“I’ll never go back!” he whispered fiercely. “I had three years o’ misery—for a job I never done—an’ them dicks wunt git me back. I’ll kill ’em—I’ll git shot—I’ll jump offen the ledges an’ bust my neck—anythin’—but I ain’t a-goin’ back! An’ I got to git Snake ’fore anybody gits me. I—— Shuh! What’s that? They comin’?”
He bounded up on the great mound and peered out. Douglas flashed a glance around. His eyes halted on the other window—the rear one. It was open.
“They’re a-comin’! They’re a-going to look round into here! I got to git under!”
Outside sounded Uncle Eb’s loud voice, angrily protesting against search of his premises. The two man-trailers were stonily silent.
“No!” decided Douglas. “If they’re suspicious they’ll look in the hay. You get outside! Through that window—I’ll steady you—swing up over the eaves and hug the roof. And lie quiet!”
Steve, with the ruthless Law almost upon him, blindly obeyed. Across to the rear window they plunged over the hay. The boy wriggled through the opening, turned his face inward, reached for the eaves above. Douglas braced himself, grasped the bare ankles, heaved upward. A clawing sound above—a spasmodic kick—a squirming struggle—the legs broke free and vanished. Followed a soft bump or two, a short scraping sound—and silence.
“I tell ye, ye ain’t got no right into my place without a search warrant!” stormed Uncle Eb below. “I ain’t got nothin’ to hide, but I got the same rights any other honest man’s got. Show yer warrant! I forbid ye into this place!”
“Ah, call in yer lawyer and we’ll talk to him,” sounded the sneering answer. “Go sit down and hold yer head. We won’t damage nothin’. Looks bad, too, you gittin’ so woiked up when you got nothin’ to hide. Hey, Ward?”
Douglas reached down and rapidly loosened the lacing of one boot. Then he went back across the hay and sat down. At once a heavy foot sounded on the stairs.
“Hey, up there! You, Hampton?”