Crawford looked around furtively, then lowered his voice. «But that ain’t all I came here for, Danny.»
Morgan stiffened. «What else?» he snapped.
«The town’s stirred up,» said Crawford. «First time there’s ever been a killing here. Got their bristles up, the boys have. Talking about a necktie party.»
«They can’t be,» gasped Morgan. «Why, I’m not even charged with anything yet. There isn’t any real evidence…»
«That don’t make any difference,» insisted Crawford. «Some of the hot-heads got to talking over in the Red Rooster and all of the others joined in and before you know it everybody’s mad at you.»
«They can’t do it,» insisted Morgan. «The sheriff …»
Crawford spat in disgust. «The sheriff’s a dirty coward,» he declared.
«He’d high tail it out of here first sign of trouble. But I got a plan all figured out.»
He pitched his voice to a husky whisper. «I’ll get some of my own boys together and right after dark we’ll rush the jail, like we was planning a necktie party of our own. The sheriff’ll clear out and we’ll bust down the door and do a lot of shooting and hollering. In the uproar you’ll light a shuck. We’ll say you slipped away from us.»
Morgan considered. «But that would mean running away. Leaving my spread behind. Admitting I’m guilty.»
«If it’s money you’re thinking about,» said Crawford, «let me know soon as you get settled someplace and I’ll pay you a reasonable price for your lay-out. Not that I need it …»
«Just neighborly,» suggested Morgan.
«That’s it,» declared Crawford. «Just neighborly, that’s all. Kind of got to like you. Want to help you any way I can.»
«It’s no go, Crawford,» said Morgan.
«What’s that?»
«I said it was no go. I’m sticking here, necktie party or no necktie party.»
«You mean …»
«I mean I’m seeing this thing through. There’s something haywire about his whole business. Somebody’s out to get me … and I’m not going to be got.»
«They’ll string you up, sure as shooting,» warned Crawford.
«I’ll take my chances,» Morgan declared.
The rancher rose slowly, shaking his head. «Wish you’d let me help you, Danny.»
«I’m much obliged for the offer,» Morgan said. «But I can’t see it that way.»
Listening to the retreating footsteps of Crawford and the deputy, Morgan sat down on the bench and tried to figure things out. There was something behind Crawford’s offer of escape, he was sure. Maybe Crawford really did think he was guilty, really was trying to help him get away. But somehow that explanation didn’t hold water. Did Crawford want his ranch? It hardly seemed likely. The rancher had thousands of acres of his own, more than he needed. Water was no consideration, for Crawford had plenty of that, too.
His thoughts led him nowhere except to suggest that, after all, he may have been foolish not to accept help. Once away, he could start over with the money from the spread. He didn’t like the idea, but it was better than decorating a cottonwood.
Twilight came and slipped swiftly into darkness. Out in the badlands a panther screamed and on the prairie the coyotes set up their dismal howling.
Somewhere down in the cedar brakes an owl laughed irrationally.
From the town, down near the Red Rooster saloon, came the yells of men, occasionally a six-gun shot. The boys were having them a time.
He went to the side window and stared out. The saloon and store windows lighted the street and the space in front of the two buildings was swarming with men, some of them on their horses, some jostling around on foot.
Someone standing on the porch of the store was trying to make a speech, shouting to make himself heard above the angry roar that came from the crowd.
Morgan felt the short hairs stiffen along the back of his neck, felt the stir of fear crawling on his spine. There was something in the voices of those men … something that was not quite human.
A bull voice bellowed out, drowning out the hum. «To hell with all this jabber. Someone get a rope!»
Three or four men started a rush for the store doorway, some of the others mounted their horses. A few of them started toward the jail, then stopped and waited.
What Crawford had said was right!
Frantically he turned from the window, started toward the door, then turned back, with a sudden realization of the hopelessness of his situation rising to choke him.
A board creaked beneath his feet and he stopped stock still, remembering how the boards had teetered under Crawford’s tread.
The jail was not strongly built. It never had been meant to house anyone who really wanted to get away. Its usual tenants came on pay-day nights when over-enthusiastic drunks were bent on shooting up the town.
Morgan went to his knees, feeling the floor with his hands. His fingers slid into a crack. He tightened his grip and surged upward. The board yielded a little. He put more strength into it and it came still further.
Breathlessly, he ripped at it fiercely and the board came free. He tossed it to one side, grasped another one, ripped it out, let his body down into the hole.
There wasn’t much space. Just enough room for a man’s body.
Bellying in the dirt, he dragged himself along between the two stringers.
His head bumped and his shoulder scraped on the floor above.
Dirt clogged the way and he dug at it furiously with his hands, like a dog after a gopher. A spear of nighttime light appeared before his face. The dirt he had been digging at was last winter’s banking thrown up around the jail to help keep out the cold.
Out of the night came the howl of the mob, the beat of racing hoofs, the sudden crack of six-guns. They were storming the jail!
Savagely, Morgan thrust himself forward, plowing through the remaining pile of dirt, clawing fiercely to free himself. For one sickening moment he thought he was stuck fast and then surged free.
For a moment, he crouched, gulping in great breaths of air.
The hoofs drummed closer and voices bellowed with madness. Six-guns hammered.
Straight ahead lay the badlands. Less than a hundred rods away. Once in there and they’d never find him.
Bending low he dashed for the gap, the gap the buffalo had used for uncounted ages. Hunched over, he held his breath, tightening his muscles, sucking in his stomach, expecting any moment to feel the blow of a .45 slug between his shoulder blades.
He had covered half the distance before the first startled whoop back at the jail announced he had been seen. A gun barked viciously and a bullet whined above his head. Another gun hammered and another. Morgan flung himself to one side in a mighty leap, zigzagging, running low. If he could only reach the shadow of those bushes!
Behind him red flashes stained the night. One slug ripped sod at his feet.
Another passed so close it fanned his cheek. Wild whoops rang out and hoofs thundered on the prairie.
Morgan felt the ground dip beneath his feet, flung himself forward into bushes, struck the ground and rolled. Thorns ripped at his clothing, his right arm was nearly paralyzed when it struck a rock. He rocketed over a cut bank in a 20 foot drop, managed to land on his feet before he stumbled to his knees. Then he was running, twisting and leaping down the canyon, keeping in the shadows.
Fifteen minutes later, he stopped and listened. Noise still came from the canyon below the town, that of men on foot beating the bush. Soon they would give up and go back to spend the night in drinking and boasting. No one would risk a horse in such a place at night.
They might be after him as soon as it was light, although he doubted it.
The hanging fever would have burned itself out by then. Anyhow, it would be a good idea to put some distance between himself and Buffalo Gap.