The Mucker

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  CHAPTER IV. ON THE TRAIL. AS THEY entered the place Billy, who wasahead, sought a table; but as he was about to hang up his cap and seathimself Bridge touched his elbow.

  "Let's go to the washroom and clean up a bit," he said, in a voice thatmight be heard by those nearest.

  "Why, we just washed before we left our room," expostulated Billy.

  "Shut up and follow me," Bridge whispered into his ear.

  Immediately Billy was all suspicion. His hand flew to the pocket inwhich the gun of the deputy sheriff still rested. They would nevertake him alive, of that Billy was positive. He wouldn't go back to lifeimprisonment, not after he had tasted the sweet freedom of the widespaces--such a freedom as the trammeled city cannot offer.

  Bridge saw the movement.

  "Cut it," he whispered, "and follow me, as I tell you. I just saw aChicago dick across the street. He may not have seen you, but it lookedalmighty like it. He'll be down here in about two seconds now. Comeon--we'll beat it through the rear--I know the way."

  Billy Byrne heaved a great sigh of relief. Suddenly he was almostreconciled to the thought of capture, for in the instant he had realizedthat it had not been so much his freedom that he had dreaded to lose ashis faith in the companion in whom he had believed.

  Without sign of haste the two walked the length of the room anddisappeared through the doorway leading into the washroom. Before themwas a window opening upon a squalid back yard. The building stood upona hillside, so that while the entrance to the eating-place was below thelevel of the street in front, its rear was flush with the ground.

  Bridge motioned Billy to climb through the window while he shot the boltupon the inside of the door leading back into the restaurant. A momentlater he followed the fugitive, and then took the lead.

  Down narrow, dirty alleys, and through litter-piled back yards he madehis way, while Billy followed at his heels. Dusk was gathering, andbefore they had gone far darkness came.

  They neither paused nor spoke until they had left the business portionof the city behind and were well out of the zone of bright lights.Bridge was the first to break the silence.

  "I suppose you wonder how I knew," he said.

  "No," replied Billy. "I seen that clipping you got in your pocket--itfell out on the floor when you took your coat off in the room thisafternoon to go and wash."

  "Oh," said Bridge, "I see. Well, as far as I'm concerned that's the endof it--we won't mention it again, old man. I don't need to tell you thatI'm for you."

  "No, not after tonight," Billy assured him.

  They went on again for some little time without speaking, then Billysaid:

  "I got two things to tell you. The first is that after I seen thatnewspaper article in your clothes I thought you was figurin' ondouble-crossin' me an' claimin' the five hun. I ought to of knownbetter. The other is that I didn't kill Schneider. I wasn't near hisplace that night--an' that's straight."

  "I'm glad you told me both," said Bridge. "I think we'll understand eachother better after this--we're each runnin' away from something. We'llrun together, eh?" and he extended his hand. "In flannel shirt fromearth's clean dirt, here, pal, is my calloused hand!" he quoted,laughing.

  Billy took the other's hand. He noticed that Bridge hadn't said what HEwas running away from. Billy wondered; but asked no questions.

  South they went after they had left the city behind, out into the sweetand silent darkness of the country. During the night they crossed theline into Kansas, and morning found them in a beautiful, hilly countryto which all thoughts of cities, crime, and police seemed so utterlyforeign that Billy could scarce believe that only a few hours before aChicago detective had been less than a hundred feet from him.

  The new sun burst upon them as they topped a grassy hill. Thedew-bespangled blades scintillated beneath the gorgeous rays which wouldpresently sweep them away again into the nothingness from which they hadsprung.

  Bridge halted and stretched himself. He threw his head back and let thewarm sun beat down upon his bronzed face.

  There's sunshine in the heart of me, My blood sings in the breeze; The mountains are a part of me, I'm fellow to the trees. My golden youth I'm squandering, Sun-libertine am I, A-wandering, a-wandering, Until the day I die.

  And then he stood for minutes drinking in deep breaths of the pure,sweet air of the new day. Beside him, a head taller, savagely strong,stood Billy Byrne, his broad shoulders squared, his great chestexpanding as he inhaled.

  "It's great, ain't it?" he said, at last. "I never knew the country waslike this, an' I don't know that I ever would have known it if it hadn'tbeen for those poet guys you're always spouting.

  "I always had an idea they was sissy fellows," he went on; "but a guycan't be a sissy an' think the thoughts they musta thought to writestuff that sends the blood chasin' through a feller like he'd had adrink on an empty stomach.

  "I used to think everybody was a sissy who wasn't a tough guy. I was atough guy all right, an' I was mighty proud of it. I ain't any more an'haven't been for a long time; but before I took a tumble to myself I'dhave hated you, Bridge. I'd a-hated your fine talk, an' your poetry, an'the thing about you that makes you hate to touch a guy for a hand-out.

  "I'd a-hated myself if I'd thought that I could ever talk mushy like Iam now. Gee, Bridge, but I was the limit! A girl--a nice girl--calledme a mucker once, an' a coward. I was both; but I had the reputation ofbein' the toughest guy on the West Side, an' I thought I was a man. Inearly poked her face for her--think of it, Bridge! I nearly did; butsomething stopped me--something held my hand from it, an' lately I'veliked to think that maybe what stopped me was something in me that hadalways been there--something decent that was really a part of me. I hateto think that I was such a beast at heart as I acted like all my lifeup to that minute. I began to change then. It was mighty slow, an' I'mstill a roughneck; but I'm gettin' on. She helped me most, of course,an' now you're helpin' me a lot, too--you an' your poetry stuff. If somedick don't get me I may get to be a human bein' before I die."

  Bridge laughed.

  "It IS odd," he said, "how our viewpoints change with changedenvironment and the passing of the years. Time was, Billy, when I'd havehated you as much as you would have hated me. I don't know that I shouldhave said hate, for that is not exactly the word. It was more contemptthat I felt for men whom I considered as not belonging upon thatintellectual or social plane to which I considered I had been born.

  "I thought of people who moved outside my limited sphere as 'the greatunwashed.' I pitied them, and I honestly believe now that in the bottomof my heart I considered them of different clay than I, and with souls,if they possessed such things, about on a par with the souls of sheepand cows.

  "I couldn't have seen the man in you, Billy, then, any more than youcould have seen the man in me. I have learned much since then, thoughI still stick to a part of my original articles of faith--I do believethat all men are not equal; and I know that there are a great many morewith whom I would not pal than there are those with whom I would.

  "Because one man speaks better English than another, or has readmore and remembers it, only makes him a better man in that particularrespect. I think none the less of you because you can't quote Browningor Shakespeare--the thing that counts is that you can appreciate, as Ido, Service and Kipling and Knibbs.

  "Now maybe we are both wrong--maybe Knibbs and Kipling and Servicedidn't write poetry, and some people will say as much; but whatever itis it gets you and me in the same way, and so in this respect we areequals. Which being the case let's see if we can't rustle some grub, andthen find a nice soft spot whereon to pound our respective ears."

  Billy, deciding that he was too sleepy to work for food, invested halfof the capital that was to have furnished the swell feed the nightbefore in what two bits would purchase from a generous housewife on anear-by farm, and then, stretching themselves beneath the shade ofa tree sufficiently far from the road that they might not attractunnecessary observation, they slep
t until after noon.

  But their precaution failed to serve their purpose entirely. Alittle before noon two filthy, bearded knights of the road clamberedlaboriously over the fence and headed directly for the very tree underwhich Billy and Bridge lay sleeping. In the minds of the two was thesame thought that had induced Billy Byrne and the poetic Bridge to seekthis same secluded spot.

  There was in the stiff shuffle of the men something rather familiar.We have seen them before--just for a few minutes it is true; but undercircumstances that impressed some of their characteristics upon us. Thevery last we saw of them they were shuffling away in the darkness alonga railroad track, after promising that eventually they would wreak direvengeance upon Billy, who had just trounced them.

  Now as they came unexpectedly upon the two sleepers they did notimmediately recognize in them the objects of their recent hate. Theyjust stood looking stupidly down on them, wondering in what way theymight turn their discovery to their own advantage.

  Nothing in the raiment either of Billy or Bridge indicated that here wasany particularly rich field for loot, and, too, the athletic figureof Byrne would rather have discouraged any attempt to roll him withoutfirst handing him the "k.o.", as the two would have naively put it.

  But as they gazed down upon the features of the sleepers the eyes of oneof the tramps narrowed to two ugly slits while those of his companionwent wide in incredulity and surprise.

  "Do youse know dem guys?" asked the first, and without waiting for areply he went on: "Dem's de guys dat beat us up back dere de udder sideo' K. C. Do youse get 'em?"

  "Sure?" asked the other.

  "Sure, I'd know dem in a t'ous'n'. Le's hand 'em a couple an' beat it,"and he stooped to pick up a large stone that lay near at hand.

  "Cut it!" whispered the second tramp. "Youse don't know dem guys at all.Dey may be de guys dat beats us up; but dat big stiff dere is more dandat. He's wanted in Chi, an' dere's half a t'ou on 'im."

  "Who put youse jerry to all dat?" inquired the first tramp, skeptically.

  "I was in de still wit 'im--he croaked some guy. He's a lifer. On de wayto de pen he pushes dis dick off'n de rattler an' makes his get-away.Dat peter-boy we meets at Quincy slips me an earful about him. Here'sw'ere we draws down de five hundred if we're cagey."

  "Whaddaya mean, cagey?"

  "Why we leaves 'em alone an' goes to de nex' farm an' calls up K. C. an'tips off de dicks, see?"

  "Youse don't tink we'll get any o' dat five hun, do youse, wit de dicksin on it?"

  The other scratched his head.

  "No," he said, rather dubiously, after a moment's deep thought; "deydon't nobody get nothin' dat de dicks see first; but we'll get even withdese blokes, annyway."

  "Maybe dey'll pass us a couple bucks," said the other hopefully. "Dey'dorter do dat much."

  Detective Sergeant Flannagan of Headquarters, Chicago, slouched in achair in the private office of the chief of detectives of Kansas City,Missouri. Sergeant Flannagan was sore. He would have said as muchhimself. He had been sent west to identify a suspect whom the KansasCity authorities had arrested; but had been unable to do so, and hadbeen preparing to return to his home city when the brilliant aureola ofan unusual piece of excellent fortune had shone upon him for amoment, and then faded away through the grimy entrance of a basementeating-place.

  He had been walking along the street the previous evening thinkingof nothing in particular; but with eyes and ears alert as becomes asuccessful police officer, when he had espied two men approaching uponthe opposite sidewalk.

  There was something familiar in the swing of the giant frame of one ofthe men. So, true to years of training, Sergeant Flannagan melted intothe shadows of a store entrance and waited until the two should havecome closer.

  They were directly opposite him when the truth flashed upon him--the bigfellow was Billy Byrne, and there was a five-hundred-dollar reward outfor him.

  And then the two turned and disappeared down the stairway that led tothe underground restaurant. Sergeant Flannagan saw Byrne's companionturn and look back just as Flannagan stepped from the doorway to crossthe street after them.

  That was the last Sergeant Flannagan had seen either of Billy Byrne orhis companion. The trail had ceased at the open window of the washroomat the rear of the restaurant, and search as he would be had been unableto pick it up again.

  No one in Kansas City had seen two men that night answering thedescriptions Flannagan had been able to give--at least no one whomFlannagan could unearth.

  Finally he had been forced to take the Kansas City chief into hisconfidence, and already a dozen men were scouring such sections ofKansas City in which it seemed most likely an escaped murderer wouldchoose to hide.

  Flannagan had been out himself for a while; but now he was in to learnwhat progress, if any, had been made. He had just learned that threesuspects had been arrested and was waiting to have them paraded beforehim.

  When the door swung in and the three were escorted into his presenceSergeant Flannagan gave a snort of disgust, indicative probably notonly of despair; but in a manner registering his private opinion of themental horse power and efficiency of the Kansas City sleuths, for ofthe three one was a pasty-faced, chestless youth, even then under theinfluence of cocaine, another was an old, bewhiskered hobo, while thethird was unquestionably a Chinaman.

  Even professional courtesy could scarce restrain Sergeant Flannagan'sdesire toward bitter sarcasm, and he was upon the point of launchingforth into a vitriolic arraignment of everything west of Chicago up toand including, specifically, the Kansas City detective bureau, when thetelephone bell at the chief's desk interrupted him. He had wanted thechief to hear just what he thought, so he waited.

  The chief listened for a few minutes, asked several questions andthen, placing a fat hand over the transmitter, he wheeled about towardFlannagan.

  "Well," he said, "I guess I got something for you at last. There's abo on the wire that says he's just seen your man down near Shawnee. Hewants to know if you'll split the reward with him."

  Flannagan yawned and stretched.

  "I suppose," he said, ironically, "that if I go down there I'llfind he's corraled a nigger," and he looked sorrowfully at the threespecimens before him.

  "I dunno," said the chief. "This guy says he knows Byrne well, an' thathe's got it in for him. Shall I tell him you'll be down--and split thereward?"

  "Tell him I'll be down and that I'll treat him right," repliedFlannagan, and after the chief had transmitted the message, and hung upthe receiver: "Where is this here Shawnee, anyhow?"

  "I'll send a couple of men along with you. It isn't far across the line,an' there won't be no trouble in getting back without nobody knowin'anything about it--if you get him."

  "All right," said Flannagan, his visions of five hundred alreadydwindled to a possible one.

  It was but a little past one o'clock that a touring car rolled south outof Kansas City with Detective Sergeant Flannagan in the front seat withthe driver and two burly representatives of Missouri law in the back.