I stretched out on the cot, hands folded beneath my head, trying to figure some solution that would get me out of this fix. Some time passed, my ears alert for the noises of an approaching mob, but nothing of that sort could be heard. Instead, the sounds of the town were quieting down and I judged it must be getting along toward midnight. Well, perhaps they wouldn't lynch me tonight, after all. I forced a short laugh at the thought. There wasn't any humor in it. I was damn thirsty by this time but couldn't bring myself to go to the bucket again. I thought, suddenly, if he was willing to get me a knife and fork for half a buck, he might bring me some fresh water for the same.
It was an idea that got me thinking. Dammit, if I only had a gun. The deputy had left me my cartridge belt, but cartridges were no good without something to shoot 'em. Nor had he made me empty my pockets. I did some more mental planning, probably all useless, but I'd gone crazy if I didn't have something to try. I was about to shout for the night-man, when the office door swung open and he approached my cell door. He stood looking through the bars at me a minute.
"I was just going to yell for you," I told him.
He didn't reply at once, just looked at me, eyes narrowed. I began to feel uneasy. I said, "Hope you know me the next time we meet."
He laughed slyly. "Oh, I know you all right. Now."
I didn't like his tone of voice. "What do you mean— now?"
He shrugged fat shoulders. "Nothing special. Say, I been lookin' over that .44 hawg-laig Larry took offen you. Right nice gun. I been needin' a new gun, too. Trigger in my old .45 has worked sort of loose. Thanks for the gift, Cardinal."
Even in my swelling anger I managed to keep my head. "You thieving cow-thief," I snapped. "You steal my gun and —" I stopped, assuming a sort of blank expression. "What did you say?"
"Cardinal—John Cardinal."
"What's that mean?" I said dumbly.
"Aw, you know what it means, all right. That Willets name don't go down, Cardinal. There's a nice reward—"
"What the hell are you talking about?" I demanded impatiently. "What's all this slop about Cardinal? I know it's a color, or a sort of churchman—look here, why don't you try to make sense? You been hitting the bottle?"
"Not so much that I can't use my head." At that he did seem more sober than when I'd first seen him. That was disappointing too. He seemed somewhat taken aback, but persisted, "Come on, you're John Cardinal. Own up. It'll go easier on you in the long run."
I laughed shortly. "Never heard of anybody of that moniker. I think you must have gone loco. Yes, sir, Tanner, you sure better lay off the red-eye. You'll be seeing snakes, next. Got me all mixed up with some former prisoner I'll bet. Why don't you take a good nap and sleep it off."
Uncertainty, edged with anger, crept into his tones. "I don't believe you. Hell, I can read, and when a pal o' mine come to the office a spell back and told me he'd seen a reward bill that fitted your description, I dug out one of them bills and it fits you to a T. Yessiree! I don't fool easy. You're Cardinal, or I'm a splay-hoofed mule."
"Then you are said mule." I tried to sound bored with the whole business. "The longer you keep pushing that story at me the longer your ears are getting too. You better watch out, come morning, somebody don't throw a harness on you."
"You deny you're John Cardinal?"
"Hell's-bells," I snapped impatiently, "if you feel so sure I'm this Cardinal hombre you're spouting about, why don't you get the deputy in here and—"
"Larry's gone to his roomin' house—to bed. He'd be mad if I wuk him up."
"Not only that," I laughed carelessly, "but you're afraid he wouldn't let you in on some reward you keep dreaming about."
I saw that my chance shot had gone home. His jaw dropped open, then he closed it. "You'll see, come mornin'," he growled disgruntledly, but he couldn't resist needling me some more. "I'm going back to the office and cut my initials in your .44 gun-butt."
"You do, and I'll cut your throat when I get out, and I'll be out tomorrow. Want to bet on it?"
He looked a bit shaken at my confident manner. "I ain't a bettin' man."
"Look, Tanner, there's no use of you and me arguing. We might as well be friendly until tomorrow, when everything will be cleared up. Right now, I'm planning to start a suit for false arrest, and it rests with you whether I give a good report on you or not."
He pondered that a moment. "What do you want?" he asked grumpily.
"Fresh water. The stuff in my water bucket is plumb scummy. I got half a buck that says you can't get me a decent drink."
"I told you I wasn't a bettin' man," he said hesitantly.
"I'll bet you a dollar you can't bring me some fresh water."
Cupidity got the better of his principles. "That's different," he stated sourly. "Wait right there and I'll get some for you."
"Where do you think I'd be going?" I jeered. "With me due to be released, come morning, would I be fool enough to try anything when you're holding a gun on me, after opening this cell door."
He moved away from the cell and went back to the office. I drew a long breath. The fish had taken the bait. The question was, would I be able to land it?
I moved fast, placed the bucket of scummy water and the plate and cup just within the cell, near the edge of the cell door, stood well back and waited.
The office door opened again, sending light along the corridor, and Tanner appeared carrying a bucket. "You lose your bet," he snickered. "Now let's see that dollar."
I produced a silver dollar from a pants' pocket and tossed it between the bars of the door. It struck the floor, rolled, and he scrambled after it. He came erect, grunting, and shoved the coin in his greasy pants.
He came back to the cell door. "All right, go on back to that far wall, now. And don't try no tricks, mind."
"Why the devil should I try tricks?" I said incredulously. "I'm not running chances against that hawg-laig of yours." I went back to the wall, tense, waiting.
He set down the bucket, produced his gun and then the big lock-key. With the gun boring on me, he thrust the key into the lock and turned it, leaving it in the lock. He picked up the bucket again and shoved open the door until it reached the dishes and bucket I'd set there. The door struck the bucket, but the bucket stuck against a small corner of rock imbedded in the floor, and refused to slide back out of the way.
"Dammit," he snarled, "what'd you want to put them things right there for? I can't open the door wide enough to get this bucket through."
"I thought you'd want to take them back with you. Figured to save you an extra trip," I said apologetically. "Just a sec and I'll move 'em out of your way—"
"You stay right where you are," he snapped, his gun again tilting in my direction.
Eyes half on me, half on the door, he put the bucket down again, then knelt down to reach around the edge of the door and move the other bucket and dishes to one side. The gun was still pointing in my direction, but I knew he couldn't watch me and the dishes at the same time. There was bound to be an instant when his gaze left me.
And in that instant, I leaped! I still don't know how I cleared the distance across that cell floor in so brief a flash of time, aiming for his body in that narrow opening between door and jamb.
I heard his gun roar, even as I moved, but on his knees, as he was, off balance, and with me closing in fast, his aim was erratic. That much I'd been counting on.
I hit him with one shoulder, just as he was struggling to his feet, trying to level the gun for a second shot, and he went sprawling back, head over heels, cursing and grunting, the gun flying from his grasp as he crashed.
I scrambled over him, reaching for the gun, got it in my grip, then just as he was trying to rise, I struck him a short wallop with the gun barrel, across the side of the head.