Taking the plan as a whole it meant running Barry
close to a hundred miles with six sets of horses.
It all hinged, however, on the first step: Could the men of St. Vincent
turn him out of his western course and send him north towards Caswell City?
If they could, he was no better than a dead man. All things favored Billy.
In the first place it was still morning, and eight hours of broad daylight
would keep the fugitive in view every inch of the way. In the second place,
much of the distance was cut up by the barb-wire fences of the farm-lands,
and he must either jump these or else stop to cut them.
A crackle of laughter cut in on Billy the clerk. They were laughing in that
inner office, where the sheriff lay dead. Blood swept across his eyes, set
his brain whirling, and he rushed to the door.
"You yelpin' coyotes!" shouted Billy the clerk. "Get out. I got to be
alone! Get out, or by God--"
It was not so much his words, or the fear of his threats, but the very fact
that Billy the clerk, harmless, smiling old Billy, had burst into noisy
wrath, scared them as if an earthquake had gripped the building.
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