CHAPTER XX
When, baffled by bars, the mob in the Two Moons jail had sent a shot at a flickering candle flame and the life of him known as the Killer had gone out with a chauvinistic grace strangely at variance with the record that had won his grim sobriquet, the cry went up: "Where's Zang Whistler? Turn loose Zang Whistler." Every remaining cell in the block was searched from without; all were empty. Then the mob broke into segments, scouring the courthouse and the living quarters contiguous to the jail for Sheriff Agnew and the prisoner believed by him to have been smuggled to a secret hiding place.
Whistler, true to his pledged word, had remained in the darkened room, waiting at the window for the turn of events. There a dozen of the townsmen found him and acclaimed him with cheers.
"Make yourself scarce, Zang," was the
