"The sheriff and his posse are in there." "But I must speak to you a moment," said the figure.
"Wait," said Patterson, glancing toward the building.

Its blank, shutterless windows revealed no inner light; a profound silence encompassed it.

"Come quick," he whispered.

Letting his grasp slip down to the unresisting hand of the stranger, he half dragged, half led him, brushing against the wall, into the open door of the deserted bar-room he had just quitted, locked the inner door, poured a glass of whiskey from a decanter, gave it to him, and then watched him drain it at a single draught.
The moon came out, and falling through the bare windows full upon the stranger's face, revealed the artistic but slightly disheveled curls and mustache of the fugitive, Spencer Tucker.
Whatever may have been the real influence of this unfortunate man upon his fellows, it seemed to find expression in a singular unanimity of criticism.

Patterson looked at him with a half dismal, half welcoming smile.