Free Stop This Man! by Peter Rabe Page B

labored sound. The hand was puffing up fast.
    “So I figure the best way of doing that, city feller, is for you to stay around here a little while. Then, when I see some real improvement, why, then we’ll start figuring on some kind of trial for you. The judge at the county seat is a friend of mine, so we’ll see what can be done in the case of the Law versus City Feller. Any questions? No? I didn’t figure so.”
    The sheriff stood a while looking at Catell on the floor. Then he started to laugh. He laughed with a slow babbling sound that could have meant anything.
    “I’m going to leave you for a spell now, seeing you’d rather be alone with your little aches and pains. And in case you crave company, there’s a deputy right beyond that door, sittin’ on the porch.”
    The sheriff turned away and left, still shaking with his slow gobble of a laugh.
    Catell stayed on the floor for a while, watching his hand. The swelling was dark red now, but the pain wasn’t so unbearable any more. Except when he moved his fingers.
    Alone in the jailhouse, Catell started to look around. Standing at the bars, he could glimpse a cell on either side of him. There was a door to the left, half open, with atoilet visible. Beyond the corridor was the long room that served as an office. Through the two windows Catell could see a porch and a country street.
    The bars of the window in his cell were solid. So were the ones that formed one wall of his cell. But the lock of the cell was nothing. A strong nail, bent, or perhaps a spoon, he thought, any simple thing like that would do it. Tonight? Tomorrow. Sitting down carefully on the cot, Catell thought about it. Why rush? That bastard hick of a sheriff wasn’t in any hurry to move to court. So wait. Wait for the breaks. And the longer the sheriff waited, the more he would get in the wrong. And the more he got in the wrong, the less of a leg he’d have to stand on. Catell felt better.
    Suddenly he jumped up, fright in his eyes. The gold! Where was his car? In panicky confusion he ran to the bars, shaking them, rattling the door. He curled the fingers of his injured hand, not feeling the pain, with only one thought in his mind. The gold! Then he ran to the window, to shake the bars, to reach his arm far out of the yellow hole that faced nothing but hot dust and weeds. Then he saw it. His car was standing in back of the jail. One door was half open and nothing looked any different about the car than when he had bought it. He could see the back seat, undisturbed. Draped over the seat was the lead apron.
    With a deep breath Catell stepped back from the window and sank down on his cot. He was tired. He stretched out carefully, with one arm over his eyes, the injured hand resting on his stomach. The dull heat of the cell lay like lead around him, but Catell hardly noticed it. He slept.
    “Just look at him sweat,” said the deputy to the three ranchers. They stood outside the cell, watching Catell asleep on his cot.
    “You think he’s sweating now, boys, just wait till I get through with him,” said the sheriff. “Ben, get me a bucket of water.”
    The deputy went outside and came back with the bucket. “Whatcha gonna do, Harry?”
    “Just step back and watch.”
    Heaving the bucket in a wide arc, the sheriff tossed the water at Catell. It caught him full on the neck and face. The sleeping man jerked up with a wild gasp, dumb bewilderment in his face. There was a roar of laughter from the men who were peering through the bars, with stamping of feet and back-slapping.
    “What’s his name?” one of them asked.
    “Call him New Orleans,” said the sheriff. “He likes to be called New Orleans. It makes him think of the big city. Right, New Orleans?”
    Catell stood up slowly but didn’t answer.
    “He don’t answer,” said another rancher, and they all looked at the sheriff. “Harry, he don’t answer.”
    “He will.” The sheriff pushed the men aside and stepped up to the door. He