At the crash of the morning gong, 9009, haggard with the night, stepped out of his cell, now unlocked for him. One by one the other cells were opening, and the convicts were pouring out upon the gangway, holding brooms and creaking buckets. As he stood by the sinks, 9009 watched the convicts narrowly; but this morning, Miller, the pickpocket, the burglar, and Nichols, the confidence-man, did not meet as usual. They remained apart, each doing his work at a different time.
But when, to the second clang of the gong, 9009 stood with his mate in front of his cell to take his place in the line, now silently forming for its march to the dining-hall, he felt suddenly his heart leap up into his throat. A few places ahead of him were Miller, the pickpocket, the burglar, and the confidence-man. They did not belong there, and they did not belong together. Each convict was supposed to take his place in line by standing in front of his own cell; their proper places were somewhere near the middle of the line, and apart from each other. But here they now stood before 9009, close to the head of the line, and together—Miller, the pickpocket, the burglar, and Nichols, in this order. And their heads were bowed toward the floor in involuntary attitudes of deprecation; and from their faces oozed a slanting expression that recalled to 9009 the red-striped convict of the jute-mill waiting at his loom for the garotter.
The guard in charge—a grizzled old blue-eyed fellow who had lived most of his life in prison—wearily saw the line formed, then shuffling on his rheumatic legs to the door at the foot of the corridor, he opened it, and the line began to flow slowly through it into the outer corridor. Leaning against the wall, he let it crawl by till its head was halfway down the long, narrow way, then walked on along its side, briskly, to intercept it at the second door, a steel-barred gate. There he would stand till the line was well massed, and then, unlocking, would let it crawl out into the yard, beneath the shadow of the wall. 9009 watched him as he went along the line with forced briskness, upon legs dragging a bit with the prison rheumatism.
But he never reached the door. Passing along the line, he stopped suddenly with a swift look of surprise; he had noted Miller, the pickpocket, the burglar, and the confidence-man together there near the head, out of their places. The look of surprise flowed instantly into one of suspicion—then his blue eyes gleamed bravely as he turned, at bay. Red-striped Miller had rushed upon him.
The lank highwayman’s arms shot out, and his fingers, working, clutched for the guard’s throat; but the old man, stepping back toward the wall, struck as he came, full and fair upon the snarling mouth. For a flash the guard was clear; then the pickpocket glided out of the line.
The lithe little felon was half-doubled, his ferret face a-twitch with fierce excitement; he swerved to the left, past Miller, and around the side of the guard as the latter struck out for the second time. He threw out his right arm and at the same time raised his right knee. The arm whipped around the guard’s neck like a snake; the knee thumped against the small of the guard’s back. The gray head snapped backward, the eyes bulging; for the fraction of a second the body arched itself, still up, then broke and slapped the floor.
Two trusties were coming on the run; the burglar, still in line, pivoted like a mad top on one heel, his right leg held out horizontally; there was a sickening thud, and the first trusty crumpled with a gasping hiccough. The burglar’s right hand went to his trouser band, then flashed up—and the second trusty threw himself face down upon the floor. A gasp went through the petrified line; the burglar held in his right hand a heavy black revolver. Miller’s hand went to his waist band in a swift fumble; it rose; it also held a heavy black revolver. Then the line dissolved in a chaos of fleeing convicts.
They avalanched past 9009 with pounding feet, as he stood, rooted, on the threshold of the door between the two corridors; and glancing over his shoulder he saw them pop into their cells like rabbits into their holes. But three of the convicts, besides Miller, the pickpocket, the burglar, and the confidence-man had stayed; and now these three, like wild beasts, were hurling themselves against the bars of the outer gate. Miller sprang upon the guard, lying on the concrete floor, still entwined by the pickpocket. He raised his heavy revolver and he struck the gray head once, twice, thrice—and stupidly 9009 noted that the blows thudded not as the revolver fell, but as it rose. A red patch, as if oozing out of the pores, masked the guard’s face slowly. The pickpocket, twitching as a fox-terrier above a squirrel hole, was fumbling madly about the limp blue heap. Suddenly his hand rose, triumphant, holding a great steel key. He leaped to his feet and, bent low, slid like a streak of fire to the outer door. Miller followed him. The burglar remained over the two prostrate trusties, swinging his revolver from side to side. The confidence-man, tiptoeing backward, was coming slowly toward 9009.
He was crouching in the doorway between the two corridors, face forward, his sinews aching with the contagion of action; but his big knotted hands were pressed hard, white-knuckled, upon the sides of the doorway, and “the copper, the copper,” he was murmuring. A shout came to him from behind. He threw a glance over his shoulder; he had a fleeting glimpse of his cell-mate’s black face peering at him out of his cell with a shocked expression; and, further down, Shorty Hayes, the shock-headed little safe-cracker, was also looking at him out of his cell, his face all a-gape with a queer sneering laughter. His eyes plunged ahead again, into the outer corridor. Nichols was slowly nearing him, still walking backward, on tiptoe. Suddenly his hand rose; a shot cracked close; a hot spark of powder stung 9009’s cheek; the burglar seemed to sink out of sight—and the confidence-man, bending, passed beneath 9009’s outstretched arms and ran into the inner corridor, holding a weapon that smoked. Through the slight haze 9009 still peered forward. He could see the burglar again now, sprawled upon the floor, kicking his striped legs grotesquely. The three convicts had ceased tearing at the gate; they were crouching now at the foot of its bars, all a-twitch, while Miller and the pickpocket bent at the lock, muttering horrible curses. The red-striped highwayman glanced over his shoulder; his lips drawn back, showed a row of long, yellow teeth. A clang of working lock resounded. The three at the foot of the bars writhed in an agony of impatience. 9009, without knowing it, was moving down the corridor now, stalking, bent low, slowly, step by step, and his outspread hands slid along the walls at either side.
A hard little paw fell upon his left hand; a voice sounded in his ear: “Come back; come back,” it said. He turned. It was his cell-mate; he was looking up at him humbly, beseechingly, out of his inflamed eyes, with their red-drooping lower lids. The lock clanged again; 9009 turned with a spasm to the corridor. At its end, the door swung open; the five felons shot through it; 9009 saw their galloping backs rise and fall as those of jockeys at a race———
Then he straightened to his full height, swung his right arm across his cell-mate’s face, and with the roar of a bull, charged down the corridor.
Right away he had to leap. He had to leap the gray-haired guard, looking upward with his scarlet-masked face; to leap the burglar, still gesticulating jerkily with his long-striped legs; a trusty, doubled up, coughing; another, paralyzed with fear. He leaped like a lean greyhound, he sped through the outer door, a ray of sun struck him hot on the cheek, he whipped around the corner into the wall-bound yard, he took three great strides—and stopped, facing six black disks.
They were gazing at him, round, swinging slowly from side to side, like the eyes of oxen, forty feet away, in a half circle converged upon him. After a while, behind the six black disks, he saw six dull-gleaming rifle-barrels, then behind the six dull-gleaming rifle-barrels, six brown stocks, then besides each stock, pressed close, a face, set, stone-like, and an eye, like a slit.
He stood there, with drooping jaw, his arms limp along his sides, while six blue-clad guards, each silent as a carven thing, aimed carefully at his breast, each with his index-finger upon his rifle-trigger.