The Return of the Mucker - Edgar Rice Burroughs (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📗
- Author: Edgar Rice Burroughs
- Performer: -
Book online «The Return of the Mucker - Edgar Rice Burroughs (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📗». Author Edgar Rice Burroughs
With the coming of the last day of the trial Billy found it more and more difficult to adhere to his regard for law, order, and justice. The prosecution had shown conclusively that Billy was a hard customer. The police had brought witnesses who did not hesitate to perjure themselves in their testimony— testimony which it seemed to Billy the densest of jurymen could plainly see had been framed up and learned by rote until it was letter-perfect.
These witnesses could recall with startling accuracy every detail that had occurred between seventeen minutes after eight and twenty-one minutes past nine on the night of September 23 over a year before; but where they had been and what they had done ten minutes earlier or ten minutes later, or where they were at nine o’clock in the evening last Friday they couldn’t for the lives of them remember.
And Billy was practically without witnesses.
The result was a foregone conclusion. Even Billy had to admit it, and when the prosecuting attorney demanded the death penalty the prisoner had an uncanny sensation as of the tightening of a hempen rope about his neck.
As he waited for the jury to return its verdict Billy sat in his cell trying to read a newspaper which a kindly guard had given him. But his eyes persisted in boring through the white paper and the black type to scenes that were not in any paper. He saw a turbulent river tumbling through a savage world, and in the swirl of the water lay a little island. And he saw a man there upon the island, and a girl. The girl was teaching the man to speak the language of the cultured, and to view life as people of refinement view it.
She taught him what honor meant among her class, and that it was better to lose any other possession rather than lose honor. Billy realized that it had been these lessons that had spurred him on to the mad scheme that was to end now with the verdict of “Guilty”—he had wished to vindicate his honor. A hard laugh broke from his lips; but instantly he sobered and his face softened.
It had been for her sake after all, and what mattered it if they did send him to the gallows? He had not sacrificed his honor—he had done his best to assert it. He was innocent. They could kill him but they couldn’t make him guilty. A thousand juries pronouncing him so could not make it true that he had killed Schneider.
But it would be hard, after all his hopes, after all the plans he had made to live square, to SHOW THEM. His eyes still boring through the paper suddenly found themselves attracted by something in the text before them—a name, Harding.
Billy Byrne shook himself and commenced to read:
The marriage of Barbara, daughter of Anthony Harding, the multimillionaire, to William Mallory will take place on the twenty-fifth of June.
The article was dated New York. There was more, but Billy did not read it. He had read enough. It is true that he had urged her to marry Mallory; but now, in his lonesomeness and friendlessness, he felt almost as though she had been untrue to him.
“Come along, Byrne,” a bailiff interrupted his thoughts, “the jury’s reached a verdict.”
The judge was emerging from his chambers as Billy was led into the courtroom. Presently the jury filed in and took their seats. The foreman handed the clerk a bit of paper. Even before it was read Billy knew that he had been found guilty. He did not care any longer, so he told himself. He hoped that the judge would send him to the gallows. There was nothing more in life for him now anyway. He wanted to die. But instead he was sentenced to life imprisonment in the penitentiary at Joliet.
This was infinitely worse than death. Billy Byrne was appalled at the thought of remaining for life within the grim stone walls of a prison. Once more there swept over him all the old, unreasoning hatred of the law and all that pertained to it. He would like to close his steel fingers about the fat neck of the red-faced judge. The smug jurymen roused within him the lust to kill. Justice! Billy Byrne laughed aloud.
A bailiff rapped for order. One of the jurymen leaned close to a neighbor and whispered. “A hardened criminal,” he said. “Society will be safer when he is behind the bars.”
The next day they took Billy aboard a train bound for Joliet. He was handcuffed to a deputy sheriff. Billy was calm outwardly; but inwardly he was a raging volcano of hate.
In a certain very beautiful home on Riverside Drive, New York City, a young lady, comfortably backed by downy pillows, sat in her bed and alternated her attention between coffee and rolls, and a morning paper.
On the inside of the main sheet a heading claimed her languid attention: CHICAGO MURDERER GIVEN LIFE SENTENCE. Of late Chicago had aroused in Barbara Harding a greater proportion of interest than ever it had in the past, and so it was that she now permitted her eyes to wander casually down the printed column.
Murderer of harmless old saloon keeper is finally brought to justice. The notorious West Side rowdy, “Billy” Byrne, apprehended after more than a year as fugitive from justice, is sent to Joliet for life.
Barbara Harding sat stony-eyed and cold for what seemed many minutes. Then with a stifled sob she turned and buried her face in the pillows.
The train bearing Billy Byrne and the deputy sheriff toward Joliet had covered perhaps half the distance between Chicago and Billy’s permanent destination when it occurred to the deputy sheriff that he should like to go into the smoker and enjoy a cigar.
Now, from the moment that he had been sentenced Billy Byrne’s mind had been centered upon one thought—escape. He knew that there probably would be not the slightest chance for escape; but nevertheless the idea was always uppermost in his thoughts.
His whole being revolted, not alone against the injustice which had sent him into life imprisonment, but at the thought of the long years of awful monotony which lay ahead of him.
He could not endure them. He would not! The deputy sheriff rose, and motioning his prisoner ahead of him, started for the smoker. It was two cars ahead. The train was vestibuled. The first platform they crossed was tightly enclosed; but at the second Billy saw that a careless porter had left one of the doors open. The train was slowing down for some reason—it was going, perhaps, twenty miles an hour.
Billy was the first upon the platform. He was the first to see the open door. It meant one of two things—a chance to escape, or, death. Even the latter was to be preferred to life imprisonment.
Billy did not hesitate an instant. Even before the deputy sheriff realized that the door was open, his prisoner had leaped from the moving train dragging his guard after him.
BYRNE had no time to pick any particular spot to jump for. When he did jump he might have been directly over a picket fence, or a bottomless pit—he did not know. Nor did he care.
As it happened he was over neither. The platform chanced to be passing across a culvert at the instant. Beneath the culvert was a slimy pool. Into this the two men plunged, alighting unharmed.
Byrne was the first to regain his feet. He dragged the deputy sheriff to his knees, and before that frightened and astonished officer of the law could gather his wits together he had been relieved of his revolver and found himself looking into its cold and business-like muzzle.
Then Billy Byrne waded ashore, prodding the deputy sheriff in the ribs with cold steel, and warning him to silence. Above the pool stood a little wood, thick with tangled wildwood. Into this Byrne forced his prisoner.
When they had come deep enough into the concealment of the foliage to make discovery from the outside improbable Byrne halted.
“Now say yer prayers,” he commanded. “I’m a-going to croak yeh.”
The deputy sheriff looked up at him in wild-eyed terror.
“My God!” he cried. “I ain’t done nothin’ to you, Byrne. Haven’t I always been your friend? What’ve I ever done to you? For God’s sake Byrne you ain’t goin’ to murder me, are you? They’ll get you, sure.”
Billy Byrne let a rather unpleasant smile curl his lips.
“No,” he said, “youse ain’t done nothin’ to me; but you stand for the law, damn it, and I’m going to croak everything I meet that stands for the law. They wanted to send me up for life—me, an innocent man. Your kind done it—the cops. You ain’t no cop; but you’re just as rotten. Now say yer prayers.”
He leveled the revolver at his victim’s head. The deputy sheriff slumped to his knees and tried to embrace Billy Byrne’s legs as he pleaded for his life.
“Cut it out, you poor boob,” admonished Billy. “You’ve gotta die and if you was half a man you’d wanna die like one.”
The deputy sheriff slipped to the ground. His terror had overcome him, leaving him in happy unconsciousness. Byrne stood looking down upon the man for a moment. His wrist was chained to that of the other, and the pull of the deputy’s body was irritating.
Byrne stooped and placed the muzzle of the revolver back of the man’s ear. “Justice!” he muttered, scornfully, and his finger tightened upon the trigger.
Then, conjured from nothing, there rose between himself and the unconscious man beside him the figure of a beautiful girl. Her face was brave and smiling, and in her eyes was trust and pride—whole worlds of them. Trust and pride in Billy Byrne.
Billy closed his eyes tight as though in physical pain. He brushed his hand quickly across his face.
“Gawd!” he muttered. “I can’t do it—but I came awful close to it.”
Dropping the revolver into his side pocket he kneeled beside the deputy sheriff and commenced to go through the man’s clothes. After a moment he came upon what he sought—a key ring confining several keys.
Billy found the one he wished and presently he was free. He still stood looking at the deputy sheriff.
“I ought to croak you,” he murmured. “I’ll never make my getaway if I don’t; but SHE won’t let me—God bless her.”
Suddenly a thought came to Billy Byrne. If he could have a start he might escape. It wouldn’t hurt the man any to stay here for a few hours, or even for a day. Billy removed the deputy’s coat and tore it into strips. With these he bound the man to a tree. Then he fastened a gag in his mouth.
During the operation the deputy regained consciousness. He looked questioningly at Billy.
“I decided not to croak you,” explained the young man. “I’m just a-goin’ to leave you here for a while. They’ll be lookin’ all along the right o’ way in a few hours—it won’t be long afore they find you. Now so long, and take care of yerself, bo,” and Billy Byrne had gone.
A mistake that proved fortunate for Billy Byrne caused the penitentiary authorities to expect him and his guard by a later train, so no suspicion was aroused when they failed to come upon the train they really had started upon. This gave Billy a good two hours’ start that he would not otherwise have had—an opportunity of which he made good use.
Wherefore
Comments (0)