The trail led away from Rockglen. Fay sensed the general direction. He attempted to gain a railroad junction where a freight could be taken for Chicago. He was headed off by a motorcar load of prison guards. He saw the danger in time.
“To the right,” he whispered to O’Mara. “Follow me. Don’t cave, pal.”
“I’m all in,” sobbed the old convict.
Fay braced his arm beneath Charlie’s elbow. He took the rifle. They crossed a swollen brook, broke through the hedge of a vast estate and came suddenly upon a trio of watchmen who had been alarmed by the blowing of the prison’s siren.
The fight that followed was entirely onesided. Fay pumped lead in the general direction of the watchmen. He was answered by a salvo. Crimson cones splashed the night. Bullets whined. A shout sounded far away. Other watchmen and constables were surrounding the estate.
Old Charley O’Mara, crouching in the shelter of a hawthorn clump, coughed, rose, spun and fell face downward. A great spot of scarlet ran over the raincoat. His aged face twisted in agony. Fay knelt by his side.
“I’m croaked, pal,” said the convict. “They winged me through the lungs. Good-by, pal.”
“Anything I can do, Charley?”
“Do you think you’ll get away?”
“I know I will.”