He stumbled hastily down the stairway, and found the narrow porch, the
serene, enveloping night; down the street lamps made blots of brightness,
but, beyond, the obscurity was profound, unbroken. Wave after wave of
nausea swept over him, he clung to a porch support with cold sweat
starting through the blood that smeared his countenance, stiffened in his
shirt, that was warm upon his side. The sound of footfalls, sharp,
repressed voices from above, stirred him into a fresh realization of his
precarious position. The gamblers would follow him, rob him with impunity
in the shadows of Sprucesap's lawless street, drag him behind the angle of
a building, where Jake would have ample scope for the swinging of his
leathered lead....
He lurched down to the street, and silently merged into the awaiting
night.
At dawn he appeared from a thicket, a mile beyond Sprucesap on the road to
Greenstream, and negotiated successfully a ride on a load of fragrant
upland hay to a point within a few miles of his destination. His coat,
soiled and torn, was buttoned across a bare throat, for his shirt had been
ripped into bandages; his face, apparently, had been harrowed for a red
planting; he moved awkwardly, breathed with a gasp from a stabbing pain in
the side ... but he moved, breathed. He drank with long delight from a
sparkling spring. He had the money, two hundred and eighty dollars, safely
in his pocket.