# Greater Love Hath No Man/Chapter 19

CHAPTER XIX
THE ESCAPE (Continued)
VARGE swerved instantly to the right, flung himself flat on the ground and began to crawl.
"Cr-rang! Cr-rang! Cr-rang!"—the shots followed each other in quick succession from the bridge. Kingman was aiming at the spot where Varge had disappeared—and he was aiming low. The bullets hummed angrily, swishing a path through the leaves at the height of the small of a man's back, ending with a vicious "spat" as they found lodgment in the stouter limbs.
Still Varge crawled—every second, every instant counted; but, though now out of the line of fire, the foliage was still too thin—to rise and run was to mark his passage by a trail of swaying bushes, and offer himself for an almost sure and certain shot. A little further, just a little further on the bushes grew thicker—and then the woods.
Would Kingman follow him alone—or wait to gather a posse? The alarm, in the lower part of the village at least, was already given. Like a low, sullen murmur came the sound of many, many voices—then it welled, bursting into shouts and cries—and he could distinguish amongst them the high-pitched, falsetto notes of excited women.
Would Kingman follow him alone—and if he did? Just a few yards further on now and he would be deep ​enough in to run again without fear of indicating his position to any one on the bridge or the village street.
What was that! Along the bank of the creek some one was running—a man—heavy-treaded. Varge rose to his feet, and, crouching low, bent almost double, began to run cautiously. A crash—the pursuer had plunged into the bushes where, not more than two minutes before, he himself had dashed for cover—there was the thrashing of branches—coming closer.
A sudden whiteness spread itself over Varge's grim, set face. He must get away, he must get away, he must get away—the words rang over and over again in his brain. There was more than life, more than years of grey-walled prison existence at stake—he must get away—at any cost. If Kingman—yes, that was Kingman coming now—if Kingman reached him! Whiter still grew Varge's face. Was he to chose between that—and Kingman!
He dared not straighten to his full height and trust to speed—Kingman could not be twenty yards from him—far too close a shot to risk. Kingman! A man stood between him and what was far more now than freedom. And Kingman was only doing his duty.
He could only run slowly—Kingman was coming at top speed, charging like a bull through the leaves and branches. He could hear the man's panting breath now—and by some grim trick of fate Kingman was heading directly toward him! Presently, others would come, a score of guards, but now it was only—Kingman. Another minute, half a minute, and Kingman would be upon him—a waving mass of tumbled hair seemed again to bathe his face in its rare fragrance, the ​gold-crowned head to lay upon his shoulder, his lips to touch the pure, cold brow—he stopped suddenly, edged noiselessly a foot to one side—and waited.
An instant, barely that, and heaving, floundering, red-faced, carbine in hand, Kingman burst into sight not a yard away. There was a cry from Kingman, the carbine was half-lifted—and, in his prison clothes like some striped, hunted tiger at bay, Varge leaped. In a flash his hand had closed on the carbine and wrenched it from the other's grasp.
"Kingman," he said, in a low, deadly voice, "you know my strength. I have no wish to hurt you—but I am going to get away. Take your chance—go back."
A moment, Kingman's eyes met Varge's, faltered an eloquent appreciation of the desperate odds against him with his carbine gone, and the red ebbed from his face—then his jaw set hard.
"I can't go back," he said hoarsely. "You know that. I've got to get you—like this"—he hurled himself forward as he spoke.
It was a brave man's act, a brave man's words, fully sensed by Varge—but there was no choice—no choice. He sidestepped with a lightninglike movement, his left fist shot out and swung crashing upon the point of Kingman's jaw—and Kingman dropped like a felled ox. There had been no malice in the blow that had stunned the man and stopped the headlong rush—but it was a blow that had meant no other one should need to follow it—there was no time—no time.
KINGMAN BURST INTO SIGHT NOT A YARD AWAY.
The woods! He was in them now—at last. A gasp of relief, and he straightened up and swung again into his stride. The sounds from the village were a little fainter now—but now there was another sound, harsh, imperious, far-carrying, that on the still evening air would reach for miles around, a sound that none would misinterpret—the great bell in the central dome of the prison was sending out its warning in quick, furious clamour, each heavy, wavering note ending with a clash as another boomed out impatiently upon the echoes of the first.
He was on the edge of the creek again—it showed through the fringe of trees at his right. He had not been mistaken then—it made a sharp turn here. The carbine he was carrying was useless weight—under no circumstances could he have any need of it—not even as a last resort. It had already served its purpose. They would find Kingman, find the carbine gone, know that he, Varge, was armed and believe him desperate enough to use the weapon—they would, consequently, be a little more cautious, perhaps a little less enthusiastic in their chase. A whimsical smile flickered across the compressed lips. He must not destroy any such illusion by allowing them to find the weapon discarded. He stooped at the water's edge, and without splash or noise slid the carbine beneath the muddy current.
For an instant he debated with himself whether to cross here or not—and, deciding against it, ran on again. The other bank was not so heavily wooded at ​this point, and it might still be visible from the bridge—women and children would have flocked there to the bridge—it would be crowded with them now—they would be watching, eagerly, intently, the place where first he and then Kingman had disappeared from sight. Hebron was having enough excitement to enable it to lay by a store for the coming winter that would supply an inexhaustible fund of gossip—in two days, a fire and a man hunt!
Again the whimsical smile touched his lips, and crept now to the clear, steady eyes. The rigid tenseness of his features relaxed and gave place to a quiet, composed, yet alert expression. He was comparatively safe now. For miles around the country was wooded and hilly—it would take a small army to scour it effectually. The search of the twenty or thirty men, that would be as large a force as could be mustered, must be haphazard at best—unless they caught sight of him. Even now, probably, they had little hope of getting him—that way. They would search undoubtedly until dark—and then go back to wait and let the telegraph do the rest. Penniless, in prison garb, the odds were very greatly against the man who made a dash for freedom. Hunger would drive him to beg for food, his clothes would instantly betray him—and the scent would be picked up again. Where the telegraph reached, there was his description—and there, too, were men eager to pounce upon him.
On Varge ran, tirelessly, swiftly, dodging the lower branches, circling the trunks, keeping his path as nearly parallel as possible with the creek. Against the telegraph and his description—he had three slices of bread and a change of clothing, and the night should mean ​twenty miles to him at least. After that—well, after that would be to-morrow, and to-morrow's problems were its own.
A half-hour passed. He stopped, leaning against a tree trunk to listen, wiping the trickling drops of perspiration from his face with his jacket sleeve. Softened, mellowed, the boom of the bell still came to him; that, and the evening breeze whispering through the tree-tops, the gurgle of water from the creek upon whose bank he stood—there was no other sound.
He unbuttoned his jacket—the warden's coat was hot and cumbrous around his body. He started to untie the cord that held the garment in place, with the idea of changing his clothes—and knotted it back into place again. Not yet, not while he was still within the zone of immediate pursuit where, if he were seen, he would be recognised—until dark he must trust wholly to speed. They must believe that he had no other clothing than his prison stripes; otherwise, the change would lose almost all the value it possessed. In time they would know that he must have got rid of his tell-tale garb—but it was to-morrow, the next day, the first few days that counted so vitally—and for that length of time they might well believe him to be hiding in the woods, even if far away from the penitentiary walls.
And now he listened attentively again, then parted the branches and looked up and down the narrow creek. Here the opposite bank was densely bush-lined, and, beyond, the land rose in undulating, hilly sweeps, covered with woods as far as the eye could reach. He must have made a good three miles from the ​village—he remembered the dark, tree-topped stretch of country in this direction that he had glimpsed from the roof of the house the day before.
A moment more he stood silent, every faculty alert, looking, listening; then he whipped off his boots, rolled his two pairs of trousers to the knees and waded quickly across the shallow stream—to run for hours in wet boots, all too heavy as they were already, that would chafe and blister his feet, was a handicap compared to which the loss of time required to make the change counted little. He reached the other side, put on his boots, and, taking a course directly away from the creek now, went on again.
The wondrous strength seemed never to flag. On Varge ran, every muscle of his body co-ordinating with its fellows, every movement eloquent of tremendous power in reserve upon which as yet he had had no need to call; always the same splendid stride, light, elastic, sure; always the same easy, perfect breathing.
Twilight began to fall and the shadows in the woods to deepen and strengthen; and then, gradually, his pace slackened as he became obliged to pick his way more carefully. All about him was silence—long ago the clamour of the bell had ceased to reach his ears. He had come now perhaps a matter of four miles from where he had crossed the creek and taken a course at right angles to the one he had pursued when paralleling the stream, in all he must have covered some seven or eight miles; but he could hardly be much more than five miles in a direct line from the penitentiary. Well that, to all intents and purposes, was as good as ten, for in another half-hour now it would be dark and ​wherever else the pursuit might have led it had failed to follow the direction he had taken. At least until daylight came he was safe.
He stopped suddenly. The woods seemed to open out ahead of him as into a clearing of some sort. He listened a moment, and then went cautiously forward again—to find that it was a road. He halted at the edge of the woods, assured himself that the road was deserted, prepared to start across it—and abruptly drew back a few feet into the shadow of the trees. To his right, the road ran straight through the woods and he could see along it for quite a distance; but just at his left it was hidden by a turn, and from this latter direction there came the sound of horse's hoofs and the rattle of wheels.
There might be time to cross the road before the approaching team came around the bend, but it was foolhardy to take even a chance of being seen. Varge sat down on the ground, leaned his back against a tree and waited for the team to pass. Quite close to the edge of the road, he could see out with little difficulty and he kept his eyes fastened on the turn.
The clatter of hoofs, the crunch of wheels drew nearer, a horse came into view—and then Varge was on his feet. Through a tangle of wild raspberry bushes at the side of the road a dog rushed at him, yelping and barking madly. The team stopped instantly, and a man, leaping from the buggy, came running forward.
"Down, Briggs! You confounded imp of Satan, down!" shouted a voice.
A foot from Varge, fore paws wide apart, his head straight out on a level with his back, quivering with ​excitement to the tip of his shaggy tail, the Irish setter obeyed so far as to drop into a low and prolonged growl—but now Varge leaned coolly back against the tree—he had recognised the man.
Another instant and Doctor Kreelmar, puffing and blowing from his short run, had reached the spot.
"Ha!" exclaimed the little doctor fiercely. "So I've got you, have I! I had a suspicion that was what Briggs was after, so I lost no time in following him. Now then, sir, march to that buggy and get in! Quick now! No shillyshallying about it—back you go to the penitentiary!"
Varge's only movement was to shake his head.
"I think not," he said calmly.
"What!" snapped the little man ferociously. "You refuse—you resist!"
Varge smiled at him quietly.
"Yes," he said.
"Hum!" said Doctor Kreelmar. He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face unnecessarily. "Hum!" he repeated. "Refuse, eh?—consarned fool if you didn't! You could make a mouthful of me—I've done all I could—a great load off my conscience—hum! Briggs, keep a civil tongue in your head—we're in the hands of the host of the Midianites and you're no Gideon! Well, sir, you've caused a pretty uproar over yonder, a pretty uproar! About the only person who hasn't something to say is Kingman—and he can't because I've got his jaw in a sling."
"Kingman, yes," said Varge quickly. "I hope—"
"I looked for a compound fracture at least, when I heard you'd hit him," said Doctor Kreelmar, in a ​ludicrously injured tone. "But, pshaw, I could tap a man as hard as that myself! Heart wasn't in it, eh? That's it, eh—what?"
Briggs, with a glance at his master as though to confirm his own conclusions, was sniffing now at Varge in more friendly fashion, and suddenly put up his paw. Varge, stooping to pat the glossy brown head, made no answer to the doctor.
"Hum!" said Doctor Kreelmar. "So you made a break for it at last. I've been kind of expecting you to do it. I've an idea it's what I would be tempted to do myself if I were an innocent man shut up in there."
Varge pulled at the silky ears and rubbed the dog's muzzle.
"I said if I were an innocent man!" rapped out the choleric little fellow, promptly irascible at failing to draw Varge out.
"I heard you," said Varge, without lifting his head. "I haven't that justification—I am not an innocent man."
"Then I hope they catch you!" announced Doctor Kreelmar, with sudden calmness and equanimity. "If you're guilty, I hope to the Lord they catch you, 'pon my soul I do! And they will," he continued complacently. "They always do. There's been four breaks since I've been at the prison and they nabbed every one of the four. All four of 'em headed north for the Canadian line, trying to make Canucks out of themselves. Fool thing to do, damned fool thing to do—that's the first place they're looked for. If a man is looking for a ghost of a chance to make his escape, why doesn't he hit south, keep away from the big places and, most ​dangerous of all, the small towns where one man is the chief of police and the whole force rolled into one—blamed officious and inquisitive that man is generally; then keep under cover by day, travel by night, and never go near anything bigger than a hamlet or a farm-house till the worst of the hue and cry has died down? He could strike the coast, work around, say to Gloucester where there are all kinds of chances of shipping on a fishing smack that would keep him out of the world on the Grand Banks for a few months, and when he got back no one would know him. But do any of 'em do that? Not much! They head for Canada—and they get caught." Doctor Kreelmar resorted to his handkerchief quite as unnecessarily as before, and quite as unnecessarily mopped his face.
Varge raised his head and for a long minute the eyes of the two men held each other's. It was Doctor Kreelmar who broke the silence.
"Well, I've got to be jogging along," he said. "Patient sent for me out this way more'n an hour ago. A man breaking out of penitentiary has got pretty considerable hard digging ahead of him, and even if he goes south he doesn't stand much more show than a hen in a tornado unless he's got some money." Doctor Kreelmar puckered up his face into a wry grimace, dove his hand into his pocket and brought out a roll of bills. "I'm a prison official," said he, "and I guess I'm breaking my oath and suborning duty and acting generally like a blame fool, but then most of us act according to the lights we're supplied with—hum! I guess I wouldn't have much of any hesitation in turning this over to an innocent man—what?"
​A lump rose suddenly in Varge's throat—the doctor seemed to waver before him through the mist in his eyes. He could only shake his head.
"Well, it doesn't matter," said the doctor, a little wistfully, "only I'd like to have heard you say it; as it is, I reckon I'll have to keep on trusting to those lights of mine. Take the money, Varge, and—and—oh, well—confound it!—take it!"—he thrust the bills suddenly between the buttons of Varge's jacket.
"I don't know what I can say to you," said Varge huskily, "except what I said once before—God bless you. I'll keep the money for I shall need it badly enough—when I can, I'll send it back to you." He held out his hand. "Good-bye."
Doctor Kreelmar eyed the outstretched hand dubiously.
"I shook hands with you once before," he snapped gruffly, "and I haven't forgotten it."
"That was when I was dying," said Varge, smiling through wet eyes.
"Hum!" said the little man, "So it was. Well, I'll risk it."
He caught Varge's hand, wrung it hard in both his own—then turned and walked quickly to the road.
Varge watched him clamber into the buggy and pick up the reins.
"Gidap!" clucked the little doctor to his horse.