Dark Journey

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He slid out of the waters of the creek like a lean, hungry cat. It was night, with Texas stars glittering in the black blanket overhead. More important, the night was silent. The dogs and men were no longer behind him, thirsty for his blood.

Exhausted and dirty as he was, Frank Donovan experienced a moment of exultation. The past hours lay like a gray fog in his mind. During those hours he had moved and breathed with a grim desire to live, but with little hope of making the escape a success. He had been like a hunted animal, motivated only by its primordial instinct to run, to put distance between itself and the cold, yawning cage. But now, like a flicker of feeble light, hope was beginning to stir in Donovan’s brain and feelings. The possibility of see Glory again, touching her hands, her lips, drove him to his feet, lurched him down-creek with a wild laugh.

The break itself had been a fluke, an incident arranged by a droll pixie of fate. Two guards had stood watch over the road gang of half a dozen convicts. With a long-handled shovel, Frank had been digging loose a six-pound stone when the guard nearest him had half turned to shout to the guard up the road. Without thought or conscious volition, Frank had straightened and hurled the stone in one lightning motion. The rock had slammed the guard hard on the shoulder, knocking him down. With cougar-like grace, Frank had dropped over the rim of the gully as the second guard’s shotgun had blasted.

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