The hunt would
be on in grim earnest; the alarm would go out in all directions.
Men would be watching for him at every cross-roads, every railway
station, every village, and directing the hunt would be--these men
who never give up until they "land" their man.
His only chance lay in keeping under cover for a day or two,--or
even longer,--until the chase went farther afield and he could
take the risk of venturing forth from his hiding place. He had the
place in mind. They would never think of looking for him in that
sinister hole in the wall, Quill's Window! There he could lie in
perfect safety until the coast was clear, and then by night steal
down the river in the wake of pursuit.
Their first thoughts would be of the railroad, the highways and
the city. They would not beat the woods for him. They would cut
off all avenues of escape and set their traps at the end of every
trail, confident that he would walk into them perforce before
another day was done.
Like a ghost he stole across the little clearing that lay between
the road and the willows above the ferry. The snapping of a twig
under his feet, the scuffling of a pebble, the rustling of dead
leaves and grass, the scraping of his garments against weeds and
shrubbery, were sounds that took on the magnitude of ear-splitting
crashes. It was all he could do to keep from breaking into a mad,
reckless dash for the trees at the farther side of this moonlit
stretch.
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