He did not relish the thought of being left there over night, yet he
strongly doubted whether they would venture to take him out on the
streets in the sight of possible friends.
He fell to wondering what they would do with him. Except in extremity,
they would hardly murder him out of hand, and yet to explain to him why
they had treated him so hardly, would be a delicate matter. But the
answer lay in the operator's total freedom from suspicion that his
captive had read the wire. So far as that backwoods Machiavelli
divined, there was no link establishing himself with the conspiracy to
rob, and when the time came he thought he could clear his skirts by a
simple means.
Night had fallen when at last the prisoner heard the door open and saw
the Agent enter, accompanied by the two gunmen who had been his
companions that morning. They came with a lantern and the telegraph
man held a heavy rasp in his hand. Halting before the bound figure, he
spoke slowly and with a somewhat shamefaced note of apology.
"I reckon I've got ter pray yore forgiveness, Stranger," he began.
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