It was the only thing
standing between him and freedom!
NAME ON THE DODGER
When Slattery came to, his hands were manacled together and his ankles were bound with rope. Jonas Curry sat on a boulder on the far side of the fire, a tin mug held close to his face.
“You make good coffee, Slattery, but you’ve had your last cup of decent java for at least ten years.” Curry sipped, smacked his lips, then winked as he smiled crookedly. “They tell me the coffee they serve in the State Pen is so terrible it’ll likely eat holes in a man’s belly . . . why, you don’t look any too good of a sudden, outlaw. I wonder why?”
Curry chuckled and downed the rest of the coffee. Slattery had no other option open to him but to lay there as the marshal’s unwilling prisoner.