Bail, it seemed, was not permitted because the nature of Ambrose's offence was unknown. To be sure a reply to the sheriff's telegraphic query reached Santa Fe in due time, but it simply read: Hold stop parties arrive tomorrow.
Jack Story had been animated by a fury of indignation. He had cursed volubly while his temperature dangerously shot up two degrees. It had been necessary, indeed, for Ambrose to quiet him, for Ambrose felt curiously calm and resigned. He had now arrived at a state of mind in which he was almost prepared to accept blindly any future horror the great Southwest held in store for him. However he turned, whatever he did, apparently made no difference to these strange occidental gods who inexplicably had marked him as a human sacrifice to their splendour.
He permitted Jack to stay by him till late at night, more for Jack's sake than his own, but at last insisted that he should go home. The sheriff for his part had made Ambrose as comfortable as possible, preparing a small room for him with a proper bed, a little aside from the caged area prescribed for more nondescript
