Three sevens A detective story
Among these were Gary Lee, from Clear Rapids, and Major Gracie, from
San Pedro.
Finally they met at the Gracie home, where Joan and her Aunt
Katherine had preceded them. Both Joan and Aunt Katherine had decided
it would be better for them to spend the night together at the Gracie
home in town. The woods, particularly in the neighborhood of the
Middleton cottage, were swarming by this time. There was a crowd in
the usually empty lane and in the little-frequented road.
Here the Napoleon of the Underworld had been seen. No one had the
straight of it. They quested for information among themselves, each
telling the other as first-hand information what each had just heard
from somebody else.
There was a tense excitement even in the town itself, among those
whom duty or disinclination had kept from joining the chase.
What had happened out there? What was happening now? What was going
to happen?
More and more an ugly phrase was heard. Folks passed it on, half in
jest, certainly without stopping to think, in most instances, what
the words implied. But the phrase itself was fire, and the town was
becoming a powder mill. The phrase was this:
“_He ought to be lynched!_”
Joan, with a white face and shimmering eyes, completed the confession
that hitherto she had made only in part. She told her father that
not only had she originally recommended that convict No. 3777 cross
the valley on the farmer’s borrowed horse--which she herself had
later returned, but, this time, had had Gary Lee carry the fugitive
on to Aunt Katherine’s, there to remain until he had recovered his
strength, and people were no longer so bent on capturing him.
“If this story comes out----” said Major Gracie, after a terrifying
silence.
“That is what I said,” Gary Lee remarked.
They were in the Gracie parlor at the time. The windows were open,
the curtains stirring slowly in the breeze. The breeze was scented
with clipped lawns and newly sprinkled streets, for the house
stood far out in a residential section of the town that was almost
suburban. And it was very quiet. There were none of the noises
associated with towns at all, except the occasional grind of a
passing auto, the hammers and voices of carpenters at work on a
house, the clang and clank of the railroad yards a quarter of a mile
away.
But gradually there overcame these sounds a sort of surging
murmur--something that they seemed to have noticed for quite a while
before they paid attention to it.
“What is that sound?”
“Yes, I’ve been hearing it for some time.”
“It sounds like cheering.”
“There it is again.”
They looked into each other’s eyes. They knew all about that man hunt
that had called its hundreds into the woods to the north of the town.
Gary turned to Joan.
“It sounds to me,” said he, “as if they had caught that friend of
ours, sure enough.”
He saw the whiteness and the tensity of her face.
“Joan!” he whispered.
She disregarded him. She faced her father.
“What are you going to do?”
“Get to the sheriff as soon as I can--see that there’s no lynching.”
“I’ll go with you, sir,” said Lee.
“Stay with the ladies,” said the major, giving orders. “And you,
young lady”--he turned to Joan--“I’ll ask to remain in quarters.”
“Please!” she cried.
“What!”
The major didn’t intend to, but he himself went a little white. For
the first time within his memory, Joan had questioned an order. The
orders, to be sure, had been few and wise.
“I tell you, this poor creature saved my life.”
“And he’ll make the most of it,” muttered Lee.
But Joan had thrown her arms about her father’s neck. He looked
across the top of her head at his sister-in-law.
“You’re in charge of your Aunt Katherine,” he said.
He drew himself up. So did the others. There was no mistaking that
distant mob music. The man hunters were ready for the kill.
Those sounds of a growing mob had been frequent enough even before
Craig and Craig’s prisoner, Harry, the Goose, had left the edge of
their dry watercourse. The woods were being overrun.
Craig had only one thought, and that was to keep the chase going
until night. He saw that, even before night, he and Harry would have
a good chance to put the region behind them. There were only a few in
the crowd who could have recognized either him or Harry, anyway, but
he knew the instinct of the small-town crowd and the country crowd
for strangers.
He and Harry were strangers. That was enough. They would have to
keep out of sight until the sun went down, or, if seen, stave off
suspicion as best they could until they were out of sight again.
Violence would do no good. In most of the crises that Craig could
think of, he knew that the revolver he had taken from Harry would be
worse than useless.
One shot against a hundred. He would, indeed, rather spend it on
himself than on some innocent farmhand doing his best, according
to his own lights, to serve his country by running down an escaped
convict to earth.
He found a mossy hollow where there was water. He let Harry drink.
But he himself didn’t drink. In addition to his other worries he had
Harry to watch. He put no faith in Harry--no faith of any kind. Harry
was a coward. Harry was cruel. It would be just like him to think
that he was forwarding his own welfare by killing Craig--if he got
the chance.
They rested in a cedar copse until they heard a stealthy tread. They
could see an old party with chin whiskers moving through the beech
trees a little lower down. He carried a squirrel rifle. He might have
been hunting squirrels--he was so soft-footed, and he was looking
down, as a squirrel hunter might, for sign. Then sign of some sort
he must have found. He gave a slight start. His goatee snapped down,
then up. He turned and beckoned.
It was not until then that they saw that he was followed by two other
men. One of these was a mere overgrown boy, armed with an old horse
pistol of a type used long before the Civil War. But the other hunter
looked businesslike, a dark and stocky-bearded man with a shotgun
over his shoulder. These two hurried up. They looked at the sign the
old man had found.
“Hisn,” said the old man.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure’s shootin’. Them’s his shoes. I studied ’em right whar the
schoolmarm pointed ’em out to me.”
The overgrown boy with the horse pistol turned and stared at the
cedars so intently that Craig felt his own heart sicken a little.
Harry had been ready to break and run, but he had gripped him.
The two of them began to edge back together.
“They’re close,” the old trailer said.
The dark man with the shotgun threw his weapon forward.
Harry, the Goose, turned a white and sweaty face to Craig. His lips
moved with the all-but-silent speech of his prison days.
“Shoot! Shoot the stiffs--why don’t you?”
“Steady,” said Craig, also silently. “There’s some one over there
back of us.”
Suddenly, off not more than a hundred yards or so beyond the place
where the squirrel hunter and his friends had found the thing they
were looking for, a scream went up--a scream that was savage and
exultant.
“Ki-yi! Here he is, fellers.”
There was an interval when even the woods seemed to listen, then a
crash of branches, a shot.
“Stop! Stop!”
The squirrel hunter let out a whinny.
“Gosh dang! Somebuddy’s got him first!”
But the dark-faced man with the shotgun spoke never a word. He jerked
around in the direction of the noise. He was ready to fire. He
trotted off, and this time the others were following him--the old man
with the squirrel rifle, the boy with the horse pistol, each cocking
his weapon as he ran.
“Now is the time,” Harry chattered.
Now was the time, if ever! There where the original outbreak had
occurred there was a mixture of cries and laughter, whoops, whistles.
Some of the hunters had been in pairs, some in groups. It must have
been that all of these had arranged signals among themselves, or had
signals that they knew their friends would understand. Suddenly, the
chase was over. Those in at the blood were calling the other human
hounds.
It didn’t matter much now to Craig whether he was seen, so long as
it would be by no one likely to recognize him--like ex-Warden Green,
for example. Where was Green? But Craig had no fear of such pictures
of himself as might have been sent abroad. When these were taken, he
was smooth shaven. Now he had a fuzzy, nascent beard--not much of a
beard. Still, not for six weeks had his face known a razor. And when
those pictures of his were taken, moreover, he was new to prison,
ignorant of dark cells, ignorant of suffering, almost--suffering as
he had come to know it.
But, every now and then, out of those cries and other noises that
came from over there among the trees, he heard the voice of some one
who pleaded, who reasoned, who argued, who denied.
“Come with me,” he said to Harry, “and, listen! What I said a while
ago still holds. Try a break and I’ll maim you.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see who it is they’ve caught. Shut up! Go on!”
But hardly had they come to the edge of the cedars before the crowd
was breaking through the brush beyond the beeches. In the midst of
them they saw the man who had been caught by mistake.
Sick, haggard, frightened, unshaven, in rags--it made Harry laugh to
see him, made Craig want to weep, especially when he remembered the
music this man had made. It was Zabrewski, the organ player.
Then, to Craig, it seemed as if this storm that had been gathering
for so long flashed into lightning and thunder in his brain. He
couldn’t see Zabrewski frightened, mistreated like that. Zabrewski
was a genius, albeit a genius gone wrong.
Craig had flung Harry, the Goose, before him. He let out a cry that
made even the crowd go silent, stand, and stare. It was a snarl like
a lion’s:
“_Har!_”
CHAPTER XVIII
TOWARD SUNDOWN
There were still those who pawed at Zabrewski, poked at him with gun
barrels and sticks. There was no chance of Zabrewski’s getting away.
But that sudden cry of Craig’s--so loud, so determined, so filled
with something just a trifle more than human--had brought most of the
crowd to facing in his direction.
Craig spoke up:
“_He_ isn’t the man we’re after.”
There was a mixture of voices--surprise and dissent, questions,
scoffings. But to the hungry attention of Craig’s inner self there
came no sign that he himself was suspected.
“_Here’s_ the man,” said Craig. And he had his hand on Harry’s
shoulder, shoving him forward. Harry let out a yelp, blasphemous,
of rage and terror. He tried to turn, tried to beat Craig with his
fists. But Craig had a grip on Harry’s collar with his right hand.
With his left, he jerked Harry’s arm back and up. Harry spat and
gasped venom like a snared bobcat.
“Then, who’s _this_ feller?” the captor of Zabrewski demanded.
“A crazy organist.”
There was a laugh at that.
“What was _he_ hidin’ fer?”
Craig shoved the human bobcat to the front. There was no profit in
answering too many questions.
“_Here’s_ the man!”
He saw the dark-faced man with the shotgun, the old party with the
squirrel rifle, the youth with the horse pistol. They were a solid
group in the unorganized mob. Craig addressed them:
“Gentlemen, the reward is yours----”
“You hear what he says?” whinnied the goatee. And there was a look of
swift eagerness and pride on the part of the other two trailers.
Craig spoke to the crowd.
“This gentleman here”--referring to goatee--“will tell you the kind
of footprint our man makes.”
“A heel off one shoe!” whinnied the old party.
“Right! Right!” yelled those who jostled close to see, and the yell
flamed up into something like a cheer.