Eighteen
J im Kniff had dragged Sammy and Sarah to the sheriff ‘s office at the bottom of Main Street. He had locked the runaways in the cell while Old Johnson held open the door.
‘Fugitives, eh?’ was all he said, stroking his tobacco-stained moustache. Old Johnson was very likely in his last term of office as sheriff. He was too old by several years and had a bad back. The city was growing fast and to keep it in line required someone younger and more resourceful than he was nowadays. The powers that be might even send a federal sheriff as a replacement.
He had a little ranch out towards the mountains, a quiet place that suited him, where he would retire. He knew Jim Kniff and realised it was pointless asking too many questions.
Jim Kniff had gone off to enjoy his steak, three fingers
