Doty Buxton came in from the hall, where he had gone to watch operations. “The do' is givin',” he said; “what'll you do?” “Nothin',” the sheriff answered, slowly. “Won't you give 'em the keys?” “I haven't got 'em.” “Gosh!” and Doty's eyes got big as saucers. Very soon the outer door was down, and the crowd came trooping in, all save John Morris, who stopped in the hallway. He seemed to be unable even to look at the sheriff, and the sheriff felt the averted face more than he would have felt a blow. “We want the keys,” Mitchell said. The sheriff, who had risen, stood with his hands in his pockets, and his eyes, filled with sympathy, fastened on Mr. Morris, standing looking blankly down the empty hall. “I haven't got the keys, Mr. Mitchell,” he answered. “Oh, come off!” cried one of the townsmen. “Rocky!” cried another. “Yo' granny's hat!” came from a third; while Doty Buxton said, gravely, “Give up, Partin; we've humored this duty business long enough.” “Do I understand you to say that you won't give up the keys?” Mitchell demanded, scornfully. “No,” the sheriff retorted, a little hotly, “you don't understand anything of the kind. I said that I didn't have the keys; and further,” he added, after a moment's pause, “I say that this jail is empty.” There was silence for a moment, while the men looked at one another incredulously; then the jeering began again. “There is nothing to do but to break open the cells,” Morris said, sharply, but without turning his head. “We trusted the sheriff last night, and he outwitted us; we must not trust him again.” The sheriff's eyes flashed, and the blood sprang to his face. The crowd stood eagerly silent; but after a second the sheriff answered, quietly, “You may say what you please to me, Mr. Morris, and I'll not resent it under these circumstances, but I'll swear the jail's empty.” For answer Morris drove an axe furiously against the nearest cell door, and the crowd followed suit. There were not many cells, and as he looked from a window the sheriff counted the doors as they fell in, and listened for the whistle of the train that he hoped would bring Judge More. The doors were going down rapidly, and as each yielded the sheriff could hear cries and demonstrations. What would they do when the last one fell? Presently Doty Buxton, who had been making observations, came in, pale and excited. “You'd better git yo' pistols,” he said, “an' I'll git mine, for they're gittin' madder an' madder every time he ain't there.” “Well,” the sheriff answered, “I want you to witness that I ain't armed. My pistols are over there on the table, unloaded. Thank the good Lord!” he exclaimed, suddenly; “there's the train, an' Judge More! I hope he'll come right along.” “An' there goes the last do'!” said Doty, as, after a crash and a momentary silence, oaths and ejaculations filled the air. He drew near the sheriff, but the sheriff moved away. “Stand back,” he said; “you've got little children.”