APTER XXIII

Tinkletown's Convulsion

Anderson Crow was himself once more. He was twenty years younger than
when he went to bed the night before. His joy and pride had reached the
bursting point--dignity alone prevented the catastrophe.

"What do you expect to do with the gang, Mr. Crow?" asked Bonner,
reclining with amiable ease in the marshal's Morris chair. He was
feeling very comfortable, despite "Doc" Smith's stitches; and he could
not help acknowledging, with more or less of a glow in his heart, that
it was nice to play hero to such a heroine.

"Well, I'll protect 'em, of course. Nobody c'n lynch 'em while I'm
marshal of this town," Anderson said, forgetful of the fact that he had
not been near the jail, where Master Bud still had full charge of
affairs, keyless but determined. "I'll have to turn them over to the
county sheriff to-day er to-morrow, I reckon. This derned old calaboose
of ourn ain't any too safe. That's a mighty desperit gang we've
captured. I cain't remember havin' took sech a mob before."

"Has it occurred to you, Mr. Crow, that we have captured only the
hirelings? Their employer, whoever he or she may be, is at large and
probably laughing at us. Isn't there some way in which we can follow
the case up and land the leader?"

"'y Gosh, you're right," said Anderson. "I thought of that this mornin',
but it clean skipped my mind since then. There's where the mistake was
made, Mr. Bonner. It's probably too late now. You'd oughter thought
about the leader. Seems to me--"

"Why, Daddy Crow," cried Rosalie, a warm flush in her cheeks once more,
"hasn't Mr. Bonner done his part? Hasn't he taken them single-handed and
hasn't he saved me from worse than death?"

"I ain't castin' any insinyations at him, Rosalie," retorted Anderson,
very sternly for him. "How _can_ you talk like that?"

"I'm not offended, Miss Gray," laughed Bonner. "We all make mistakes. It
has just occurred to me, however, that Mr. Crow may still be able to
find out who the leader is. The prisoners can be pumped, I dare say."

"You're right ag'in, Mr. Bonner. It's funny how you c'n read my
thoughts. I was jest goin' down to the jail to put 'em through the sweat
cell."

"Sweat cell? You mean sweat box, Mr. Crow," said Bonner, laughing in
spite of himself.

"No, sir; it's a cell. We couldn't find a box big enough. I use the cell
reserved fer women prisoners. Mebby some day the town board will put in
a reg'lar box, but, so far,