriff.  If High Chin heard that he had done so, he would be out of a job.  And there was the reward.  If the prisoner’s identity was proven, Lorry would get the reward.  The cowboy didn’t want to see Lorry lose such easy money.

The subject seemed to require some liquidation, and Lorry finally decided that he himself was the only and legal custodian of the prisoner.  As for the reward—­shucks!  He didn’t want blood-money.  But High Chin would never lay a hand on the hobo if he could help it.

* * * * *

Alice Weston, anticipating a real ride into the desert country and the hills, was too excited to sleep.  She drew a chair to the window, and sat back where she could view the vague outline of the hills and a world filled with glowing stars.  The town was silent, save for the occasional opening or closing of a door and the infrequent sound of feet on the sidewalk.  She forgot the hazards of the day in dreaming of the West; no longer a picture out of books, but a reality.  She scarcely noticed the quiet figure that came round the opposite corner and passed into the shadows of the jail across the street.  She heard the clink of a chain and a sharp, tearing sound as of wood being rent asunder.  She peered from her window, trying to see what was going on in the shadows.

Presently a figure appeared.  The hat, the attitude, and manner seemed familiar.  Then came another figure; that of the tramp.  She grew tense with excitement.  She heard Lorry’s voice distinctly:—­

“The best thing for you is to fan it.  Don’t try the train.  They’ll get you sure if you do.  No, I don’t explain anything.  Just ramble—­and keep a-ramblin’.”

She saw one of the figures creep along the opposite wall and shuffle across the street.  She felt like calling out.  Instead she rose and opened her door.  She would tell her mother.  But what good would that do?  She returned to the window.  Lorry, standing on the street corner, seemed to be watching an invisible something far down the street.  Alice Weston heard the sound of running horses.  A group of cowboys galloped up.  She heard the horses stop.  Lorry had disappeared.