Under the great bowl of sky, in the midst of the plain, the three cars
held their level way--three little racing dots in the big, clear place.
They kept an even course, swaying to the race on level wings that swept
the ground and rose to the low swale and passed beyond. Only the long
free line of dust marked their flight under the sun.
The men at the front, in the car ahead, did not look back again. They
had lost interest in the race pressing behind--most anxiously, they had
lost interest in it. They wished, with a fervent wish, that the two cars
driving behind them should pass them in a swirl of dust--and pass on out
of sight--toward the far horizon line that stretched the west. They were
only two market gardeners returning from business in the city. If they
drove a good car, it was to save time going and coming--not to race with
escaping fugitives and excited police. They had no wish to race with
excited police--fervently they had no wish for it--and they slackened
speed a little, drawing freer breath. Let the fellow pass them--and his
police with him--before they reached a little, white, peaceful house
that stood ahead on the plain. They did not look behind at justice
pursuing its prey... they had lost all interest in justice and in the
race. Presently, when justice should pass them, on full-spreading wing,
they would look up with casual glance, and note its flight over the far
line--out of sight in the distant west. But now they did not know of its
existence.
And Achilles, pressing fast, had a quick, clear sense of
mystery--something that brooded ahead--on the shining plain and the
little, white house and the car before him slackening speed. _Why_
should it slow down?--what was up? Cautiously he held his car, slowing
its waving gleam to the pace ahead and darting a swift glance behind,
over his shoulder, at the great service car that leaped and gained on
him lap by lap. It would overtake him soon--and he _must_ not pass the
car ahead--not till he saw what they were up to. Would they pass that
little white house--on the plain--or would they turn in there? The
wind hummed in his ears--his hair flew--and his hand held tense to
the wheel--slowing it cautiously, inch by inch--slackening a
little--slackening again with quick-flung, flashing glance behind--and a
watchful eye on the road ahead... and on the little white house drawing
near on the plain. It was a race now between his quick mind and that
car ahead and the little white house. He must not overtake them till the
little house was reached. The car behind must not touch him--not till
the house came up. There was a wood ahead, in the distance--his mind
flew and circled the wood--and came back. They had reached the little
house asleep in the sun. They were passing it, neck and neck, and the
car beside him swerved a little and slackened speed--and dived in at the
white gate. Achilles shot past--the free road ahead. The machine under
him gathered speed and opened out and laughed and leaped to the road and
lay down in the thick dust, spreading itself ahead. He could gain the
wood. He should escape--and the clue was fast.
Behind him, the service car thundered by the little house asleep. But
the police did not glance that way--nor did the big, white-capped man
glance that way. _His_ eyes were fixed on the racer ahead--dwindling to
a speck in its cloud of dust. He pushed up his visor and laughed aloud.
“Give it up!” he said genially, “give it up!--you can’t catch _that_
car!--I know my own car, I guess!” He laughed again. “We shall find it
somewhere along the road--when he is through with it!”
But the face beside him, turning in the clouding dust, had a keen look
and the car kept its unbroken speed, and the plain flashed by. “He’s in
too big a hurry--” said the driver sternly. “I want a look at that man!
He knows too much.”
Too much! The heart of Achilles sang again--all the heart of him woke
up and laughed to the miles. He had found his clue--he had passed the
little hundred-thousand-dollar house, and the police in their big,
bungling dust had passed it, too. Nobody knew--but him... and he should
escape--over the long road... with the big machine, under him, pounding
away.