"Probably not much," I replied. "Of course, if you had shot him and the bullet struck a bone. . . . That would show up, naturally."

"But I didn't didn't shoot him, Mr. Ward! I'm telling you the truth about the whole thing. I was out huntin' squirrels and I seen all them birds circlin' around. . . ." shoot him, Mr. Ward! I'm telling you the truth about the whole thing. I was out huntin' squirrels and I seen all them birds circlin' around. . . ."

"We'd a.s.sume it was that way," I said. "Had they bothered him?"

"No. They was just beginning to light in the trees- "Then you could form a pretty good idea as to what did kill him?"

"Sure. He'd been in a bad wreck, and he'd bled to death. Anybody could see that. I wondered how he'd ever made it that far from the highway. He was pretty well banged up all over, but the worst was the cut on his right arm."

"And the suitcase was near him?"

"His head and shoulders was lying on it, and he still had his hand through the handle. Like he was trying to get up with it."

I had a momentary flash of what it was probably like, bleeding to death at night in the rain, and wondered as to the nature of Haig's particular coconut farm, but gave it up. There was never much profit in that type of speculation, and the ivory tower boys could handle it without help.

"Well, it's too bad," I said. "And it's hard to understand why you did it. As far as we've been able to determine, you've never been in trouble before."

"No, sir. I worked all my life. Section hand for the S.P."

"You've never been in prison at all, have you?"

"No, sir."

Plodding on ahead of me through the timber in that big hat, he reminded me of some rotund and ineffably earnest gnome who'd just been handed an important a.s.signment by the Fairy Princess.

"Don't let it get you down," I said. "You'll make out all right."

"Is it very bad?" he asked.

"We-ell," I said thoughtfully, keeping one pace behind him, "naturally, it's not any fun. It's not supposed to be. But plenty of people come through it in fine shape."

He said nothing.

"There's been too much written and said about it by people who don't know what they're talking about," I went on. "They distort the picture. They over-emphasize things that really aren't too bad, and play down others that are worse. It's not so much the bad food and the monotony and the overcrowding they talk about all the time, as it is other things they minimize and try to hush up. The h.o.m.os.e.xuals, for instance. They make it bad for everybody."

"They . . . they do?"

"Yes. In this way. You have to watch out for them continually. They're after you all the time, and the only effective way to discourage them is to fight. But fighting is against the rules, so you lose your privileges. The warden's staff is too badly overworked and short-handed to hold a two-day hearing to determine who was at fault in a brawl. They merely penalize both parties and let it go. And if you get a reputation for being a trouble-maker you get the guards down on you, too. But don't let it throw you. You'll come through it all right."

He made no reply. We changed direction a little to circle the end of a slough that still had water in it.

"How do you find your way around down here?" I asked. "I'd be lost in five minutes."

"Oh, there ain't nothin' to it," he replied. "You just remember which way you're goin' all the time."

"It sounds easy," I said. "But I'd probably be two days trying to find my way back to the cabin."

"We're nearly there," he said. "You see the roots of that down tree, up ahead?"

I saw it. It was less than a hundred yards ahead in a heavy stand of oaks. One of them had fallen, apparently several years ago, carrying down a smaller one with it and creating a tangle of broken limbs and brush at the top. We hurried up. It would be sunset in about an hour, I thought, appraising the flat angle of the shafts of sunlight slanting down through the foliage overhead.

"It's under this big one," Cliffords said. He walked up alongside the bole of it to the first limb. I watched him, trying not to show my excitement. The trunk was about six inches off the ground here, supported by the welter of broken limbs beyond, and the ground was covered with a heavy carpet of old leaves.

He raked the leaves back, under the overhang of the round trunk, and I could see the depression where the earth had settled. He dropped to his knees and began sc.r.a.ping the dirt away with the edge of the shovel. I heard it strike metal. I leaned over his shoulder, staring down intently.

"I dug it up about five months ago and put it in new buckets," he said. "They rust out pretty fast."

He threw the shovel aside and started scooping the earth out with his hands. I could see them now, all three of them. They were buried in a row, vertically, with the bottoms up. He tugged at the first one, rocking it back and forth to free it from the ground. I dropped to my knees and did the same with the one on the other end. His came free, and then mine. He lifted out the middle one, which was free now that the others were removed. They lay side by side on the old leaves in a shaft of sunlight. They had brownish splotches of rust on them and were encrusted with the damp black sod in which they had lain, but to me they were more beautiful than three Grecian urns. I lit a cigarette, suddenly conscious that my shirt was stuck to me with perspiration, and knelt there just staring at them and savoring the tremendous exultation of the moment.

They were the standard one-gallon pails used in that part of the country for storing syrup, the same as the ones I'd seen in his cabin. Each had a wire handle and a tight, press-fit lid of the same diameter as the pad. I saw that after he had pressed on the lids he had dipped the tops in melted paraffin. Not bad, I thought; if he'd known about silica-gel dehydrators he could have eliminated rust altogether on the inside.

"You want to open 'em?" he asked.

I nodded. "Just one."

I set one of them upright between us. He took out his knife, sc.r.a.ped away some of the paraffin, and used the back of the blade to pry up the lid. It came free at last and fell to the ground. I looked inside, and for an instant I was almost afraid he'd hear the pounding of my heart. There was only one way to describe it, I thought; it was a gallon of money.

It was full. It was jammed with packages of fives, tens, twenties, and fifties. They were laid in flat, they were bent to fit the curve of the pail, they were doubled, they were put in every way imaginable to take advantage of every bit of s.p.a.ce. Tens were jammed against fifties, and when I lifted a package of fives, there was a sheaf of hundreds under it. I tossed it back in. I didn't want him to see the trembling of my hands.

"She sure is a pile of money, ain't she?" he said.

It was time to get rid of him. I ground out the cigarette and nodded. "All right. You can put the lid back on. We'd better get going."

The steep-sided hole they had come from was just behind me and slightly to the right. He was bent over the pail, pressing down the lid. I shot a quick glance behind me and stood up. I stepped backward and when I felt the edge of the hole under my foot I let it slide on in.

"d.a.m.n ... !" I cursed explosively, waved my arms, and fell. My shoulder hit the log and I rolled off it to the ground.

He sprang over and knelt beside me. "Hey, Mr. Ward. Are you okay?"

I pushed myself to my hands and knees. "I'm all right," I said. "I just forgot about that d.a.m.ned hole."

"Here. Let me help you up." He took hold of my arm.

I tried to stand. The moment I put my right foot on the ground I sucked my breath in sharply and collapsed. Drawing a sleeve across my face to wipe off the sweat and dirt, I said shakily, "It's my ankle. Wait a minute."

He watched as I unlaced my shoe. I grimaced realistically as I pulled it off and felt the ankle and foot. "It's hot," I said. "But I don't think it's broken. Probably just a bad sprain."

"You think you can walk on it?"

"I don't know," I said. "Wait till I get my breath and I'll try again."

I did, and gave an even better performance. "No use," I said.

"Mebbe I could cut you something for a crutch."

"Not with that knife? it'd have to be something pretty heavy. It'll have to be bandaged, too." I moved the foot slightly and said, "Whew!" "Whew!"

"Well..." he said hesitantly, "I've got a roll of bandage stuff at the cabin. And some tape."

I considered it, looking doubtful "I don't know. . . ."

"Mebbe we could tear up our shirts and make a bandage."

"It'll take a longer strip," I told him. "Regular roll bandage, or a torn-up sheet. And I'll still have to have a crutch."

"I don't see no other way," he said. "I'll just have to go to the cabin. I got an axe there, and I could cut a sapling with a fork, and pad it at the top. I'll bring a sheet, and some liniment."

I frowned. "You re under arrest, on a serious charge. I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight."

"I can t think of nothing else," he said.

"You wouldn't try to escape?"

"No, sir."

"Well, all right," I said doubtfully. "I guess you couldn't get far, anyway, with no car."

That was pretty crude, but in dealing with a low grade mentality subtlety could be dangerous. He might miss it.

"Well, you'd better hurry along," I went on, before he could say anything. "It'll be dark in another hour or two."

"Sure," he said. He went off through the timber in the direction we had come, walking quite fast now.

As soon as he was out of sight I grinned and got up. I sat on the log and lit a cigarette. The thing to do was give him plenty of time; it didn't matter when I got out of here. He'd have to take to his feet after the car quit on him somewhere this side of the highway, and it would be most embarra.s.sing for both of us if I refueled it and got out on the road before he'd managed to thumb a ride. He might even take time to pack a lot of his gear, in fact, since he'd know I couldn't crawl back to the camp-ground before sometime tomorrow even if I knew the way. And even then I wouldn't get out of the bottom until they sent a search party after me.

I smoked the cigarette all the way out to the end before I made any move to open the other two pails, extracting in full measure the joys of antic.i.p.ation. There were too few moments like this in life, and when you'd used them up they were gone forever. I thought of what was inside the pails, and then appraised the craftsmanship of the operation itself. Not bad, I thought. Of course, I'd had a lot of luck at the beginning, but the solution of the problem itself, after it was posed, was a creditable bit of work. It was a minor masterpiece, if I did say so.

Come on, hammy, I thought; quit milking the curtain calls and get to work. Grinding out the cigarette, I knelt and took out my knife. In a moment I had all three of them open. It was like dreaming you owned Fort Knox and then waking up to find the deed and the keys in your hand. The other two were exactly like the first, crammed full of currency in every denomination from five to a hundred. I hurriedly slipped off my shirt, spread it on the ground, and began piling the money on it, not trying to count it but searching for that I was going to have to destroy. When I came to a package that had that crisp, new look about it I'd toss it to one side. In a few minutes I had it all sorted out. Of course, I'd have to go over it more carefully later on, but I should have most of it. There were four more sheafs of those new twenties, six tens, and two in the fifty-dollar denomination.

Just to be sure, I picked up each one individually and riffled through it to make certain the serial numbers ran consecutively. They all did. I performed a quick calculation, using the sums printed on the bands. The twelve packages added up to twelve thousand dollars, which was an odd coincidence, I reflected, since they varied individually between $500 and $2,500 depending on denomination. I looked at the little stack of it. Twelve thousand dollars! Twelve thousand dollars! All right, hero, I thought, you said you could; let's see you do it. Don't stall around long enough to begin to wonder if maybe it wouldn't be safe ten years from now. It'll never be safe as long as you live, and the world's not big enough to find a place you could spend it. There are people who buy it, sure. But then somebody knows. The way it is now, n.o.body does, or ever will. Keep it that way. Do it right. All right, hero, I thought, you said you could; let's see you do it. Don't stall around long enough to begin to wonder if maybe it wouldn't be safe ten years from now. It'll never be safe as long as you live, and the world's not big enough to find a place you could spend it. There are people who buy it, sure. But then somebody knows. The way it is now, n.o.body does, or ever will. Keep it that way. Do it right.

Tossing all twelve of them over beside the hole, I began breaking the bands and crumpling bills into the bottom of it. When I had a neat pile of them I stuck the flame of the lighter against the corner of a fifty and shoved it in. They began to burn, flaming up nicely. I went on breaking open the bands and dropping money on the blaze, not enough at a time to smother it or cause it to flare too high. I remembered the other time, at the edge of the lake, and reflected that if you did enough of this to become an addict it could be a d.a.m.ned expensive habit. When it all was reduced to ashes I picked up a stick and crushed them to dust. I shoved in a little earth and stirred it about, mixing it. Then, taking the shovel, I caved the hole in all around, smoothing it out, and wound up by spreading the old dead leaves back over the whole thing. Boys, I thought, your trail is cold forever.

I was about to turn back to the other when I stopped, listening intently. It had sounded like an outboard motor starting, a long way off. I grinned. He could get down to the camp-ground faster that way, all right, and carry his luggage with less trouble. I held my breath and listened again, but I couldn't be sure whether I still heard it or not. A mile was too far, and he was going the other way. Bon voyage, Bon voyage, Walter. I deem it a great honor to have touched your gentle spirit, however briefly, and may the pastures be forever green. Walter. I deem it a great honor to have touched your gentle spirit, however briefly, and may the pastures be forever green.

Well, they were green enough, I thought. He had that $3,800 I'd given him, and while this didn't run to such items of baronial splendor as coconut farms, it would last him the rest of his life. That overseer would probably have shot him, anyway.

I knelt beside the money on the shirt and began putting it back into the pails. In a moment I was struck by the bizarre fact that while it was a streak of rust on a twenty-dollar bill that had started me theorizing in the first place and had eventually led to the correct solution in this thing, the present pails were shiny and clean inside. He had changed them a few months ago. Some of the money was badly streaked with the old stains, but getting them off would present no great problem. A few minutes' research in any library would produce the answer. Then I grinned. I could even write Good Housekeeping Good Housekeeping.

I finished the job, took one last, gloating look, and pounded the lids back on. After donning my shirt, I sat down to light another cigarette before starting back. Give him a little more time, to be sure he didn't come back to the cabin after one of his comic books. He should be just about down to the campground now and getting into the car.

I noticed that in all the excitement over the money I had forgotten to put my shoe back on. I reached for it and slid it on my foot, but did not lace it. It was too luxurious just sitting there on the leaves with my back against the log while I smoked and thought of the $101,000 there in front of me.

When I had finished the cigarette and ground it out, I looked at my watch. It was nearly six. Time to roll. I leaned forward to lace the shoe, and then froze up. What I'd heard was behind me, and quite near, and there was no doubt as to what it was. It was something or somebody walking through dry leaves.

I whirled, still sitting, and stared with growing horror. It was Cliffords. He was puffing his way toward me like some pudgy and self-consciously important gnome, and in his hands he was carrying a brown paper bag and a home-made crutch.

I knew I had to quit staring some way, but nothing seemed to work. The whole thing was crashing down around me, and my mind didn't seem capable of grasping anything except the fact that now we were both both headed for prison. headed for prison.

He hurried up. "Well, this'll fix you up, Mr. Ward. I made you a real good crutch." He showed it to me.

He wanted me to tell him how good it was.

"You. . . ." I shook my head and tried again. This time I finally got tracked. "You were gone so long. I thought you'd decided to run for it."

He shook his head. "No, sir sir. Not me, Mr. Ward. Ain't no use tryin' to outfox the F.B.I. I found that out."

Twelve

I tried to keep my face expressionless. What was the matter with the suet-headed little moron? I'd drawn him a picture; I'd sat down patiently and spelled it out for him, syllable by syllable. I'd told him how horrible it was in prison, and that he'd get ten years for what he'd done. I'd given him $3,800. I'd furnished him a car. I'd broken my G.o.dd.a.m.ned ankle for him and promised him it would be at least twelve to twenty-four hours before anybody even found out he'd escaped. I wanted to scream at him. What the h.e.l.l did he want-Brownell to come down here and carry him out piggy-back and furnish him with a Duncan Hines list of approved hiding places; "Ain't n.o.body escapes from the G-men," he went on, hunkering down in front of me. "I should of knowed better in the first place. Look at how you got Dillinger, and Machine-gun Kelly, and Karpis. . . ."

He was an F.B.I, buff. And I'd opened my fat mouth and made it worse.

". . . and when you explained how you fellers'd caught up with me . . ." He stopped and gave a sententious shake of the head.

You're good, G.o.dwin. You were magnificent. Tell him some more about how bright you are.

". . . and if you can't travel at all, Mr. Ward, I got it all figured out. I'll go down the lake and call your office and have 'em send out help. . . ."

If only he'd shut up shut up. I was contemplating the ultimate madness of it. I'd arrested him, and now there was no way on earth I could escape from him. I was his hero-along with the F.B.I, in general. By G.o.d, he he wasn't going to desert me. He'd help me get back to the office if it took the rest of the week. Maybe they'd put his picture in the papers. If I took him down to Sanport and kicked him out of the car he'd be in F.B.I, headquarters inside of twenty minutes telling them all about it. If I left him here and ran, he'd do the same thing. They'd get a description from him, and it might take Ramsey as long as five minutes to recognize me. wasn't going to desert me. He'd help me get back to the office if it took the rest of the week. Maybe they'd put his picture in the papers. If I took him down to Sanport and kicked him out of the car he'd be in F.B.I, headquarters inside of twenty minutes telling them all about it. If I left him here and ran, he'd do the same thing. They'd get a description from him, and it might take Ramsey as long as five minutes to recognize me.

No, that wasn't quite the ultimate. The final, most putrid joke of all was the fact they probably wouldn't even prosecute the fatuous little meat-head. Why should they? They'd have me. Presumably I was intelligent enough to know right from wrong, and they could reach into the State and Federal grab-bags without even looking and come up with a half-dozen charges that would stick. I tried a few on for size-conspiracy, obstructing justice, destroying evidence, impersonating a Federal officer, compounding a felony, and probably grand theft and accessory to armed robbery. Add flight to escape prosecution. And, oh yes, I had just finished destroying twelve thousand dollars worth of United States currency they were trying to recover. They were going to like me better than anybody they'd had in their hair since Gaston B. Means.

"You got your shoe back on," he said.

"Yes," I replied wearily. "It began to feel a little better."

"Don't seem to be swole much. You reckon you'll need the bandage?"

"I don't think so." I laced the shoe up rather loosely. He handed me the crutch and I struggled to my feet, not bothering to make much of a production of it. What difference did it make now? Anyway, I was an F.B.I, superman, wasn't I? If I tucked my feet up my pants legs and roared off the ground like a pheasant he wouldn't consider it more than mildly noteworthy.

I'll carry the surp buckets," he said. He strung their handles on the wooden shaft of the shovel and slung it across his shoulder. I stared at them.

I'll go slow," he said. "Just tell me when you want to stop and rest."

He started out. I fell in behind him.

In a moment lie looked back over his shoulder. "Is the crutch about right?"

"It's fine," I said. He went on.