Behind John Garlet, Foz and Tillman lay sleeping beneath a steady rise and fall of snoring and mindless babble. Behind Bonsell and Cleary, Casey Stans, the prospector, lay on the plank floor, using his wadded-up hat for a pillow. The sheriff had placed him in the cell to keep him from sleeping on the street. Jake Cleary gave the sleeping prospector a guarded look, then turned back to John Garlet. “Don’t worry about that old desert rat,” John Garlet said in a lowered voice, still sounding woozy and somewhat disoriented. “He’s with us, leastwise until we say he can leave.” Bonsell and Cleary gave each other a dubious look. “All right, here’s the way I see it,” said Cleary, knowing he could spend all night waiting for John Garlet’s head to clear. “You hombres did not rob the bank, so get that part out of your mind right now.” “We meant to,” said John, a little confused.
