Beyond the Wall
The first of a remarkable series of underworld stories by the author of“Thirst” and “The Harvest of the Deep.” Few other writers have Mr. Leverage’skeen sense of drama and ability to describe swift action clearly.
Chester Fay, a slender, keen-eyed, gray-haired young man,—clad in prisonshoddy, serving life and fifteen years at Rockglen,—glanced through the rainand over the wall to where a green-cloaked hill loomed. “Charley,” hewhispered, “we might as well try it this afternoon. Are you game?” CharleyO’Mara, sixty-five years old, bent, broken, and bitter at the law, coughed awarning. He raised his pick and started digging around a flower-bed.
A guard in a heavy raincoat, carrying a dripping rifle, came toward the twoprisoners. He stopped a few feet away from Fay.
“Quit that talkin’!” he snarled. “I’ll chalk you in if I see any more ofit!”
Fay did not answer the guard. He spaded the earth, dug deep, tossed theshovelfuls to one side and waited until the guard had strolled within theshelter of a low shed.
“Charley!” he continued without moving his lips. “Listen, old pal. See thatmotortruck near the shed?”
“I see it, Chester.”
“See where the screw is standing?”
“He’s watching us.”
“And I’m watching him, Charley. We can beat this stir in an hour. Do youwant to try it?”
“How you going to do it?”
“Will you follow me?”
“Yes, pal.”
“Wait till it gets a little darker. Then we’ll take the chance.”
The prison guard stood with his rifle lowered to the moist earth beneaththe shed. His eyes ranged from the two convicts to the wall upon which wereother guards sheltered in tiny guardhouses. He yawned and drowsed,standing.
Fay worked in a slow circle. He had seen the auto-truck come into theprison yard at noon. It was part of the road-gang’s outfit. There was noroad-work that day, on account of the rain. The inmate driver had gone intothe cellhouse.
Old Charley O’Mara let his pick dig into the earth with feeble strokes. Hepaused at times. There was that to Fay’s actions which presaged much. Thegray-haired young man was gradually closing in on the drowsing guard. He waslike a lean panther getting ready for a spring.
The attack came with lightninglike suddenness. Fay dropped his shovel,crossed the earth, struck the guard a short-arm uppercut and bore him down toearth, where he smothered his cries with a flap of the raincoat.
Charley O’Mara came limping toward the shed.
“Get a rope!” snapped Fay. “I don’t want to croak him.”
“Croakin’s too good for the likes of him, Chester.”
“Get a rope. We’ve got about fifteen minutes to work in. We ought to bebeyond the wall by then.”
Fay worked quickly. He took the rope the old convict found, and trussed theguard, after taking off the raincoat. He made sure that the man would make nooutcry. He fastened a stick in his mouth and tied it behind his head. He roseand glanced through the down-pouring rain.
“I knocked him out,” he said. “Now, Charley, put on that raincoat, take thecap and rifle and walk slowly toward the auto-truck. Get in the front. Standup like a guard.”
“But they might know me!”
“They wont know you. It’s raining. The screws on the wall will think youare taking the truck out, by order of the warden. I’ll drive. An inmate alwaysdrives.”
The guard who