"YOU'VE KILLED HIM."
Again the dull boom echoed over the moorland. In a few minutes the hill
would be swarming with warders searching for them.
Rupert felt a thrill of excitement. The first thrill he had experienced
for many weeks. Curious thoughts and memories flashed through his brain
as he raced along shoulder to shoulder with Convict 303, who kept
closely to his side in spite of the steep ascent. He remembered as a
boy hunting with a pack of harriers which sometimes met at The Hall; he
used to ride a rough moorland pony. This thrill of being hunted was
somewhat similar to the thrill of hunting. As a boy he had always had a
sneaking sympathy with the quarry, and a vague hope, he was always
ashamed to express, that it might escape. He understood now. It was
far finer to be hunted than to hunt.
"We'll cheat them, No. 303, never fear!" he cried to his comrade. "Keep
your pecker up, man!"
"I'm all right," the convict panted; "but I can't keep this pace up for
long."
They had entered the thick pall of fog, and presently Rupert stopped in
order to regain his breath. They stood close together, touching one
another, listening. At first they heard nothing but the sobbing of
their own breath, and the beating of their own hearts. And they could
see nothing; the blessed fog shut everything out from sight--rocks,
walls, roads, hills, and valleys.
"If this only lasts," Rupert whispered.
"Where shall we make for?" No. 303 asked. "Plymouth ain't far from here,
is it; and that's a seaport town?"
Rupert turned and looked into the blue eyes of his comrade. He laid his
hand on his shoulder. "Man, you don't expect to get right away, do you?
It has never been done and never will be done. I was born on these
moorlands. I know every stick and stone and bush on them. Even if I
wanted to I couldn't get away."
"Even if you wanted to!" No. 303 hissed. "What do you mean? What sort
of game is it you're playing--Hide and Seek, or Puss in the Corner?"
He broke off suddenly, and Rupert's grip tightened on his shoulder. The
silence was broken. On the still air they heard the sound of a horse
galloping along the distant road in the valley somewhere below them.
They held their breath and listened intently.
The sound grew nearer and nearer; for a few seconds it seemed as if the
speed of the horse was checked. Then, to the relief of both men, the
sounds became fainter and fainter, gradually dying away.
"A mounted warder galloping to Post Bridge to cut us off in that
direction," Rupert said. "We must stick to the tors. While the fog
lasts they can't leave the roads or bridle paths."
Again they commenced to struggle up the steep ascent, keeping along the
edge of the water course.
"Where are you making for?" No. 303 demanded.
"Wistman's Wood, the other side of the Dart. A good place to hide if the
fog lifts."
"Ain't no use hiding," the convict objected. "We must find a farm or a
cottage where we can get a change of clothing and food. Then we may get
a chance of slipping away. You say you know the moorland--then you must
know the folk on it. Ain't there some one who would help us--or
somewhere where we could hide ourselves? This is life or death,
remember."
Rupert nodded, and once again he slackened speed and stopped. "Listen,
303. I don't want to escape, because I know it's impossible. All I
hope is to get on the other side of Post Bridge to Blackthorn Farm--to
my home."
His voice faltered a moment at the last word. "There is something I want
to say to my father--if he's still alive. Something I must say. It's a
matter of life or death to him, perhaps--and to my sister. When I've
done that, delivered my message--why then I shall give myself up."
The muscles about 303's face contracted, his blue eyes clouded. For a
little while he was silent, turning over in his mind what Rupert had
said.
"You're balmy!" he growled eventually. "Crikey, what a chance! Why, if
you gets home, they'll hide you, won't they--give you food and clothes
and money? And I'll jolly well see that I gets the same too. We're
going to see this thing through together."
Rupert sighed and shook his head: "Follow me, if you like; but it's not
a bit of good. My father will give us both up."
He looked at 303 sadly. For months, perhaps for years, he knew this
convict had only thought of, and planned, escape, dreamed of it day and
night. The taste of freedom was sweet in his mouth already; he could not
believe that they would not get clear away. It was no use trying to
persuade him that he was attempting the impossible.
"I'll stand by you," he replied. "I'll do what I can to help you. But
it's no use talking. Come along!"
Presently they came to a high, stone wall, and Rupert uttered an
exclamation of joy.
"We're just above Wistman's Wood, and this is the great wall that runs
from Beardown to Rough Tor, which is past Post Bridge Hall. It will be
easy going now, and if the fog lifts the wall will help to conceal us
from anyone on the road below."
They started off again at a good pace. They had not gone for more than
half a mile when they both stopped simultaneously.
The sound of a voice had come out of the fog far above them. They
listened. It came again--a faint shout. They were straining their ears
in the intense silence. Presently they heard a pony's iron-shod hoofs
striking on the granite. A moment later another shout, nearer than the
first.
"Mounted warders on the tor above us," Rupert whispered. "Quick, get
over the wall! We must hide until they're gone."
As they climbed the wall a large stone was displaced and went rolling
and bounding down the hill side. Then, just as they jumped to the
ground, there was a sudden puff of wind and the cloud of fog rolled
away, almost as if it were a great white blanket withdrawn by invisible
hands. And there on the tor above them Rupert saw clearly outlined
against the sky two horsemen, about three hundred yards apart.
"By God, we're done!" 303 cried.
The mounted warders raised a shout, and jabbing their heels into their
ponies' sides, commenced to gallop down the hill.
"We must make a run for it," Rupert said. "There's fog still in the
valley."
Before he finished speaking, 303 had torn off like a hare, leaping,
stumbling, dashing first one way, then another to avoid obstacles.
Rupert followed. Twice 303 fell, and each time Rupert waited to lend him
a hand. Once he glanced back and he saw the warders reach the wall;
they dismounted, and one commenced to pull the stones off the wall to
make a gap for his pony; the other unslung his rifle and shouted to the
flying convicts to stop--or he would fire.
Twice the warning came. They were racing side by side now. Rupert
heard himself laugh. The sheltering pall of fog was not a hundred yards
away now. He set his teeth and flung back his head while he waited for
the crack of the warders' carbines and the "ping" of the buckshot.
It came just as the kindly fog was about to envelop them again. Ten
seconds more and they would have been safe.
Perhaps the warder had the instincts of a sportsman. Perhaps he had
purposely given them a run for their money. But he had to do his duty.
He knew that if once they got into the fog again they would be lost.
So he fired. He saw the right-hand man stumble, then roll over and over
like a shot rabbit until he lay quite still face downwards on the
heather. Before he could raise his carbine and fire again the other man
had disappeared.
Both warders let go their ponies, stumbled over the wall and ran down
the hill-side to the fallen convict. The man who had fired the shot
stooped down and turned him over. And he started and looked at his
companion. The convict's face was white as death; blood was flowing
from a wound on his forehead.
"My God Bill, you've done it this time!" the second warder said.
"You've killed him!"