They built it strong, and they built it tight, without any window save a narrow slit near the ceiling; they heated it by setting a stove outside under a shelter, where Tom could keep up the fire without the risk of going inside, and ran pipe and a borrowed “drum” through the jail high enough so that Ford could not kick it.  And to discourage any thought of suicide by hanging, they ceiled the place tightly with Tom’s matched flooring of Oregon pine.  Tom did not like that, and said so; but the citizens of Sunset nailed it on and turned a deaf ear to his complaints.

Chill dawn spread over the town, dulling the light of the fires and bringing into relief the sodden tramplings in the snow around the jail, with the sharply defined paths leading to Tom Aldershot’s lumber-pile.  The watchers had long before sneaked off to their beds, for not a sign of Ford had they seen since midnight.  The storm had ceased early in the evening and all the sky was glowing crimson with the coming glory of the sun.  The jail was almost finished.  Up on the roof three crouching figures were nailing down strips of brick-red building paper as a fair substitute for shingles, and on the side nearest town the marshal and another were holding a yard-wide piece flat against the wall with fingers that tingled in the cold, while Bill Wright fastened it into place with shingle nails driven through tin disks the size of a half-dollar.

Ford, partly sober after a sleep on the billiard table in the hotel barroom, heard the hammering, wondered what industrious soul was up and doing carpenter work at that unseemly hour, and after helping himself to a generous “eye-opener” at the deserted bar, found his cap and went over to investigate.  He was much surprised to see Bill Wright working, and smiled to himself as he walked quietly up to him through the soft, step-muffling snow.

“What you doing, Bill—­building a chicken house?” he asked, a quirk of amusement at the corner of his lips.

Bill jumped and came near swallowing a nail; so near that his eyes bulged at the feel of it next his palate.  Tom Aldershot dropped his end of the strip of paper, which tore with a dull sound of ripping, and remarked that he would be damned.  Necks craned, up on the roof, and startled eyes peered down like chipmunks from a tree.  Some one up there dropped a hammer which hit Bill on the head, but no one said a word.

“You act like you were nervous, this morning,” Ford observed, in the tone which indicates a conscious effort at good-humored ignorance.  “Working on a bet, or what?”

“What!” snarled Bill sarcastically.  “I wisht, Ford, next time you bowl up, you’d pick on somebody that ain’t too good a friend to fight back!  I’m gittin’ tired, by hokey—­”

“What—­did I lick you again, Bill?” Ford’s smile was sympathetic to a degree.  “That’s too bad, now.  Next time you want to hunt a hole and crawl into it, Bill.  I don’t want to hurt you—­but seems like I’ve kinda got the habit.  You’ll have to excuse me.”  He hunched his shoulders at the chill of the morning and walked around the jail, inspecting it with half-hearted interest.