THE GET-AWAY
"If you need money--to pay the fine," began Solange, doubtfully. He
shook his head.
"I have a fancy to do this in my own way; the old-time way," he said.
"As for money, you will have need of all you possess. The cowboy,
Sucatash, is a type I know. You may take a message to him for me, and
I think he will not refuse to help."
He gave her rapidly whispered instructions, her quick mind taking them
in at once.
"And you," he finished, "when you are ready to start, will gather your
outfit at Wallace's ranch near Willow Spring. From there is only one
way that you can go to follow your father's trail. He must have come
out of the Esmeraldas through Shoestring Canyon, therefore you must go
into them that way. I will be there when you come."
Solange turned to the door and he bowed to her. She shook the grating
and called for the turnkey. As she heard him coming she swung round
and, with a smile, held out her hand to the soldier. His sallow face
flushed as he took it. Her hand clung to his a moment and then the
door swung open and she was gone.
De Launay took the bullet from his pocket and held it in his hand. He
sat on his bunk and weighed the thing reflectively, balancing it on
his palm. It was just such a bullet as might have been shot from any
one of a hundred rifles, a bullet of which nothing of the original
shape remained except about a quarter of an inch of the butt.
He wondered if, after nineteen years, there remained any one who had
even been present when French Pete was found dying.
As for the mine, that was even more hopeless. No one had seriously
attempted any prolonged search for the murderer, he assumed, knowing
the region as it had been. Homicides were not regarded as seriously as
in later days and a Basco sheep-herder's murder would arouse little
interest. The mine, however, was a different thing, as he knew by the
fact that even recent arrivals had heard of it. It was certain that,
throughout all these years there had been many to search for it and
the treasure it was supposed to hold. Yet none had found it.
Solange's premonition made him smile tolerantly. Still, he was pledged
to the search, and he would go through with it. They would not find
it, of course, but there might be some way in which he could make up
the disappointment to her. He thought he could understand the urge
that had led her on the ridiculous quest. A young, pretty, but
portionless girl, with just enough money to support life in France
for a few years, hopeless of marriage in a country where the women
outnumbered the men by at least a million, would have a bleak future
before her. He could guess that her high, proud spirit would rebel, on
the one hand, at the prospect of pinching poverty and ignoble work
and, on the other, from the alternative existence of the
_demimondaine_.
Here, in America, she might have a chance. He could see to it that she
did have a chance. With those eyes and that hair and her voice, the
stage would open its arms to her, and acting was a recognized and
respectable profession. There might be other opportunities, also.
But the vendetta she would have to drop. In the Basses Pyrénées one
might devote a life to hunting vengeance, but it wouldn't do in the
United States. If she found the man, by some freak of chance, what
would she do with him? To expect to convict him after all these years
was ridiculous, and it was not likely that he would confess. Though
she might be certain, the only thing left to her would be the taking
of the law into her own hands; and that would not do. He did not doubt
her ability or her willingness to kill the man. He knew that she would
do it, and he knew that she must not be allowed to do it. He shuddered
to think of her imprisoned in some penitentiary, her bright hair
cropped and those fathomless eyes looking out on the sun through
stone walls and barred windows; her delicate body clothed in rough,
shapeless prison garments. If there was to be any killing, she must
not do it.
She would insist on vengeance! Very well, he had promised to serve
her; he had no particular object in life; he was abundantly able to
kill; he would do her killing for her.
Having settled this to his satisfaction and feeling a certain
complacent pleasure in the thought that, if the impossible happened,
he could redeem himself in her eyes by an act that would condemn him
in the eyes of every one else, he lay down on his bunk and went to
sleep again.
In the morning he was aroused by the turnkey and brought out of his
cell. A couple of officers took charge of him and led him from the
jail to the street, across it and down a little way to the criminal
court building. Here he was taken into a large room just off the
courtroom, to await his preliminary hearing.
The rest was almost ridiculously simple. He had had no plan, beyond a
vague one of breaking from his guardians when he was led back to the
jail. But he formed a new one almost as soon as he had seated himself
in the room where the prisoners were gathered.
He was placed on a long bench, the end of which was near a door
leading to the corridor of the building. A door opposite led into the
dock. A number of prisoners were seated there and two men in uniform
formed a guard. One of them spent practically all his time glancing
through the door, which he held on a crack, into the courtroom.
The other was neither alert nor interested. The officer who had
brought De Launay, and who, presumably, was to make the charge against
him, remained, while his companion departed.
Among those gathered in the room were several relatives or friends of
prisoners, lawyers, and bondsmen, who went from one to another,
whispering their plans and proposals. One, a bulbous-nosed, greasy
individual, sidled up to him and suggested that he could furnish bail,
for a consideration.
De Launay's immediate guard, at this moment, said something to the
uniformed policeman who sat near the center of the room. The other
glanced perfunctorily in De Launay's direction and nodded, and the man
stepped out into the hall.
De Launay whispered an intimation that he was interested in the bail
suggestion. He arose and led the bondsman off to one side, near the
outer door, and talked with him a few moments. He suggested that the
man wait until they discovered what the bail would be, and said he
would be glad to accept his services. He had money which had not been
taken from him when he was searched.
The bondsman nodded his satisfaction at netting another victim and
strolled away to seek further prey. De Launay calmly turned around,
opened the outer door and walked into the corridor.
He walked rapidly to the street entrance, out to the sidewalk, and
down the street. At the first corner he turned. Then he hurried along
until he saw what he was looking for. This was Sucatash, lounging
easily against a lamp-post while De Launay's horse, saddled and
equipped, stood with head hanging and reins dangling just before him
at the curb.
A close observer would have noticed that a pair of spurs hung at the
saddle horn and that the saddle pockets bulged. But there were no
close observers around.
De Launay came up to the horse while, as yet, there had been not the
slightest indication of any hue and cry after him. This he knew could
obtain for only a short time, but it would be sufficient.
Sucatash, against the lamp-post, lolled negligently and rolled a
cigarette. He did not even look at De Launay, but spoke out of a
corner of his mouth.
"How'd you make it, old-timer?"
"Walked out," said the other, dryly.
"Huh? Well, them blue bellies are right bright, now. You'll find pack
hosses and an outfit at the spring west of the Lazy Y. Know where it
is?"
De Launay nodded as he felt the cinch of the horse's saddle.
"But how the deuce will you get them there? It's nearly ninety
miles."
"We got a telephone at pa's ranch," said Sucatash, complacently.
"Better hit the high spots. There's a row back there, now."
De Launay swung into the saddle. "See you at Shoestring, this side the
Crater," he said, briefly. "Adios!"
"So long," said Sucatash, indifferently. De Launay spurred the horse
and took the middle of the road on a run. Sucatash looked after him
reflectively.
"That hombre can ride a whole lot," he remarked. "He's a sure-enough,
stingin' lizard, I'll say. Walked out! Huh!"
A few moments after De Launay had rounded a corner and disappeared
with his ill-gotten habiliments, excited policemen and citizens came
rushing to where Sucatash, with nothing on his mind but his hat,
strolled along the sidewalk.
"Seen an escaped prisoner? Came this way. Wasn't there a horse here a
minute ago?" The questions were fired at him in rapid succession.
Sucatash was exasperatingly leisurely in answering them.
"They was a hoss here, yes," he drawled.
"Was it yours?"
"Not that I know of," answered Sucatash. "Gent came along and forked
it. I allowed it was hisn and so I didn't snub him down none. Was he
the gent you was lookin' for?"
"Which way did he go?"
"He was headin' south-southeast by no'th or thereabouts when I last
seen him," said Sucatash. "And he was fannin' a hole plumb through the
atmosphere."
They left the unsatisfactory witness and rushed to the corner around
which De Launay had vanished. Here they found a man or two who had
seen the galloping horse and its rider. But, as following on foot was
manifestly impossible, one of them rushed to a telephone while others
ran back to get a police automobile and give chase.
De Launay, meanwhile, was riding at a hard pace through the outlying
streets of the town, heading toward the south. The paved streets gave
way to gravel roads, and the smoke of the factories hung in the air
behind him. Past comfortable bungalows and well-kept lawns he rushed,
until the private hedges gave place to barbed-wire fences, and the
cropped grass to fields of standing stubble.
The road ran along above and parallel to the river, following a ridge.
To one side of it the farms lay, brown and gold in their autumn
vesture. At regular intervals appeared a house, generally of the
stereotyped bungalow form.
De Launay had passed several of these when he noticed, from one ahead
of him, several men running toward the road. He watched them, saw that
they gesticulated toward the cloud of dust out of which he rode, and
turned in his saddle to open the pockets back of the cantle. From one
he drew belt and holster, sagging heavily with the pistol that filled
it. From the other he pulled clips loaded with cartridges. Leaving the
horse to run steadily on the road he strapped himself with the gun.
The men had reached the road and were lined up across it. One of them
had a shotgun and others were armed with forks and rakes. They waved
their weapons and shouted for him to stop. He calmly drew the pistol
and pulled his horse down in the midst of them.
"Well?" he asked as they surged around him. The man with the shotgun
suddenly saw the pistol and started to throw the gun to his shoulder.
"We got him!" he yelled, excitedly.
"Got who?" asked De Launay. "You pointing that gun at me? Better head
it another way."
His automatic was swinging carelessly at the belligerent farmer. The
man was not long in that country, but he was long enough to know the
difference between a shotgun and an automatic forty-five. He lost his
nerve.
"We're lookin' for an escaped convict," he muttered. "Be you the
feller?"
"Keep on looking," said De Launay, pleasantly. "But drop that gun and
those pitchforks. What do you mean by holding up a peaceable man on
the highroads?"
The rattled farmer and his cohorts were bluffed and puzzled. The
automatic spoke in terms too imperative to be disregarded. Capturing
escaped prisoners was all very well, but when it involved risks such
as this they preferred more peaceful pursuits. The men backed away,
the farmer let the shotgun drop to the ground.
"Pull your freight!" said De Launay, shortly. They obeyed.
He whirled his horse and resumed his headlong flight. He had gained
fifty yards when the farmer, who had run back to his gun, fired it
after him. The shot scattered too much to cause him any uneasiness. He
laughed back at them and fled away.
Other places had been warned also, but De Launay rushed past them
without mishap. The automatic was a passport which these citizens were
eager to honor, and which the police had not taken into account. To
stop an unarmed fugitive was one thing, but to interfere with one who
bristled with murder was quite another.
A new peril was on his trail, however. He soon heard the distant throb
of a motor running with the muffler open. Looking back along the road,
he could see the car as it rounded curves on top of the ridge. All too
soon it was throbbing behind him and not half a mile away.
But he did not worry. Right ahead was a stone marker which he knew
marked the boundary of Nevada. Long before the car could reach him he
had passed it. He kept on for two or three hundred yards at the same
pace while the car, forging up on him, was noisy with shouts and
commands to stop. He slowed down to a trot and grinned at the men who
stood in the car and pointed their revolvers at him. His pistol was
dangling in his hand.
"You gents want me?" he asked, pleasantly. His former captor sputtered
an oath.
"You're shoutin' we want you," he cried. "Get off that horse and climb
in here, you----"
De Launay's voice grew hard and incisive.
"You got a warrant for my arrest?"
"Warrant be hanged! You're an escaped prisoner! Climb down before we
let you have it!"
"That's interesting. Where's your extradition papers?"
The officer shrieked his commands and imprecations, waving his pistol.
De Launay grinned.
"If you want to test the law, go ahead," he said. "I'm in Nevada as
you know very well. If you want to shoot, you may get me--but I can
promise that _I'll_ get you, too. The first man of you that tightens a
trigger will get his. Go to it!"
An officer who is on the right side of the law is thereby fortified
and may proceed with confidence. If he is killed, his killer commits
murder. But an officer who is on the wrong side of the law has no
such psychological reënforcement. He is decidedly at a disadvantage.
The policemen were courageous--but they faced a dilemma. If they shot
De Launay, they would have to explain. If he shot them, it would be in
self-defense and lawful resistance to an illegal arrest. Furthermore,
there was something about the way he acted that convinced them of his
intention and ability. There were only three of them, and he seemed
quite confident that he could get them all before they could kill
him.
The officer who had been his guardian thought of a way out.
"There's a justice of the peace a mile ahead," he said. "We'll just
linger with you until we reach him and get a warrant."
"Suit yourselves," said De Launay, indifferently. "But don't crowd me
too closely. Those things make my horse nervous."
They started the car, but he galloped easily on ahead, turning in his
saddle to watch them. They proceeded slowly, allowing him to gain
about forty yards. The officer thought of shooting at him when he was
not looking, but desisted when he discovered that De Launay seemed to
be always looking.
They had proceeded only a short distance when De Launay, without
warning, spurred his horse into a run, swinging him at the same time
from side to side of the road. Turned in his saddle, he raised his
hand and the staccato rattle of his automatic sounded like the roll
of a drum. The startled officers fired and missed his elusive form.
They had their aim disarranged by the sudden jolt and stoppage of the
car. De Launay had shot the two front tires and a rear one to pieces.
The discomfited policemen saw him disappearing down the road in a
cloud of dust from which echoed his mocking laugh and a chanted,
jubilant verse that had not been heard in that region for nineteen
years:
"My Louisiana! Louisiana Lou!"