Rathburn now knew exactly what Carlisle had meant when he had referred to the Dixie pay-roll taking wings. He had, however, suspected it. The holdup of the truck driver also was explained. Rathburn smiled. It was a peculiar ruse for the mines manager to resort to. Could not the pay-roll be sent to the mines under armed guard? Rathburn's eyes were dreamy when he looked at the deputy. "All right, in you go," said Mannix, as the jailer unlocked the heavy, barred door from the inside. He led Rathburn to one of the single cells, of which there were six on one side of the jail room proper. "Maybe you'll be ready to talk in the morning," he said, as he locked his prisoner in. "Morning might be too late," Rathburn observed, taking tobacco and papers from his shirt pocket. "What do you mean by that?" Mannix asked sharply. "I might change my mind." "About talking, eh? Well, we'll find a way to make you change it back again." "You're a grateful cuss," said Rathburn, grinning. Mannix scowled. It was plain he was not sure of his man, although he was trying to convince himself that he was. "I don't get you," he said growlingly. "No? Didn't you hear that fellow Carlisle say I saved your life by not drawing?" "He'd have got you if you'd tried to draw. That's what he thought you was going to do. You saved your skin by grabbing the floor." Rathburn wet the paper of his cigarette and sealed the end. "I'm wondering," he mused, as he snapped a match into flame, with a thumb nail and lit the weed. "It's about time," said the deputy grimly. "I'm wondering," said Rathburn, in a soft voice, exhaling a thin streamer of smoke, "if he'd have got me." Mannix grunted, looked at him curiously, and then turned abruptly on his heel and left. Rathburn could not see the door, but he heard the big key grate in the lock, and then the jail room echoed to the clang of hard metal and the door swung shut again. Rathburn sat down on the bunk which was to serve as his bed. He smoked his brown-paper cigarette slowly and with great relish while he stared, not through the bars to where the dim light of a lamp showed, but straight at the opposite steel wall of his cell. His eyes were thoughtful, dreamy, his brow was puckered. "An' there's that," he muttered as he threw away the stub of his smoke and began to roll another. "Somebody's been playing the Dixie Queen for a meal ticket. That sign said 'robberies.' That means more'n one. The truck driver was the last. Two thousand reward. An' me headed for the desert where I belong. What stopped me? I reckon I know." He smiled grimly as he remembered the insolent challenge in Carlisle's eyes and the reference to the bath. After a time Rathburn stretched out on the bunk, pulled his hat over his face, and dozed. He sat up with a catlike movement as a persistent tapping on the bars of his cell reached his ears. Blinking in the half light he saw Carlisle's dark features.