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.

"Well, now's your chance to smoke me up good an' plenty an' get away
with it," said Rathburn cheerfully. "I'm shy my gun which the sheriff
has borrowed."

"You figure he's just borrowed it?" sneeringly inquired Carlisle.

Rathburn rose and surveyed his visitor. "I reckon I've got to tolerate
you," he drawled. "I can't pick my company in here."

"I've got your number," snarlingly replied Carlisle in a low voice.

Rathburn sauntered close to the bars, rolling a cigarette.

"If you have, Carlisle, you've got a winning number," he said evenly.

"Whatever your play is here, I dunno," said Carlisle; "but you won't
get away with it as easy as you did over the range in Dry Lake."

Rathburn's eyes never flickered as he coolly lit his cigarette with a
steady hand. "You're plumb full of information, eh, Carlisle?"

"I was over there an' heard about how you stuck up that joint an'
tried to blame it on some kid by the name of Lamy," said Carlisle,
watching Rathburn closely.

"You sure that was the way of it?" asked Rathburn casually.

"No," replied the other. "I know the kid stuck up the joint an' you
took the blame to keep him under cover. I don't know your reasons, but
I guess you don't want the facts known. You broke jail. They ain't
forgo