The car was full of men and gun-barrels when its driver, a leathery young chap who was chewing tobacco, pulled out along the street. The other cars, nearly a score of them, followed them. But they headed southeastward.
"We're going pretty far east," Wales protested. "Pittsburgh's south."
Lanterman chuckled. "Don't you worry, Wilson. You'll get to Pittsburgh, before the night's over."
For an hour the caravan of cars, without lights, rolled along silent roads and through dark villages.
They came to a halt in a little town that Wales couldn't recognize. But when he saw wooden piers, and the broad, glinting blackness of a river, he realized it must be one of the smaller towns a bit upriver from Pittsburgh on the Allegheny.
There were a dozen big skiffs tied to the piers, and a quartet of armed men guarding them. There were no lights, and the darkness was a confusion of shadowy men and of unfamiliar voices.
"Get your damned gun-butt out of my ribs, will you?"
Wales realized that the whole party was embarking in the boats. He followed Lanterman into one of them. Lanterman said,
"Now I don't want one bit of noise from any of you. Get going."