Like a brown leaf fluttering in the wind it came through the bars of the cell door. It floated in past a corner of the cot and came to rest on the concrete floor. A heavy brogan slid over it, and “Tex” Rowland, otherwise Number 1733, owner of the brogan, squinted speculatively at the bars. A trusty had just passed; a wizened-faced, hump-shouldered little old trusty, who had been “Hump” Sherrill before other people’s horses had somehow come into his possession, and through said possession had been given a number in a place where there is little use for the Eighth Commandment.…
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