five years."

"Is it possible?"

"That was when his wife died. He said he felt so good it wasn't
necessary to get drunk. Well, I'll tell you all about it when I come
back. Don't worry no more, Rosalie. I'll find out who's back of this
business an' then we'll know all about you. It's a long lane that has no
turn."

"Them prisoners must be mighty near starved to death by this time,
Anderson," warned Mrs. Crow.

"Doggone, that's so!" he cried, and hustled out into the night.

The calaboose was almost totally dark--quite so, had it not been for the
single lamp that burned in the office where the body of the old woman
was lying. Two or three timid citizens stood afar off, in front of
Thompson's feed yard, looking with awe upon the dungeon keep. Anderson's
footsteps grew slower and more halting as they approached the entrance
to the forbidding square of black. The snow creaked resoundingly under
his heels and the chill wind nipped his muffless ears with a
spitefulness that annoyed. In fact, he became so incensed, that he set
his basket down and slapped his ears vigorously for some minutes before
resuming his slow progress. He hated the thought of going in where the
dead woman lay.

Suddenly he made up his mind that a confession from the men would be
worthless unless he had ear witnesses to substantiate it in court.
Without further deliberation, he retraced his steps hurriedly to
Lamson's store, where, after half an hour's conversation on the topics
of the day, he deputised the entire crowd to accompany him to the jail.

"Where's Bud?" he demanded sharply.

"Home in bed, poor child," said old Mr. Borton.

"Well, doggone his ornery hide, why ain't he here to--" began Anderson,
but checked himself in time to prevent the crowd from seeing that he
expected Bud to act as leader in the expedition. "I wanted him to jot
down notes," he substituted. Editor Squires volunteered to act as
secretary, prompter, interpreter, and everything else that his scoffing
tongue could utter.

"Well, go ahead, then," said Anderson, pushing him forward. Harry led
the party down the dark street with more rapidity than seemed necessary;
few in the crowd could keep pace with him. A majority fell hopelessly
behind, in fact.

Straight into the office walked Harry, closely followed by Blootch and
the marshal. Maude, looking like a monument of sheets, still occupied
the centre of the floor. Without a word, the party filed past the
gruesome, sile