V
Archie had stood for a moment in his mother’s embrace; he had felt her cheek against his; he had heard her voice again. He was forgetful of everything—of Curly’s presence, of all he had ever been made to suffer by himself and by others. He knew that his mother’s eyes were closed and that tears were squeezing through the lids; he felt his own tears coming, but it did not matter—in that moment he could cry without being made ashamed. It was a supreme moment for him, a moment when all he had been, all he had done, all he had not done, made no difference; no questions now, no reproaches, no accusations, not even forgiveness, for there was no need of forgiveness; a moment merely of love, an incredible moment, working a miracle in which men would not believe, having lost belief in Love. It was a moment that suffused his whole being with a new, surging life, out of which—
But it was only a moment. Curly had turned away, effacing himself. Presently he started, and cast about him that habitual backward glance; he had heard a step. It was Koerner. The old man in his shirt-sleeves, swinging heavily between his crutches, paused in the doorway, and then seeing his boy, his face softened, and, balanced on his crutches, he held out his arms and Archie strode toward him.
Curly waited another moment like the first, taking the chances, almost cynically wondering how far he could brave this fate. It was still in the little room. The words were few. The moment brought memories to him as well,—but he could endure it no longer; the risk was enormous already; they were losing time. For, just as they had entered the house, in that habitual glance over the shoulder, Curly had seen the figure in the dark doorway across the street—and he knew.
“Come on, Archie,” he said.
Archie turned in surprise.
“It’s all off,” Curly said. “We’re dogged.”
“Why?”
“The bulls—”
“Where?”
“Across the street—an elbow.”
“Him?”
“Yes.”
“The hell!”
Curly glanced toward the back room. But Archie suddenly grew stubborn.
“No,” he said. “Let’s stick and slug.”
“Don’t be a chump,” said Curly.
“We’re heeled.”
“Well, they’d settle you in a minute.”
“They can’t. We can bust the bulls.”
“All right,” said Curly. “Be the wise guy if you want to. I’ll take it on the lam for mine; they ain’t going to bury me. Can I get out that way?”
He brushed past them in the doorway, and called from the kitchen:
“Besides, you’ve got orders.”
Then Archie remembered; he looked at his mother, at his father, glanced about the little room, barren in the poverty that had entered the home, hesitated, then turned and left them standing there. As he passed through the kitchen he heard little Katie and little Jake breathing in their sleep, and the sound tore his heart.
He was over the fence and in the alley just behind Curly. They ran for a block, darted across a lighted street, then into the black alley again. For several blocks they dashed along, getting on as fast as they could. Then at length Archie, soft from his imprisonment, stopped in the utter abandon of physical exhaustion and stood leaning against a barn.
“God!” he said, “I hain’t going another step! I’m all in!”
Curly had been leading the way in the tireless energy of the health his out-of-door life gave him, but when Archie stopped, he paused and stood attent, inclining his head and listening.
The night, almost half gone, was still; sounds that in the daytime and in the earlier evening had been lost in the roar of the city became distinct, trolley-cars sweeping along some distant street, the long and lonesome whistles of railroad engines, now and then the ringing of a bell; close by, the nocturnal movements of animals in the barns that staggered grotesquely along the alley.
“It’s all right,” said Curly; “we’ve made a getaway.”
He relaxed and slouched over to where Archie stood.
“Where are we, do you know?” he asked.
Archie thought. “That must be Fifteenth Street down there. Yes, there’s the gas house.” He pointed to a dark mass looming in the night. “And the canal—and yes, Maynard’s lumber-yard’s right beyond.”
“How far from the spill?”
“About three blocks.”
“Come on, we must get out on the main stem.”
They went on, but in the security they felt at not being followed, they ran no more, but paced rapidly along, side by side. They had not had the time nor the breath for talk, but now suddenly, Archie, in a tone that paid tribute to Curly’s powers, expressed the subliminal surprise he had had.
“How did you know the bulls was there?”
“I piked off the elbow just as we went in.”
“I didn’t see him,” said Archie. “Where was he?”
“Right across the street, planted in a doorway.”
“How do you suppose he’d spotted us?”
“Oh, he was layin’ for you, that’s all. He had it all framed up. He thought he’d job you and swell himself.”
“What do you think of that now!”
They reached the yard where the black shadows cast by the tall leaning piles of lumber welcomed them like friends, and through this they passed, coming out at length on the railroad. They reconnoitered. The sky of the October night was overcast by thin clouds which, gray at first, turned bright silver as they flew beneath the risen moon.
“The dog’s out,” said Curly, who had almost as many names for the moon as a poet.
Before them the rails gleamed and glinted; over the yards myriads of switch-lights glowed red and green, sinister and confusing. Not far away a switch-engine stood, leisurely working the pump of its air-brake, emitting steamy sighs, as if it were snatching a moment’s rest from its labors. On the damp and heavy air the voices of the engineer and fireman were borne to them. At times other switch-engines slid up and down the tracks. Curly and Archie sat down in the shadow of the lumber and waited. After a while, down the rails a white light swung in an arc, the resting switch-engine moved and began to make up a freight-train.
“Now’s our chance,” said Curly.
The switch-engine went to and fro and up and down, whistling now and then, ringing its bell constantly, drawing cars back and forth interminably, pulling strings of them here and there, adding to and taking from its train, stopping finally for a few minutes while a heavy passenger-train swept by, its sleeping-cars all dark, rolling heavily, mysteriously, their solid wheels clicking delicately over the joints of the rails.
“I wish we were on that rattler,” said Archie, with the longing a departing train inspires, and more than the normal longing. Curly laughed.
“The John O’Brien’s good enough for us,” he said.
The passenger-train, shrinking in size by swift perceptible degrees as it lost itself in the darkness, soon was gone. The white lantern swung again, and the switch-engine resumed its monotonous labors, confined to the tedious limits of that yard, never allowed to go out into the larger world. Gradually it worked the train it was patiently piecing together over to the side of the yard where Archie and Curly waited. Then, at last, watching their chance, they slipped out, found an open car, sprang into it, slunk out of possible sight of conductor or switchman, and were happy.
The car was bumped and buffeted up and down the yard for an hour; but Archie and Curly within were laughing at having thus eluded the officers. They sat against the wall of the car, their knees to their chins, talking under cover of the noise the cars made. After a while the engine whistled and the train moved.
When they awoke, the car was standing still and a gray light came through the cracks of the door.
“I wonder where we are,” said Archie, rubbing his eyes.
Curly got up, stretched, crept to the middle of the car and looked out. Presently Archie heard him say:
“By God!”
He joined him. And there were the lumber piles. It was morning, the city was awake, the grinding of its weary mills had begun. They were just where they had been the night before.
“Marooned!” said Curly, and he laughed.
They decided, or Curly decided, that they must wait. Some of those restless switch-engines would make up another train before long, and in it they might leave the town, in which there was now no place of safety for them. The morning was cold; the chill of the damp atmosphere stiffened them. Just outside, in the lumber-yard, several men were working, and the fugitives must not be seen by them, for they would be as hostile as the whole world had suddenly become. They waited, but the men did not leave. Their task seemed to be as endless as that of the switch-engine. For a long while the railroad yards were strangely still. Now and then Curly crept to the door and peeped out; the lumber-shovers were not twenty feet away. The door on the opposite side of the car was locked. Finally, they grew restless; they decided to go out anyhow.
“Hell!” said Archie. “There’s nothing to it. Let’s mope.”
Something of Archie’s recklessness and disregard of consequences affected Curly.
“Well, all right,” he said; “come on.”
They went to the door of the car. And there, looking full in their faces, was a switchman with a red, rough face and a stubble of reddish beard. The switchman drew back with a curse to express his astonishment, his surprise, the sudden fright that confused and angered him.
“Come out o’ that, you hobos,” he called, stepping back. The men in the lumber-yard heard his sudden cry, stopped and looked up. The switchman cursed and called again.
Curly and Archie shrank into the darkness of the car. Archie had drawn his revolver.
“Put it up,” said Curly, with the anger of his disappointment.
They waited and listened; the switchman’s voice was heard no more; he must have gone away.
“He’ll blow us to the railroad coppers. Now’s our only chance!”
They went to the door, leaped out, bent their heads and ran. And instantly, with the howl of the hunter, the men in the lumber-yard, not knowing Archie or Curly or what they had done, or whether they had done anything, left their work and ran after them, raising the old hue and cry of English justice. Even the engines in the yards joined by sounding sharp, angry blasts on their whistles, and behind the little group that was rapidly becoming a mob, raced the switchman with two of the railroad’s detectives.
As swiftly as they could, in their stiffness and their hunger and their cold, Archie and Curly ran down the long yards, over cinders and uneven ties. They ran for a quarter of a mile and the yard narrowed, the tracks began to converge, to unite, marking the beginning of the main line. On either side rose the clayey banks, ahead there was a narrow cut with an elevated crossing; near this was a switchman’s shanty. Just then something sang over their heads, a musical humming sound. They knew the sound a bullet makes and dodged into the switchman’s shanty, slammed the door behind them, locked it and, a moment later, were at bay with the mob. The crowd surged up to the very door, flung itself against the shanty. Then Curly called:
“Stand back!”
The cry of the crowd was given in a lower, angrier tone; again it hurled itself against the door, and the little shanty, painted in the yellow and white of the railroad, rocked. Another shot pierced the shanty, splintering the boards above their heads. Then Archie stepped to the little window, thrust out his revolver. There was an angry cry outside, then stillness; the crowd gave way, withdrew, and kept its distance.
“Don’t push the rod!” Curly commanded. “What in hell ails you?”
“Oh, sin not leery! I’ll plug ’em for keeps!”
Curly looked into Archie’s white face.
“Are the bulls tailing on?” he asked.
“They’re coming strong! Listen!”
“We’d better cave!” urged Curly.
“Like hell!” Archie replied. “They don’t drop me without a muss now. If you want to flunk—”
Curly’s face flamed and his little eyes pierced Archie.
“Look out, young fellow!” he said, taking a sudden step toward him. Archie looked at him with a sneer. Then Curly stopped.
“Look here, Dutch,” he said. “Don’t be a fool. We’re—”
“I’ve told you what I’ll do,” said Archie, all the dogged stubbornness of his nature aroused. Then Curly seemed to lose interest. Outside they could hear the crowd again.
Half an hour passed. They heard the clang of a gong in the near-by street.
“The pie wagon,” said Curly.
Archie was quiet. There was a cheer, then a voice, deep, commanding and official:
“Surrender in the name of the law!”
Curly looked a question at Archie.
“What ails you to-day?” asked Archie. “Lost your nerve?”
“I haven’t lost my nut.”
“We’ll give you three minutes,” said the voice, “then if you don’t come out, holding up your hands, we’ll fire.”
For what seemed a long time there was utter quiet, then bullets tore through the pine boards of the little shanty and Archie sprang to the window and fired. Curly was squatting on the floor. Archie fired again, and again, and yet again.
“I’ve only got one left,” he said, turning from the window.
“All right, then we’ll cave.”
Curly got up, went to the door, flung it open and held up his hands. The mob cheered.
But Archie stayed. The officer called again, Curly called, the crowd called; then the shooting began again. Presently Archie appeared in the doorway and looked about with a white, defiant face. And there, before him, a rod away, stood Kouka, revolver in hand. He saw Archie, his brow wrinkled, and he smiled darkly.
“You might as well—” he began.
Archie looked at him an instant, slowly raised his revolver above his head, lowered it in deliberate aim, fired, and Kouka fell to his knees, toppled forward with a groan and collapsed in a heap on the ground, dead.
The crowd was stricken still. Archie stood looking at Kouka, his eyes burning, his face white, his smoking revolver lowered in his hand. A smile came to his pale, tense lips. Then the crowd closed in on him; the policemen, angry and ferocious, caught and pinioned him, began to club him. The crowd pressed closer, growing savage, shaking fists at him, trying to strike him. Suddenly some one began to call for a rope.
Then the policemen, so eager a moment before to wreak their own vengeance on him, were now concerned for his safety. A sergeant gave a command; they dragged Archie toward the patrol wagon. The crowd surged that way, and Archie, bareheaded, his yellow hair disordered, his eyes flashing, his white brow stained with blood, stared about on the policemen and on the crowd with a look of hatred. Then he glanced back to where some men were bending over Kouka, and he smiled again.
“Well, I croaked him all right,” he said.
A patrolman struck him with a club; and he staggered as the blow fell with a sharp crash on his head.
“Get on there!” said the sergeant, cursing him. He was thrown into the patrol wagon beside Curly, and he sat there, white, with the blood trickling in two streams from his forehead, his eyes flashing, and the strange smile on his lips whenever he looked back where Kouka lay. The patrol wagon dashed away.