Chapter 10

There were only a few patches of dry ground in the Big Swamp, and they were scattered so far apart, with such distances of water and spongy turf between them, that it was only by the rarest of luck that one could find them. This was the main reason the Big Swamp had never been explored; why only the outer fringes of it ever knew the feet of hunters or fishermen.

Cynthia crept along, inch by inch, foot by foot, holding her breath when it was necessary for her to step or to jump across one of those narrow, rushing black streams. At last, when she had begun to panic at the thought that she had not exactly followed Gladdie-May's directions, she came to the tiny island.

She stopped in the deep shadow of the trees and looked across at the island: a small, tree-shaded scrap of land that divided the Big River.

And then, like some animal that sniffs danger, she heard Bud's voice call out, rough, harsh, threatening, "Stay right where you are or I'll blast you to Kingdom Come!"

Cynthia could have wept with relief at the sound of his voice. After a moment she called out to him, "Bud, it's Cynthia Reid. I'm alone-see?"

She swept the round, yellow light of the flash over her face, and then in a wide circle around and behind her, so that he could see that she was alone.

"What you doin' here, Miss Cynthia? You go on back same way you come, Miss Cynthia. I don't want to hurt you."

"Listen to me, Bud," Cynthia called to him, and with all her heart and mind sought for the eloquence and the persuasiveness that would make him understand what he had to do. "You've got to come back with me and give yourself up and stand trial."

"In a pig's eye I will!" She could imagine the bitter twist of his mouth, the bleakness in his eyes. "Be locked up in that cage again? I'm not ever about to give myself up! I can live here in the Swamp for the rest of my life and nobody can ever lay a finger on me."

"And what about Gladdie-May and the baby, Bud? Do you want them to live here with you, hunted like wild animals, afraid of their very breath?"

"Gladdie-May and the baby don't have to come here."

"But who will make a living for them, Bud?"

"I will, same's as I've always done."

"That ought to be nice! Gladdie-May and the baby will drive the pickup truck into town every Saturday with a load of pelts and fish, and people will know that you're out here in the Swamp and that you're the one that did the trapping and fishing. How long do you suppose it would be before Gladdie-May was arrested and the baby placed in a juvenile home?"

She knew that she had shocked him, startled him, for he was silent for a long moment and in the silence she strained her ears for the sound she was dreading, the bloodhounds.

"Ain't nobody goin' to arrest Gladdie-May or take the baby."

"If she's known to be harboring a fugitive from the law, Bud-"

She heard him swear a lurid, furious oath, and she pressed on.

"I talked to Sheriff Wayne, Bud," she called to him. "If you'll give yourself up, come in with me and let me surrender you, you'll get a fair trial, and you'll be proven innocent of Mose's death. If you insist on staying out here, Bud, you may never see Gladdie-May or the baby again! And he's such a beautiful baby, Bud, and will need his father someday. Think about that, Bud. Think hard! For you don't have much time left! The bloodhounds will soon be on your trail-and they can find you even in here."

The silence seemed to stretch endlessly. All about her, unnoticed until now, was the small, scurrying sound of night creatures going about their nocturnal business. Between her and the shelter where Bud lay on the tiny island, the narrow black water glittered as it slid between the high, spongy banks.

"Bud?" she called at last when her nerves would stand no more waiting.

"Yessum, Miss Cynthia." His voice sounded subdued, very weary. "I'm thinking hard like you said, Miss Cynthia. I reckon maybe you're right; best thing I can do is go back to that cell."

"The trial opens on Tuesday, Bud, and if you're innocent, and I know you are, you'll be a free man within a few days. And then you and Gladdie-May can come back home and forget all this," Cynthia coaxed.

She heard a sudden splash and turned her flashlight in the direction from which Bud's voice had called; and for the first time saw the palm-thatched shelter where he had been lurking. But he was not there, and she swung the light until it found him, wading waist-deep through the black water until he pulled himself up beside her, wet, grimy, mud-stained.

"Let's go, Miss Cynthia," he said grimly, and took the flashlight from her, shining it down around their feet as he led the way with long, assured strides back along the path she had traveled with such caution and trembling.

At last they stepped out of the darkness into the light of Hank's car.

For a moment they stood impaled against the darkness, and she heard Hank swear. And then he came toward them, and Cynthia saw that his face was gray behind his suntan and his eyes were ablaze with anxiety and suspense.

Cynthia was begrimed with black mud, her hair loose about her face that was scratched from branches and vines through which she had fought her way. But Hank seemed entirely unaware of all that as he caught her and held her close and hard against him.

Cynthia pulled herself from his arms after a moment, managed a faint smile and said huskily, "We'll have to hurry. The posse may be here at any minute."

Hank flung Bud a curious glance and said, "Friend, when you get yourself into a jam, you drag everybody you know in with you, don't you? Come on; let's get along."

They all tumbled into the car, and Hank shot it back into the semblance of a road that led to the cabin, and then on to the highway toward town.

"Where to?" he asked Cynthia.

"The courthouse," she told him swiftly. "The jail is on the top floor, and if we're lucky we may get Bud there before anyone sees him."

Hank nodded, and the car went racing along through the town.

Hank brought the car to a stop in front of the courthouse and said grimly, "Take your time. I'll wait."

Cynthia nodded and, with Bud beside her, hurried up the steps and into the big, dim old building. Her footsteps and Bud's were loud on the tiled floor; at the far end of the hall she saw that the frosted glass panel of the sheriffs office showed a light. So he was still here; he hadn't gone out with the posse. For some reason that disquieted her, but she hurried on, Bud beside her, his tired face grim and set.

She swung open the door of the sheriffs office, and Sheriff Wayne, behind his desk, looked up at her and beyond her at Bud.

"I'm surrendering my client, Sheriff," she said formally.

"Do tell!" Sheriff Wayne's tone was acid. "What for?"

"Because he's sorry he broke out of jail."

"He sure looks it!" commented Sheriff Wayne, his eyes raking Bud's set face and angry eyes. "He sure as heck looks mighty sorry!"

"Look, Sheriff, it's late and I'm very tired," said Cynthia, trying hard not to lose her temper. "I'd like to get through the preliminaries of returning Bud to you, and then go home and get some sleep."

"Better take him along with you, Miss Cynthia, and hand him over to his wife and kid. I got no use for him here," said Sheriff Wayne quietly.

Bud stiffened, and Cynthia's eyes widened.

"Why, you were getting up a posse to go hunt for him," Cynthia protested.

"Sure was, Miss Cynthia, and just as the hounds got here and we was all ready to start, the guilty man broke down and confessed. Reckon the sight of the hounds was more than he could take. Must have been feeling right bad for a long time, of course, and the hounds finished him."

Cynthia clung to the edge of the battered old desk, her face white beneath the swamp mud, her eyes enormous.

"Who?" she asked.

"Joe Henslee," said Sheriff Wayne heavily. "Joe Henslee killed Mose?" Cynthia gasped. Sheriff Wayne nodded.

"Sure did," he answered. "Sure hate to think of Joe coming up on a murder rap."

"Sure, you'd a heap sight rather it was me, wouldn't you, Sheriff?" Bud sneered. "You've never had any use for me."

"Now you keep a civil tongue in your head, Buster," snapped Sheriff Wayne. "No, I never had no use for you. Sure, I'm sorry we had you locked up here, but it wasn't my fault. I thought you shot Mose; I'd still think so if Joe hadn't spilled the story. Seems him and Mose had been doing a little job on the side-selling moonshine. Mose handled the selling; Joe saw to it that he had the stuff to sell. Seems they had a run-in about the split-and Joe lost his head and plugged the daylights out of Mose."

Cynthia straightened and drew a deep, hard breath and turned to Bud.

"You're free, Bud! You can go home to Gladdie-May and the baby now." She turned swiftly to the sheriff. "He can, can't he?"

"Far's I'm concerned, he sure can!" said Sheriff Wayne grimly. And before he could say another word, Bud had turned and gone running out of the courthouse, down the steps and away from the town toward the Reid home.

As Cynthia came down the steps of the courthouse, she saw Hank at the wheel of his car. He just sat and watched her as she came slowly across the sidewalk, now acutely conscious of her disheveled appearance.

"I must look a mess, Hank," she stammered.

Hank eyed her with a look she could not analyze and swung open the door.

"I saw Bud come tearing out of the place and tried to stop him, but he said they'd turned him loose, because they had the guilty man," he said grimly.

"Yes, he confessed. It was Joe Henslee," Cynthia answered, and slipped into the seat and drew a deep, hard breath as she leaned back and tried to smile at him.

"So you went through all this, risked your neck, for nothing?" Hank's voice was harsh, stinging.

"Oh, that's not fair, Hank," she protested. "If Bud hadn't broken out of jail, if the posse hadn't been warned to shoot to kill at sight of him, if the bloodhounds hadn't been brought in-Joe might never have confessed. I think it was the sudden realization that Bud was in danger from the posse, from the dogs, that caused Joe to break."

"I suppose you're right." Hank's tone was cool, merely polite. But when he reached the side drive of her home, he turned to her and said violently, "And you have the nerve to say my job is dangerous!"

"Oh, but Hank, this sort of thing happens very seldom. This is the first time in my whole life that I've ever had anything like this to contend with."

But Hank wasn't listening. The thin gray light of breaking dawn lay across his face, which was bleak and granite-hard.

"When I saw you start off down that trail, and you forbade me to go with you-" He drew a long, hard breath and began again. "Sitting there, straining my ears, expecting any minute to hear a shot that would mean he'd killed you-"

"Oh, but, Hank-"

"Don't keep saying 'Oh, but, Hank-'" he snapped at her harshly. "When you ran out on my act at the fairgrounds, and I followed you here, and you told me you loved me too much to sit there night after night and watch me take such risks, I thought maybe I could persuade you to change your mind. But now, after tonight, I'm convinced you're right! I'd never know another peaceful moment; remembering tonight, and knowing that it might happen again-" His voice trailed off, and she saw his eyes widen a little beneath the impact of a sudden thought. "I suppose that's the way the wives feel, sitting in their box, watching the performance, wondering, scared to death-"

"Believe me, Hank, it is! I know; I sat with them tonight," Cynthia told him quietly.

He was sitting very still, staring straight ahead of him as the gray light thinned, grew brighter and somewhere in the big trees about the grounds sleepy birds began to stir, to twitter and to set about their business of the day.

"Do you understand now why Florence and the others are so frightened, Hank?" asked Cynthia very quietly.

"I'm beginning to understand a great deal," said Hank slowly, as though the words were forced from him against his will. "Most of all, I'm beginning to understand that you were right when you said you'd rather never see me again than to sit there in the grandstand night after night and watch me do my act. You're quite right, Cynthia. I couldn't endure the thought you might have to do something like this again; I'd never know another peaceful moment. So you can see where that leaves us, Cynthia.

She clenched her hands tightly and felt the grit and the dried mud cut into the palms. "Where, Hank?"

"At a point where we say goodbye to each other, of course. What else?" Hank answered brusquely. "There's no other way, Cynthia. Marry your hometown boy and the best of luck to you. This is goodbye, good luck and God bless you!"

He reached across her, swung open the door, and Cynthia stumbled out. And the next moment the car went racing down the drive, barely avoiding the big milk truck that was ambling past on its way to the railroad shipping point.

Cynthia stood dumbly until the car was gone. Then she stumbled to the porch and waited there until Maggie arrived, driving Cynthia's car.

"Look at you," Maggie said. "Where's Bud?" Cynthia asked. "I drove him home. You did a fine job, Cynthia."

"I didn't do anything. It was Joe Henslee confessing-"

"Enough of that," Maggie said firmly. "Let's get inside, clean that swamp mud off you, and get some rest."

The next day the town was filled with the news of Bud Conyer's release. Cynthia felt better, and when Clint called, inviting her to drive with him to Jacksonville for dinner, Cynthia accepted.

During the ride Clint asked her about Hank Dowler. "What is it with you two?" .

"Nothing," she said. "There's nothing between us." Then she turned to him. "Why do you ask? Are you curious?"

"I'm more than curious," Clint said. "Remember? I'm the guy who's going to marry you?"

"When?"

"Soon," he said. "I've just got to know that the thing between you and Dowler's over. I don't want you to ever see him again-you've got to give me your word on that!"

"I can't do that," Cynthia said.

"Why not?" Clint asked sharply.

Cynthia sighed. "Because I am still his attorney," she said, and looked out the window.

"Well, I guess that's all right," Clint answered. "But nothing else-and I mean it!"

It was a few days later-during the last night of the fair-when the accident happened. Cal Forrest misjudged a stunt by a split-second and went hurling to his death.

Cynthia heard about it the next morning when she got to the office. "I'm going to the hotel," she told Maggie. "I want to see if there's anything I can do for Florence."

Hank was there, as well as the other drivers and their wives. Florence had decided to bury Cal right there-it was as much of a home as they'd had in the past five years. Hank was looking sorrowful, and Florence tried to cheer him up. "It wasn't your fault, Hank," she said. "And besides, I should thank you."

"Thank me?"

"For making the last few years the happiest years that Cal could ever have had," Florence said. "Racing was all he ever wanted to do-and I kind of think this is the way he would have liked to go out."

No one knew what to say.

Cynthia handled all the funeral arrangements, and by the time she returned to the office Clint was there, pacing the floor. "Glad you got back in time," he said. "We have to get going to the Westmorelands'."

Cynthia shook her head. "I can't, Clint. I'm totally drained."

He flew off the handle. "You can't break a date with me this late! The Westmorelands are important people, and they're expecting me to arrive with a date!"

She looked him firmly in the eye. "Then find someone else," she said.

As he stormed out of her office he said: "I will!"

The Lucky Devils decided to fulfill the remainder of their contracts and give Cal's share to Florence. They left about a week later for a swing through the south.

Things were quiet then. Clint was pretty involved with the Westmoreland girl, and that was fine with Cynthia, And then one day Bud Conyers walked into Cynthia's office and told her he wanted her to act as his attorney and buy up the entire swamp for him. "Shouldn't cost more than five thousand," he said.

Cynthia blinked. "That's right," she said. "But do you have the five thousand?"

Bud showed her a bank passbook. That morning he had deposited twenty-five thousand dollars. "I've got it," he said. "Can't say where it came from-but here it is!"

"But why do you want to buy the swamp?"

"Make it into a hunting and fishing lodge. I've got it all planned out. Exclusive kind of thing, it'll make a lot of money."

Five months later, the lodge was completed. Bud stopped by Cynthia's to ask if she'd like to come out and see it.

"Certainly," she said. An hour later they were at Bud's-the only way into the swamp was from the dock at Bud's house. A short ride-fifteen minutes-and they were pulling up to the newly-constructed lodge, deep in the swamp. "It's beautiful," Cynthia said. She had no idea there was this much dry land in the entire swamp. As they pulled up in the dim twilight, Cynthia saw a man walk out of the lodge and head their way.

"My partner," Bud said.

Hank Dowler smiled shyly at her as she stepped from the boat. "Hank!" she said, flying into his arms. "Why? Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged. "I didn't want to get in the way. My racing days are over, and I think Bud's idea for a resort was just what I needed. I provided the money, and Bud provided the know-how and the skills that I lacked."

"You're settling down here?"

"That's right-if you'll have me."

"I would have had you as a driver-I didn't care!"

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her on the lips. "No more of that," he said. "Not when I've got a family to think of!"