Reassured, he picked up his
battered hat from the floor and inch by inch crept across the
squeaking boards to the window. When the window was reached he
paused once more to listen, but the quiet that was everywhere
throughout the house gave him confidence. He straddled the low
sill, and putting out his hand gripped the stock of his rifle and
drew that ancient weapon toward him. Next he secured his pack,
and was ready for flight.
Encumbered by his belongings, but with no mind to sacrifice them,
he stepped out upon the shed and made his way down the slant of
the roof to the eaves. He tossed his bundle to the ground and
going down on his knees lowered his rifle, letting the muzzle
fall lightly against the side of the shed as it left his hand,
then he lay flat on his stomach and, feet first, wriggled out
into space. When he could no longer preserve his balance, he
gave himself a shove away from the eaves and dropped clear of the
building.
As he recovered himself he was sure he heard a door open and
close, and threw himself prone on the ground, where the black
shadow cast by the tavern hid him. At the same moment two dark
figures came from about a corner of the building. He could just
distinguish that they carried some heavy burden between them and
that they staggered as they moved. He heard Slosson curse
drunkenly, and a whispered word from Murrell. The two men slowly
crossed the truck patch, and the boy's glance followed them, his
eyes starting from his head.
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