And yet Charlton did not want for friends.  Whisky Jim had a lively sense of gratitude to him for his advocacy of Jim’s right to the claim as against Westcott; and having also a lively antagonism to Westcott, he could see no good reason why a man should serve a long term in State’s-prison for taking from a thief a land-warrant with which the thief meant to pre-empt another man’s claim.  And the Guardian Angel had transferred to the brother the devotion and care he once lavished on the sister.  It was this unity of sentiment between the Jehu from the Green Mountains and the minstrel from the Indiana “Pocket” that gave Albert a chance for liberty.

The prisoner was handcuffed and confined in an upper room, the windows of which were securely boarded up on the outside.  About three o’clock of the last night he spent in Metropolisville, the deputy marshal, who in the evening preceding had helped to empty two or three times the ample flask of Mr. Westcott, was sleeping very soundly.  Albert, who was awake, heard the nails drawn from the boards.  Presently the window was opened, and a familiar voice said in a dramatic tone: 

“Mr. Charlton, git up and foller.”

Albert arose and went to the window.

“Come right along, I ’low the coast’s clear,” said the Poet.

“No, I can not do that, Gray,” said Charlton, though the prospect of liberty was very enticing.

“See here, mister, I calkilate es this is yer last chance fer fifteen year ur more,” put in the driver, thrusting his head in alongside his Hoosier friend’s.

“Come,” added Gray, “you an’ me’ll jest put out together fer the Ingin kedentry ef you say so, and fetch up in Kansas under some fancy names, and take a hand in the wras’le that’s agoin’ on thar.  Nobody’ll ever track you.  I’ve got a Yankton friend as’ll help us through.”

“My friends, I’m ever so thankful to you—­”

“Blame take yer thanks!  Come along,” broke in the Superior Being.  “It’s now ur never.”

“I’ll be dogged ef it haint,” said the Poet.

Charlton looked out wistfully over the wide prairies.  He might escape and lead a wild, free life with Gray, and then turn up in some new Territory under an assumed name and work out his destiny.  But the thought of being a fugitive from justice was very shocking to him.

[Illustration:  “GIT UP AND FOLLER!”]

“No! no!  I can’t.  God bless you both.  Good-by!” And he went back to his pallet on the floor.  When the rescuers reached the ground the Superior Being delivered himself of some very sulphurous oaths, intended to express his abhorrence of “idees.”

“There’s that air blamed etarnal infarnal nateral born eejiot’ll die in Stillwater penitensh’ry jest fer idees.  Orter go to a ’sylum.”

But the Poet went off dejectedly to his lone cabin on the prairie.

And there was a great row in the morning about the breaking open of the window and the attempted rescue.  The deputy marshal told a famous story of his awaking in the night and driving off a rescuing party of eight with his revolver.  And everybody wondered who they were.  Was Charlton, then, a member of a gang?