“Look here!” he suddenly said.  But Sanderson did not turn.  Silverthorn rattled a paper.

“Here’s a withdrawal slip on the Okar bank, calling for three thousand two hundred dollars, signed by Will Bransford.  Barney Owen drew the money last night and blew it in gambling and drinking.  He says he’s been signing Bransford’s name—­forging it—­at your orders.  The signature he put on this paper is a dead ringer for the one on the registry blank you gave Dale.

“Dale saw Owen sign that.  That’s why he knew you are not Will Bransford.  Understand?  Maison will swear you signed the withdrawal slip and got the money.  We’ll prove that you are not Bransford, and you’ll go to the Las Vegas pen for twenty years!  Now, let’s talk business!”

Sanderson turned.  There was a mirthless grin on his face.  He spoke loudly, calling the jailer.

When the latter appeared in the corridor beside Silverthorn, Sanderson addressed him without looking at the other: 

“You ain’t on your job a heap, are you?  There’s a locoed coyote barkin’ at me through the door, there.  Run him out, will you—­he’s disturbin’ me plenty.”

He turned from the door, stretched himself on the cot, and with his face to the wall listened while Silverthorn cursed.

CHAPTER XV

DALE PAYS A VISIT

Shortly after midnight Sanderson was sound asleep on the cot in the cell when a strange, scraping noise awakened him.  He lay still for a long time, listening, until he discovered that the sound came from the window.  Then he sat up stealthily and looked around to see, framed in the starlit gloom of the night, the face of Barney Owen, staring in through the window at him.

The sight of Owen enraged Sanderson, but his curiosity drove him to the window.

The little man was hanging to the iron bars; his neck muscles were straining, his face was red and his eyes bright.

“Don’t talk, now!” he warned.  “The boss of the dump is awake and he’ll hear.  He’s in his room; there’s nobody else around.  I wanted to tell you that I’m going to knock him silly and get you out of this!”

“Why?” mocked Sanderson, lowly.

Owen’s face grew redder.  “Oh, I know I’ve got something coming, but I’m going to get you out all the same.  I’ve got our horses and guns.  Be ready!”

He slipped down.  Sanderson could hear his feet thud faintly on the sand outside.

Sanderson got into his clothes and stood at the cell door, waiting.  For a long time he heard no sound, but presently he caught the clank of a door, followed by a swift step, and Owen stood in the corridor before the cell door, a bunch of keys in his hand.

There was no word spoken.  Owen unlocked the door, Sanderson slipped out, Owen passed him the six-shooter he had lost in the barroom of the Okar Hotel, and the two slipped noiselessly down the corridor.