Chapter 9

The county fair opened Friday but the races did not begin until Saturday. Sunday the fair would be open only for exhibits and the various concessions, and by Monday the whole thing would be in operation for the rest of the week.

Saturday night, Cynthia sat in a box directly behind the pit where the cars were waiting for the drivers. The whole atmosphere of the place, even though she had been attending fairs since childhood, seemed strange and exciting, and she watched eagerly as the drivers moved about their cars, mechanics scrambling about them like bees, checking, rechecking, consulting with the drivers.

When the flag dropped and the cars roared off, she felt herself dizzy with fear. She couldn't watch, fearing every minute that Hank might crash. After five laps she stumbled out of the box and away from the grandstand.

She never quite remembered how she got home. Her car was there somewhere, and when she next realized where she was, she was stumbling up the steps to the verandah and collapsing in the swing, long shudders racing over her body. She seemed still to hear the roar of the motors; to see them flashing about the track, coming within inches of crashing into each other; and again and again she saw that blazing hoop with Hank hurtling the small car through it, bounding to the farther ramp....

The thought of Hank was so dear to her that when she heard his voice and looked up to see him standing there before her, still in his racing clothes, she could scarcely make herself believe he was not just a figment of her imagination. When he came to sit beside her in the swing, she drew away from him, unwilling for him to touch her lest the warmth and exquisite tenderness of their feeling should once more blind her to what she now knew was the truth.

"What happened, honey?" Hank asked her, and his tone was touched with honest bewilderment. "Anne said you were ill."

"I was sick, Hank-sitting there watching you risking your life-doing all those dangerous things. I couldn't stand it. Hank, this is the end for us. We mustn't ever see each other again." Her voice was shaking, on the edge of hysteria.

Hank gave a small, tender laugh and reached for her, to draw her into his arms. But she pushed him away and stood up, her face paper-white, her eyes enormous, her voice shaking. "No, Hank, don't touch me. Don't ever touch me again. Go away, Hank-please go away!"

"Oh, come now, darling." His voice was coaxing, light, and it seemed to her there was a touch of amusement in it. "You've just got opening night jitters. I admit the show tonight was a little ragged, but that's because we haven't been working this summer. It'll settle down in a few days. The boys have been working on some new stuff, and as soon as we get it worked into the act-"

Cynthia said, her voice under some semblance of control, "And then it will be a lot more dangerous, won't it?"

Hank looked puzzled. "Well, I suppose so, though we are always as careful as we dare to be. After all, the paying customers want a thrill."

"And you give it to them by taking the most insane risks. Hank, when I saw you go through that fire-" she turned sharply away, her shaking hands tight above her mouth, unable to put into words the horror that shook her at the memory.

"Everything was timed to the second, Cynthia," he told her. "We take no unnecessary risks, I assure you."

"Unnecessary?" she caught the word up and flung it back at him.

"Cynthia, use your head!" Now there was no doubt that he was resentful. "We book ourselves because we are willing to take risks, to put on a show that the audience knows is dangerous. Why else would they want to see it?"

Cynthia turned slowly and faced him, her eyes dark pools in the pallor of her white face in the moonlight.

"I sat with the wives' tonight, Hank," she told him, as though that explained her disturbance.

"So?"

"So I saw what they endure night after night, sometimes for matiness as well, and it's not something I can accept, Hank! I'd rather never see you again then to sit in a grandstand somewhere and watch you do the things I saw you do tonight. You said the wives didn't mind. You should have watched them as I did-heard them-" Her voice broke and she turned from him again.

"I suppose Florence put on an act? I can't understand Cal putting up with her," Hank growled.

Cynthia stared at him, shocked, blindly angry, but before she could put her anger into words, inside the house the telephone clamored shrilly. Caught by surprise, Cynthia hesitated a moment before she turned swiftly into the house to answer its summons.

Hank followed her, and as she picked up the receiver, she saw swift alarm darken his face.

"That you, Miss Cynthia?" a rough masculine voice said. "Sheriff Wayne here. Look, that client of yours broke jail tonight and I'm rounding up a posse to go find him. I know his wife and kid are there with you, so he may make a break for your place."

Cynthia cried out wildly, "Wait, Sheriff. Are you talking about Bud Conyers?"

"Well, now who else would I be talking about?" Sheriff Wayne was very angry. "You better tell him to surrender fast if he shows up out there."

"But, Sheriff, how did he get out?" Cynthia demanded.

"Joe Henslee took his supper to him, and he clobbered Joe, tied him up, locked him in the cell and beat it," Sheriff Wayne answered grimly. "Rest of my crowd was at the fair; when we got back to the jail, Joe'd worked himself loose and was yelling bloody blue murder. Said Bud was armed, half-crazy and dangerous. We're waiting now for the bloodhounds, and I'm rounding up and swearing in a posse, with instructions to shoot on sight."

"Oh, Sheriff, no, you can't do that," cried Cynthia.

"Oh, can't I? Well, you just wait and see, Miss Cynthia. He's a dangerous fugitive, and I'm not aiming to let him make a fool of me and my boys by slugging Joe and walking out. Just thought I'd let you know if he shows up out there, best thing you can do for him and the law is surrender him fast. He'll probably make tracks to Gladdie-May and the kid, and you'd best bring him in. Otherwise the boys are warned to shoot on sight, and shoot to kill! I'm not foolin' around, Miss Cynthia. I mean it!"

Even as Cynthia cried out, the phone clicked in her ear and she whirled around to find Gladdie-May and Maggie on the stairs, white-faced and wide-eyed. Hank stood near watching her.

"Trouble at the fair grounds?" he asked swiftly.

Cynthia ignored him, looking up at Gladdie-May.

"Bud's broken out of jail, Gladdie-May. Where would be go?" she demanded sharply.

Gladdie-May cringed, and her tanned young face was ashen, her eyes wide and sick with shock.

"Only one place he could go, Miss Cynthia-the Swamp," she answered huskily.

"Oh, surely not, Gladdie-May! That's the second place the posse would look for him. This is the first place, since Sheriff Wayne knows you and the baby are here," Cynthia protested.

"Oh, he wouldn't come here, Miss Cynthia. There's a place in the Swamp where he could hide out the rest of his life, and nobody but me would ever know he was there," Gladdie-May answered bleakly.

"Then tell me how to get there, Gladdie-May. Hurry!"

"You couldn't ever find it, Miss Cynthia. Only me and Bud know about it. You better let me go to him."

"And leave the baby? Gladdie-May, I can talk to Bud. I can convince him that his only course is to give himself up and stand trial. Tell me how to find him," Cynthia insisted.

"It's right dangerous, Miss Cynthia, if you don't know the way like I do."

"Oh, dangerous!" Cynthia's tone threw the word away as of no importance whatever. "Don't you understand, Gladdie-May? The posse has orders to shoot him on sight. I've got to get to him, persuade him to surrender. Tell me how to find him."

Hank was watching, listening, his eyes swinging from one to the other, a curious gleam in them. Cynthia turned on him swiftly, her tone sharp as she ordered, "You like to risk your life driving dangerously; how'd you like to drive dangerously to save a man's life?"

"I'm at your service, Cynthia, anytime, anywhere."

Cynthia turned back to Gladdie-May.

"Tell me how to get to him, Gladdie-May," she urged in the same sharp tone.

"Well, best you change your clothes, Miss Cynthia. You couldn't never get get there in a dress and high-heeled shoes. Best you wear blue jeans or slacks and walking shoes. Come on; I'll help you change, and I'll tell you real careful how you can get there." Gladdie-May turned and scurried up the stairs, with Maggie and Cynthia following swiftly.

It was no more than ten minutes before Cynthia came down again, wearing slacks, a thin sweater slung over her shoulders and her feet in scuffed brown walking shoes.

"Let's go," she told Hank as she ran past him into the night.

Hank followed her and his car purred into action as, following her directions, he headed toward the road that led to the Conyers cabin. Midway in the narrow, crooked, unpaved road, Cynthia directed him to a trail that was barely visible. The big car fought its way down this trail, turning and twisting, and Hank swore under his breath at the limbs of trees that slashed at them, and the exposed roots that threatened to wreck them.

At last they came to the end of even this trail, and before them lay moonlit puddles of brackish water.

"Wait here," said Cynthia curtly, as, armed only with a large flashlight, she sprang out of the car.

"Wait?" barked Hank furiously. "Do you think I'm going to let you go off after an escaped murderer in this jungle, alone?"

Cynthia turned on him sharply.

"Bud's not a murderer, and even if he were, he wouldn't hurt me, and I forbid you try to follow me!" She snapped at him so hotly that he paused, his eyes widening. "This is my job and I don't want any interference from you. Wait here and I'll bring Bud back with me."

And she plunged away from him, and was almost instantly swallowed up in the shadowy darkness of the Swamp.