The attack came with lightninglike suddenness. Fay dropped his shovel, crossed the earth, struck the guard a short-arm uppercut and bore him down to earth, where he smothered his cries with a flap of the raincoat.
Charley O’Mara came limping toward the shed.
“Get a rope!” snapped Fay. “I don’t want to croak him.”
“Croakin’s too good for the likes of him, Chester.”
“Get a rope. We’ve got about fifteen minutes to work in. We ought to be beyond the wall by then.”
Fay worked quickly. He took the rope the old convict found, and trussed the guard, after taking off the raincoat. He made sure that the man would make no outcry. He fastened a stick in his mouth and tied it behind his head. He rose and glanced through the down-pouring rain.
“I knocked him out,” he said. “Now, Charley, put on that raincoat, take the cap and rifle and walk slowly toward the auto-truck. Get in the front. Stand up like a guard.”
“But they might know me!”
“They wont know you. It’s raining. The screws on the wall will think you are taking the truck out, by order of the warden. I’ll drive. An inmate always drives.”