"McCorquodale, we can't sit here and see him killed in front of our eyes. This thing's gone far enough. I'm going out there——" But the detective grabbed him and with an oath dragged him back.
"Y' gone clean nutty?" he protested furiously. "Wanta get croaked, y' poor fish? Fat chanst y' got with them bohunks armed with rifles! It's six to one!"
"They're scaring the poor devil to death, I tell you. See, they're getting ready to drive him into the bush! Man, don't you understand? The flies! He'll be eaten alive!"
McCorquodale carried his profanity pretty close to the surface at all times, but the wellspring of it that gushed from him as once more he dragged Kendrick off his feet sounded the depths of anxiety and formed a lurid preface to angry argument. Had Kendrick forgotten Stiles? They couldn't hope to save both prisoners at once. Get Stiles first and they could organize a search-party for Podmore afterward.
"The whole mob'll be chasin' off in a minute an' that's the chanst we gotta lay for. Don't go 'n' spoil everythin' just as it's comin' our way. For the love o' Pete, 'bo, stuff moss in your ears an' sit tight!"
Kendrick had himself in hand again immediately. In an open fight with that gang two men hadn't a ghost of a show. As it was, their situation was desperate enough. The best that could be done for Podmore was to let things take their course for the moment. Later——
The detective's prediction was being fulfilled rapidly. The last bill had been stuck in place and the drunken gang had staggered to their feet, jeering and laughing at the grotesque appearance of their victim. They formed in two lines with sticks in their hands in preparation for the moment when the prisoner would be released and forced to run the gauntlet of their blows in his flight to the woods.
Podmore's eyes were rolling in the agony of his terror. A crimson slobber drooled from his swollen lips. As he was cut loose from the cords that bound him to the post and the first stick thumped his back he sprang away with a frenzied yell.
There was but one path left him—straight down between those two lines of hideous leering faces. Beyond he would be free and the woods for him held no terrors to equal the panic of the moment. With arms hugged over his head for protection he made his dash to such good purpose that he leaped by the excited rows of man-baiters with only one or two bad bruises. In their eagerness to achieve a good wallop some of his intoxicated tormentors missed him altogether and succeeded only in swinging themselves off their feet as he passed. Those who thus went sprawling tripped up the others and the scramble enabled him to get a good sprinting lead. Fear sped his feet. He seemed not merely to run; he took wing and flew—a screeching, gibbering madman.
And laughing loudly, yelling, brandishing their clubs, the whole crazy howling mob took after him.