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Frank Merriwell's Bravery, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 7. In Jail |
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_ CHAPTER VII. IN JAIL Great was the disgust of the crowd when it was found that Hank Kildare had taken his prisoner to jail without passing along the main street of the town. It was declared a mean trick on Hank's part, and some excited fellows were for resenting it by breaking into the jail at once and bringing the boy out and "hangin' him up whar everybody could see him." The ones who made this kind of talk had been "looking on the bug-juice when it was red," and they finally contented themselves by growling and taking another look. In the meantime, Frank found himself confined in a cell, and he began to realize that he was in a very bad scrape. Throughout all the excitement at the railroad station, he had remained cool and collected, but now, when he came to think the matter over, his anger rose swiftly, and he felt that the whole business was most outrageous. Still, when he remembered everything, he did not wonder that the mob had longed to lynch him. Black Harry was a youthful desperado of the worst sort. He had devastated, plundered, robbed, and murdered in a most infamous manner, his last act being the shooting of Robert Dawson, the Eastern banker. And Lona Dawson, the banker's daughter, had looked straight into our hero's face and declared that he was Black Harry! "It is a horrible mistake!" cried Frank, as he paced the cell into which he had been thrust. "She believed she spoke the truth. This young outlaw must resemble me. I cannot blame her." The manacles chafed his wrists. "Are they going to leave those things on me, now that they have me safe in jail?" he cried. His door opened into the corridor, and he called to the guard, asking that the irons might be removed. "I believe Hank has gone fer ther key," said the guard "He didn't take it from ther detective what put them irons on yer." "Will they be removed when he returns with the key?" "I reckon." "Then I hope he will hurry. I am tired of carrying the things." He turned back, to pace the cell once more. "This is a flimsily-constructed building," he said. "It would be an easy thing to break in here and drag a prisoner out. I escaped death at the hands of the mob because I had friends at hand to fight for me, and because Hank Kildare is utterly fearless, and was determined to bring me here. But the whole town may become aroused, and to-night---- What if Robert Dawson should die!" The thought fairly staggered him, for he knew the death of the wounded banker would again inflame the passions of the citizens, and a night raid might be made on the jail. "They would stand a good show of forcing their way in here, and then it would be all up with me." It was a terrible thing to stand in peril of such a death. Frank felt that he could not die thus; he would live to clear his honor. But what could he do? He was helpless, and he could not fight for himself. Must he remain impassive, and let events go on as they might? "I do not believe fortune has deserted me," he whispered. "I shall be given a chance to fight for myself." It seemed long hours before the sheriff appeared, accompanied by Burchel Jones, the foxy-faced private detective. "Has he been disarmed?" cautiously asked Jones, as he peered at the boy through the grating in the door. "Yep," replied Kildare, shortly. "Do you think I'm in ther habit o' monkeying with ther prisoners yar?" "H'm! Ha! No, no--of course not! But, you see, this fellow is dangerous--very dangerous. He is not to be trusted." "Wa'al, he's been mild as milk sense he fell inter my hands." "Trickery, my dear sir--base trickery! By the time you have handled so many desperate criminals as I have, you will see through them like glass." Kildare grunted. "Now," continued Jones, with the wisdom of an old owl, "mark the curl of his lip, and the bold, defiant stare of the eye. Mark the covert smile on that face, as if he were really laughing at us now. All those things are significant--mighty significant. You do not dream of the treachery hidden beneath that boyish exterior; but I, sir, can see by his eye that he had rather cut a throat than eat a square meal. The peculiar shape of his lips denote blood-thirstiness, and his nose, which seems rather finely formed to the casual observer, is the nose of a person utterly without conscience. His forehead indicates a certain order of intelligence, but this simply makes him all the more dangerous. He has brain power and force, and that explains why he has succeeded in becoming a leader of desperadoes. That chin is a hard, cruel feature, while the shape of his ears indicates an utter disregard for anything sweet and harmonious of sound, like music. That is an ear which finds more music in the shrieks of murdered victims than in anything else." Frank literally staggered. "Great Scott!" he gasped. "I never before dreamed that I was such a villainous-looking creature!" Kildare began fitting a key to the lock of the door. "Are you sure he is disarmed?" asked the private detective. "Yep." "Well, you are at liberty to do as you like, but I should not remove those irons. It would be far better to keep them on him." "Why?" "Well, you see--that is--hum!--ha!--such a creature cannot be held too fast. There is no telling what he is liable to do." Kildare gave a grunt of disgust, entered the cell, and removed the manacles from Frank's wrists. "Thank you," said the boy, gratefully. "They were beginning to get irksome. I am glad to get them off." "Ther man what calls hisself Professor Scotch has dispatched East fer yer," said the sheriff. "He sw'ars thar has been a mistake made, an' he kin prove you are what ye claim, an' not Black Harry at all." "That can be easily proven," smiled Frank. "All we want is a little time." "Trickery! Trickery!" cried Jones from the corridor. "They will do their best to get his neck out of the noose; but he is Black Harry, and I shall receive the reward for his capture." "You'll receive it when it is proved thet he is Black Harry, so don't yer worry," growled Kildare, who had taken a strong dislike to the foxy-faced detective. "He has been identified by Miss Dawson; that is proof enough." To this Kildare said nothing; but he spoke again to the boy: "Make yerself as easy as yer kin, an' be shore ye'll hev a fair show from Hank Kildare. Thar's talk in town about lynchin', but they don't take yer out o' hyar so long as I kin handle a shootin' iron. I'm goin' ter stay hyar ter-night, an' I'll be reddy fer 'em ef they come." "Thank you again," said Frank, sincerely. "All I ask is a square deal and a fair show. I know it looks black against me just now, but I'll clear my honor." Burchel Jones laughed, sneeringly. Kildare said nothing more, but left the cell, locking the door behind him. At noon Frank was brought an assortment of food that made his eye bulge. He asked if that was the regular fare in the jail, and was told it had been sent in by his friends. "The professor and Barney, God bless them! I wonder why they have left me alone so long? But I know they are working for me." It was late in the afternoon when Barney appeared, and was admitted to the cell. The Irish lad gave Frank's hand a warm squeeze, and cried: "It's Satan's own scrape, me lad; but we'll get ye out av it if th' spalpanes will let yez alone ter-noight. Av they joomp yez, we'll be here ter foight ter ther last gasp." "I know you will, Barney!" said Frank, with deep feeling. "You are my friend through thick and thin. But, say, do you think there is much danger of lynchers to-night?" "Av Mishter Dawson dies, there will be danger enough, and, at last reports it wur said he could not live more than two ur thray hours." _ |
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