The houses along the way presented faces utterly blank and devoid of
life. Brent would have wondered at that, had he not had his brief talk
with Mallows. Now he understood. Respectable folks had withdrawn to
shelter behind barred doors and tightly shuttered windows until such
time as the unleashed element of outlawry should evacuate the town.
The law-abiding were, in effect, undergoing a siege and avoiding the
ill-lighted streets.
But the light at the court-house square was relatively bright and as
Brent crossed in front of the squat and shadowy bulk of the old
jail-house--empty now, though it should have been full--he made out a
figure hastening about him in a circuitous fashion at a dog trot as
though bent on arriving at the hostelry first. That, then, must have
been the presence he had felt at his back, and a fresh alarm assailed
him. It was the figure of Bud Sellers.
When at last Alexander had gone up the several steps that led to the
closed door of the tavern, and stood for a moment, evidently hesitating
with disgust for the babel within, Brent drew back into a convenient
shadow and looked anxiously about for the other figure.
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