The door was hastily closed with a loud bang, and the weird figure vanished like an apparition. For a few moments the revellers sat in stupefied silence. Finally Buck Ashley said in a low voice: “Damn that whisky anyhow. It has made us talk too loud.” “Yes,” remarked Tom Baker, “and also too dangnation much, I’m a-thinkin’.” Both were sober men now. “Believe I’ll have a snooze,” said Jack rover, seating himself on an old lounge in a corner of the room. But he did not lie down. Nothing more was said for perhaps a full half hour; all were nodding or busy with their brooding thoughts. At last Buck Ashley rose and tiptoed toward the bedroom. “Guess I’ll see if poor Pierre has gone to sleep again,” he murmured. A moment later he shouted out from the inner chamber: “Hell, boys!—he’s gone! He’s given us the slip—the damned old jail-bird!” CHAPTER XIX—The Jail Delivery AROUND Dick Willoughby there had been woven a web of circumstantial evidence that even before his trial had convinced most people of his guilt. Only a few tried friends who absolutely refused to believe him capable of shooting down an unarmed man from ambush clung to their faith that he had had nothing to do with the slaying of young Marshall Thurston. Among the general public the only question in discussion was whether the jury were likely to find extenuating circumstances and, should the life of the prisoner come to be spared, how long would be his sentence. Ben Thurston had lavished money with a free hand toward securing every possible piece of testimony in support of the prosecution, and before his return home even the cautious New York lawyer, Mr. Hawkins, had admitted that the case against Willoughby appeared to be conclusive. It was only a matter of a few weeks now when Thurston would be leaving the district. Already San Antonio Rancho was in possession of the syndicate; their foreman was in charge, the stock under their control, and it was only out of consideration that the former owner was being permitted to linger a little longer in residence. But for the gloomy and morose man there seemed to be gloating satisfaction in the grim thought that before shaking off forever the dust of his old home he would first of all ensure the hanging of his son’s murderer. Among the most regular visitors at the jail were the ladies of La Siesta, and rumor now began to run around that Miss Merle Farnsworth, despite Willoughby’s pleading that she should not mix her name up in the case, would offer some surprising evidence in favor of the accused man—evidence that might not exonerate Willoughby from responsibility for the deed, but perhaps would fully justify his act to the minds of the jurymen. It was now only three days from the trial, and the whole county was agog with expectation.