But they were many, and he was but one. Tomorrow—it would be too late.
Head bowed in his hands, oblivious, at first he had heard it as a thin whisper, like a knife blade against the silence; it penetrated inward now, with the dull rasp of metal upon metal from without:
“Sit tight, old-timer; I’m comin’ through!”
There came a muffled thud, a twist; Annister, reaching forth a hand, found it clasped in thick groping fingers. Then, as he thrust head and shoulders through the sundered bars, a Shadow uprose, gigantic, against the stars; the voice came again, in a quick, rumbling whisper:
“It’s me, old-timer—Bull.”
Annister, crawling through the opening, alighted upon soft turf. He heard Ellison’s low chuckle as, following the giant, he passed along the lee of the building to where, showing merely as a black blot against the night, there stood an automobile, its engine just turning over, with the low, even purr of harnessed power; at twenty paces it was scarcely audible above the rising of the wind.
“Tank’s full,” said Ellison. “Now—”
He turned abruptly as a dim figure rose upward just beyond. For a moment Annister set himself for the onslaught; then his hand went out; it gripped the hard hand of Del Kane.
“Ellison done told me, Mr. Annister,” he said. “An’ so I come a-fannin’ an’ a-foggin’ thisaway from Mojave; certain-sure I don’t aim to leave no friend of mine hog-tied in no calaboose!”
Annister, his heart warming to these friends, debated with himself; then turned to Ellison with a sudden movement.