Free Stop This Man! by Peter Rabe Page A

for a while,” said the thickset man who was holding a two-by-four in his hand.
    “Reckon,” said the short one next to him. “What’ll we do now?”
    “To the jailhouse. The stranger here has some explainin’ to do, and Harry—well, Harry just natcherly belongs in the jailhouse, seein’ he’s our sheriff.” They both laughed.
    “Sure makes me feel good, seein’ our Harry get his for a change. Had it comin’ for a long time,” said the short one. “I just feel kinda sorry for that stranger here, once Harry starts feelin’ like himself again.”
    They laughed again and then started to drag the two limp figures over the gravel.

Chapter Seven
    A bottle fly kept buzzing around the cell. It hit the walls with a small flat sound. Every time it hit, fine yellow dust sifted down from the adobe. A few times it made for the light that came through the barred window, but even though there was no glass, the fly didn’t find its way out. Then it angled down into the shadow, hit the wall again, and landed on Catell’s face. It sat there for a long tune without Catell’s knowing it. When he came to, he did so with a start, slapping his hand over his forehead with a wide awkward swing. He jumped up, but weaved and doubled over. There was a blue ache in his left shoulder, and the pain in his head made red fire flash before his eyes.
    After a moment he straightened up. His eyes ran over the adobe walls, the barred hole of a window, and the bars that made one wall of his cell. There was a room beyond, but Catell didn’t take it in because closer by, near the iron door, the sheriff sat hunched on a three-legged stool. His eyes and nose were puffed with a purple shimmer, and his lips were curled back, showing his long yellow teeth. Three teeth in front were missing, and his tongue was probing back and forth over the reddened hole.
    “Sleep good, city feller?” He talked with a hiss. Catell walked up to the bars but didn’t answer.
    “I’m askin’ because for a spell now that’s goin’ to be your last good sleep.”
    The sheriff got up slowly and walked to a desk near the door beyond. He came back with a pencil and pad. After sitting down again he said, “What’s your name, stranger?”
    “Jesse Weiss.”
    “Age?”
    “Forty-eight.”
    “Where from?”
    “New Orleans.”
    The questions went on and Catell gave answers. He kept his voice even and his eyes down. There were going to be no more mistakes. In the time of a minute he had made all the bad ones: attracting attention, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer of the law, landing in jail. No more mistakes now. Don’t offend the man; do what he says; act small and a little scared. And wait for the breaks. This wasn’t the end. This was bad, but not the end. For God’s sake, this was not the end!
    “Now listen close, city feller, because I want you to know what I got in mind. Like I tried to tell you once before, I’m the law around here, and you went ahead and broke that law more’n a couple of times. Now we can’t have that around here, city feller. You gotta learn how to stay on the right side of the law.”
    Catell had his hands around the bars, listening with eyes down, when the sheriff stopped talking. Catell looked up and caught the blurred movement too late. The sap smacked down sharply, cracking across the back of his right hand.
    “You listening to me, New Orleans? You paying attention to what I say?”
    Catell didn’t hear him. He had jerked back, gasping with the pain that exploded in his hand. His knees buckledand he groaned hoarsely, his good hand tightening around the wrist of the other arm. The sheriff had got off his chair, watching. His tongue was working the hole in his gums like a lazy snake.
    “That’s just so you know who to pay attention to around here, New Orleans. Now, like I was saying, you gotta learn to respect the law, and I’m just the man what can teach you how.”
    Catell sat on the floor, his breath making a harsh