The cells were in the basement. The only entrance to the building was by means of a flight of six steps leading to an unroofed platform before the door of the story proper. Mizzoo and Wilfred, standing on this platform, were lifted above the heads of perhaps a hundred men who watched eagerly the dangling bunch of keys. Mizzoo had stationed three deputies at the foot of the steps to keep back the mob, for if the excited men once rushed into the jail nothing could check their course. The deputies, tall broad-shouldered fellows, pushed back the threatening tide, always with good-natured protests,--words half bantering, half appealing, repulsive thrusts of the arms, rough but inflicting no hurt. So peaceful a minute before had been the Square, it was difficult to comprehend the sudden spirit of danger. Mizzoo whispered to Wilfred, "We'd better get in as quick as possible." The words were lost in the increasing roar of voices. He spoke again: "When I swing open the door, that bunch will try to make a run for it. You jump inside and I'll be after you like a shot.... We'll lock ourselves in--" "Hey, Mizzoo!" shouted a voice from the crowd, "bring out that old cuss. Drag him to the platform, we want to hear what he's got to say. "Say, Mr. Sheriff! Tell him if he won't come to us, we'll go to him. We've got to know where Brick Willock's hiding, and that's all about it." "Sure!" growled a third. "What kind of a town is this, anyway? A refuge for highwaymen and murderers?" A struggle took place at the foot of the stairs, not so good-naturedly as heretofore. A reasoning voice was heard: "Just let me say a word to the boys." "Yes!" called others, "let's hear HIM!" There was a surging forward, and a man was lifted literally over the heads of the three deputies; he reached the platform breathless, disheveled, but triumphant. It was the survivor of Red Kimball's band. Mizzoo, mistaking his coming for a general rush, had hastily relocked the door, and he and Wilfred defended themselves with drawn revolvers. "I ain't up here to do no harm," called the ex-highwayman. "I ain't got the spirit for warfare. My chief is killed, my pards is dead. Even that innocent stage-driver what knew nothing of us, is killed in the attack that Brick Willock made on us in the dark and behind our backs. How're you going to grow when the whole world knows you ain't nothing but a den of snakes? You may claim it's all Brick Willock. I say if he's bigger than the town, if he murders and stabs and you can't help it, then the town ain't as good as him. My life's in danger. I don't know if I'll draw another breath. What kind of a reputation is that for you to send abroad? There's a man in this jail can tell you where Willock's hiding. Good day!"