As the sheriff left to get the writing materials, with the jailer following him, doubtless for a whispered confab as to what Rathburn might be wanting to write and its possible bearing on his capture, the prisoner hastily ran his left hand down into his right sock and with some difficulty withdrew a peculiar-shaped leather case about ten inches long and nearly the width of his foot. This he put within his shirt. When the officials returned he had finished his repast and was waiting for them near the bars with a smile of gratitude on his lips. "This may be a confession I'm going to write," he said, grinning at Neal. "It's going to take me a long time, I reckon, but you said I had something like ten hours for sleep, so I guess I can spare two or three for this effort at literary composition. I figure, sheriff, that this'll be my masterpiece." His look puzzled the sheriff as he took the pencil and paper through the bars and returned to his bunk. He drew up the stool and sat upon it. It was a little lower than the bench, so, putting his paper on the bench, he had a fairly good makeshift desk. He began to write steadily, and after a few minutes the sheriff and jailer retired to the office. It did not take Rathburn a quarter of an hour to write what he wished on the first of the several pieces of paper. He tore off what he had written, doubled it again and again into a small square, took out his sack of tobacco which he had been allowed to retain, and put it therein with the loose tobacco. Then he wrote for a few minutes on the second sheet of paper. When the sheriff looked in later he evidently was slowly and laboriously achieving a composition. Rathburn heard the sheriff go out of the front door a few minutes later. Instantly he was alert. He drew on his boots. He surmised that the sheriff had gone out for something to eat and, though he wasn't sure of this, it was true. "Oh, jailer!" he called amiably. The wrinkled face of the desert trailer appeared in the office doorway. Rathburn looked about from his seat on the stool. "This job ain't none too easy, as it is," he complained. "As a writer I'm a first-rate cow hand. Lemme take your knife to sharpen this pencil with. When I asked the sheriff for a stub of a pencil he took me at my word." "Sure I'll let you have my knife," said the jailer sarcastically. "How about my gun--want that, too?" "Oh, come on, old-timer," pleaded Rathburn. "The lead in this pencil's worn clean down into the wood." "Hand it over here an' I'll sharpen it," said the jailer, drawing his pocketknife. Rathburn walked to the bars and held out the pencil. An amiable smile played on his lips. "You'll have to excuse me," he said contritely. "I forgot it wasn't jail etiquette to ask for a knife. But I ain't had much experience in jail. Now according to his nibs, the sheriff, I'm in to get pretty well acquainted with 'em, eh?" He watched the jailer as he began sharpening the pencil.