They were hunting him. Squads of coppers with rifles, detectives, stool
pigeons were hunting him. And the people who had read the story in the
newspapers and looked at his picture, they too, were hunting him.
Tommy O'Connor looked out of the smeared window of the room in which he
sat and stared at the snow. A drift of snow across the roofs. A scribble
of snow over the pavement.
There were automobiles racing through the streets loaded with armed men.
There were crowds looking for a telltale face in their own midst. Guards,
deputies, coppers were surrounding houses and peering into alleys, raiding
saloons, ringing doorbells. The whole city was on his heels. The city was
like a pack of dogs sniffing wildly for his trail. And when they found it
they would come whooping toward him for a leap at his throat.
Well, here he was--waiting. It was snowing outside. There was no noise in
the street. A man was passing. One of the pack? No. Just a man. The man
looked up. Tommy O'Connor took his face slowly away from the window. He
had a gun in his pocket and his hand was holding it. But the man was
walking away. Huh! If the guy knew that Lucky Tommy O'Connor was watching
him from a window he'd walk a little faster. If the guy knew that Lucky
O'Connor, who had busted his way out of jail and was being hunted by a
million people with guns, was sitting up here behind the window, he'd
throw a fit. But he didn't know. He was like the walls and the windows and
the snow outside--quiet and peaceful.
"Nice boy," grinned Tommy O'Connor. Then he began to fidget. He ought to
go out and buy a paper. See what was doing. See what became of Mac and the
rest of the boys. Maybe they'd all been nabbed. But they couldn't do him
harm. On account nobody knew where he was. No pal. No dame. Nobody knew he
was sitting here in the room looking at the snow and just thinking. The
papers were probably full of cock-and-bull stories about his racing across
the country and hiding in haystacks and behind barns. Kid stuff. Maybe he
should ought to of left town. But it felt better in town. Some rube was
always sure to pick out a stranger beating it down a empty road. And there
was no place to hide. Long, empty stretches, where anybody could see you
for a mile.
Better in town. Lots of walls, alleys, roofs. Lots of things like that. No
hare-and-hounds effect like in the country. But the papers were probably
full of a lot of bunk. He'd take a walk later and buy a few. Better sit
still now. There was nothing harder to find than a man sitting still.
* * * * *
Tommy O'Connor yawned. Not much sleep the night before. Well, he'd sleep
tonight. Worrying wasn't going to help matters. What if they did come? Let
them come. Fill up the street and begin their damn shooting. They didn't
think Lucky Tommy was sucker enough to let them march him up on a scaffold
and break his neck on the end of a rope. Fat chance. Not him. That sort of
stuff happened to other guys, not to Lucky Tommy.
Snowing outside. And quiet. Everybody at work. Funny about that. Tommy
O'Connor was the only free man in the city. There was nobody felt like him
right now--nobody. Where would he be exactly this time a week from now? If
he could only look ahead and see himself at four o'clock next Monday
afternoon. But he was free now. No breaking his neck on the end of a rope.
If worst came to worst--if worst came to worst--O'Connor's fingers took a
grip on the gun in his pocket. They were hunting him. Up and down the
streets everywhere. Racing around in taxis, with rifles sticking out of
the windows. Well, why didn't they come into this street? All they had to
do was figure out: Here's the street Tommy O'Connor is hiding in. And that
looks like the house. And then somebody would yell out: "There he is!
Behind that window! That's him!" Why didn't this happen?
* * * * *
Christmas, maybe, he'd call on the folks. No. Rube stuff. A million
coppers would be watching the house. But he might drop them a letter. Too
bad he didn't have any paper, or he might write a lot of letters. To the
chief of police and all the head hunters. Some more rube stuff, that. They
could tell by the postmark what part of the city he was hiding in and
they'd be on him with a whoop.
Funny how he had landed in this room. No plans, no place in particular to
head for. That was the best way. Like he'd figured it out and it turned
out perfect. Grab the first auto and ride like hell and keep on changing
autos and riding around and around in the streets and crawling deeper into
the city until the trail was all twisted and he was buried. But he ought
to shave his mustache off. Hell. What for? If they came whooping into the
street they'd find him, mustache or no mustache. But what if he wanted to
buy some papers?
It was getting darker now. The snow was letting up. Just dribbling. Better
if it would snow a lot. Then he could sit and have something to
watch--snow falling on the street and turning things white. That was on
account of his headache he was thinking that way. Eats might help, but he
wasn't hungry. Scared? No. Just waiting. Hunters winding in and out like
the snow that was falling. People were funny. They got a big thrill out of
hunting a live man who was free in the streets.
He'd be walking some day. Strolling around the streets free as any of
them. Maybe not in town. Some other town. Take a walk down State Street.
Drop in at a movie. Kid stuff. Walk over to Mac's saloon and kind of
casually say "Hello, fellows." And walk out again. God, they'd never hang
him. If the worst came to the worst--if the worst came to the worst--but
they'd never hang him.
* * * * *
Dark now. But the guys hunting him weren't going to sleep. Lights were
going on in the windows. Better light up the room. People might notice a
dark window. But a lighted one would look all right. It was not snowing
any more. Just cold.
Well, he'd go out in a while. Stretch his legs and buy the papers and give
them a reading. And then take a walk. Just walk around and take in the
streets and see if there was anybody he knew. No. Rube stuff, that. Better
stick where he was.
Lucky Tommy walked around in the room. The drawn window blind held his
eye. Wagons were passing. What for? Yes, and there was a noise. Like
people coming. Turn out the light, then. He'd take a look.
Tommy O'Connor peeled back the blind carefully. Dark. Lights in windows.
Some guys on the corner. Hunting him? Sure. And they were coming his way.
Straight down the street. They were looking up. What for? A gun crept out
of Tommy O'Connor's pocket. He pressed himself carefully against the wall.
He waited. The minutes grew long. But this was the hunt closing in. They
were coming. Black figures of men floating casually down the street. All
right--let them come.
Lucky Tommy O'Connor's eyes stared rigidly out of the smeared window at a
vague flurry of figures that seemed to be coming, coming his way.