CHAPTER XIV.

THE JAIL.

In one of the interior towns of California there stands a jail, by no means striking in appearance, or remarkable for its solidity or strength, yet possessing the horrible fascination which any place connected with tragic deeds fastens on the mind.

Within that prison many notable criminals had been confined; murders had been committed there by hardened men, daring every thing in a struggle for liberty; many a reckless criminal had gone from thence to the gallows; even youths, with the freshness of boyhood on their cheeks, had gone out from those walls to a violent death, incited to evil doing and crime by the very lawlessness and sin about them.

In one of the cells upon the upper floor, a single occupant was seated, crouched down upon a bench, and his eyes moodily fixed upon the small grated window which looked out upon a sort of paved court around which the jail was built.

The prisoner might have been a man of thirty-five, but in that dim light, with his unshaven beard, and face pale from inactivity and confinement, it was difficult to judge accurately of his age.

The countenance was harsh and unpleasant, but the expression was rather that of reckless passion than revealing any stern, sinister determination. His frame was large and muscular, the veins were knotted and swollen upon his pale hands, and it was indeed pitiable to see so much physical strength wasting in the gloom of a prison.

Sometimes his lips moved; the restless flashing of his eyes betrayed the brooding thought within his mind. At last he rose suddenly, took the bench upon which he had been sitting, and lifted it, as if anxious to test his strength. He held it extended upon the fingers of his right hand in a manner which required no inconsiderable force. Then he set it down upon the floor, abruptly as he had raised it, and laughed a low, smothered laugh.

"Not quite a baby yet," he muttered--"not quite! I can do it, and I will. I have got out of worse scrapes than this--fudge, what's this place compared to Australia?"

A low imprecation finished the sentence, then he resumed his seat, and began his meditations anew. But quiet seemed impossible to him in the mood into which he had worked himself.

He rose again, carried the bench to the window, and, standing upon it, managed to leap high enough to grasp the gratings. There he suspended himself, with his whole weight resting upon his hands, and looked out. When he had finished his survey, he loosed his hold and dropped lightly upon the bench.

"It's all right," he whispered to himself. "I know the place. It can be done, and I am the man to do it."

It was then somewhat after midday, and, as the man resumed his seat, there was a tread without, a sound of keys grating in their lock, then the door opened and the jailer entered, carrying a sparse meal, which he set down near the prisoner.

The man looked up and nodded good-naturedly enough.

"I thought you didn't mean to let me have any dinner," he said.

"Oh, I don't want to starve you," returned the jailer. "Eat and make yourself comfortable."

It was no unusual thing for the prisoner to engage this man in conversation, and if he was in the mood he answered readily and with sufficient kindness.

"What day of the month is this?" asked the man, preparing to attack the repast set before him.

"The twelfth."

"How a fellow loses his count in this miserable hole," returned the prisoner.

"Don't slander your quarters, there's worse in the world; ten to one you've been in 'em."

"Maybe so and maybe not. I say, California sheep get pretty tough, now don't they?" he continued, tearing vigorously at the baked mutton which had been placed before him.

"Makes a man strong to eat tough mutton," replied the jailer.

"Think so?" and the prisoner smiled a little, unseen by his companion.

"I'm sure of it," said the jailer.

"Perhaps you've had your turn at it," observed the man.

"Can't say I ever did, and don't want to."

"You needn't; still it's not so bad that one can't bear it."

The jailer prepared to retire.

"You're a cheerful, good-natured fellow, any how," he remarked.

"Yes, that is my way."

"And a good deal better than being so cantankerous as some chaps we have here; they only get harder treatment."

The prisoner agreed with him completely, and with some other careless remark, the jailer left the cell.

When the door closed, and he heard the heavy bolts clang into their sockets, the prisoner muttered:

"If I have to throttle you to-night, you won't think so well of my good-nature."

He laughed again, as if there had been something amusing in the thought, and finished his meal with as much dispatch as if some important business awaited its completion.

But when all was done, he had only to resume his silent watch, varying it by pacing up and down the narrow cell, and performing a variety of gymnastic feats, which seemed an unnecessary waste of muscle and strength.

So the afternoon wore by. The sunset came in; its faint gold streamed across the floor, and attracted the prisoner's eye. He rose, stretching out his hands as if to grasp it.

"This looks like freedom," he muttered. "It's a warning."

The superstition appeared to gratify him, and he remained in the same position until the brightness faded, and the gray shadows of twilight began to fill the room.

"It's gone," he said; "so much the better; I shall follow all the sooner."

He sat down again and waited. His restlessness and impatience had disappeared; a strong determination settled upon his face. He looked prepared for any emergency, and was ready to catch at any chance, however desperate, which might aid his plans.

The lamp in the corridor had been lighted while he sat there; the light struggled through the grating over the door, and played across the room among the shadows cast by the bars.

There he sat, listening to every sound from without with the stealthy quiet of a panther that sees his prey and is prepared to spring.

An hour might have passed before the jailer's heavy tread again sounded upon the pavement; he was whistling a merry tune, that rung strangely enough among those gloomy corridors and darkened cells.

When the prisoner heard the step pause before his door, he took from his bed the thick woolen blankets which lay upon it and, grasping them in his hand, crept quietly behind the door.

The key turned in the lock, the heavy door swung upon its hinges with a sound so mournful and ominous, that had the man who entered been at all imaginative, he might have taken it for a warning. But he passed on, interrupting his song to call out something in a cheerful voice, but the prisoner did not answer.

"He must be asleep," muttered the jailer. "Well, well, poor chap, he hain't much else to do!"

He moved toward the bed, saying:

"Here, wake up, lazybones, and eat your supper before it gets cold."

The door swung slowly to its latch, but he did not heed the warning; a step sounded behind him, but before he could turn or cry out, the heavy blanket was thrown over his head, almost smothering him in its folds, and an iron grasp crushed him down upon the floor.

"Lie still, or I'll murder you," whispered a stern, hard voice.

The jailer's only response was a half-choked gurgle in his throat; whatever his courage or strength might have been, he was entirely powerless.

The prisoner continued his preparations with the utmost quiet; bound the unfortunate man to the iron bedstead, and so completely enveloped him in the blanket, that there was not the slightest hope of his extricating himself.

Stealthily the prisoner moved to the door, and looked down the corridor dimly lighted by a lamp at the further end. No one was stirring; at that hour the people employed in the jail were at their supper, as the man well knew, so that he found little risk of being observed.

He locked the door behind him, put the keys in his pocket, to be flung away when once beyond the walls, and walked rapidly but silently down the passage.

He was perfectly familiar with every winding and outlet of the prison, and moved hurriedly along through the shadows, down the stairs, along a back passage, where no guard was stationed as it communicated directly with the kitchens, and reached the outer door.

There he paused an instant, to be certain that he had made no mistake, looking about with as much composure as though he had been already beyond the danger of pursuit.

He had been in more terrible positions than that; had listened to the infuriated shouts of a mob thirsting for his life; had seen the body of a companion swung from a tree before his very eyes; and yet, amid all the horror and terror, had preserved his courage and presence of mind sufficiently to make his way among the very men who were hunting him down with the fury of bloodhounds.

An hour passed. The jailer in the dark cell had managed, with his teeth and nails, to enlarge a rent in the blanket sufficiently to extricate his head. His feet were pinioned, but he crept along the pavement to the door, and beat heavily against the bars to summon assistance from without; but nothing answered, save the echo of his frantic cries and the sharp blows upon the barred oak.

Away out upon a little eminence, that still from the distance commanded a view of the prison, stood the escaped criminal, casting a last glance back upon the weather-stained walls. He lifted his hand with a gesture of mockery and exultation, plunged down the hill, and was lost amid the dense woods that spread out for miles beyond.