A Brief Tale of Two Madmen
Chained Together
Justice in the Foothills
STARR and Collins were apathetic throughout their brief, dramatic trial. Following the jury's verdict of first degree murder, their sullen demeanor became an integral part of their beings.
They did not show emotion when the sheriff and deputies prepared them for the trip to State's prison to await execution.
Heavily manacled, Starr's left wrist chained to Collins' right, they huddled in the automobile ready for the journey to Mills Junction, where the officers planned to take a through train to the penitentiary.
The weather matched the prisoners' mood. A drizzle dampened the car and its occupants, while great fog banks shrouded the hills. As the car nosed its way along the trail, the mist gradually turned to rain. The sheriff was nervous.
"The road's getting slippery; we'd best put on the chains," he told the deputy. "I'd hate to skid over one of these cliffs. It'd be the finish, I reckon."
Inspection of the tool-box showed the chains were missing.
"We must have left them in the garage," apologized the driver. "The trail ahead isn't any worse than the part we have come over; it's as safe to go forward us to return."
"Go slow, then," replied the sheriff. "I don't fancy this trip. I'd forgotten how ornery this road is."
The car swerved from side to side in spite of the driver's efforts. He was slowing up for a steep descent, when the heavy machine left the trail. It spun suddenly, like a thing bewitched, hurling its occupants over the side of a chasm, while it rolled over and over, on its way to destruction in the boulder-studded bottom,
The sheriff and deputies followed the car to the canyon bottom, where Starr and Collins would have joined them, only, as they dropped over the canyon wall, they passed on opposite sides of a stunted cedar. The chain which bound them together held securely, and they were suspended in the air, kicking desperately, almost tearing the tree from its precarious root-hold. Starr hooked a toe over a jutting rock; inch by inch they worked their way to the canyon's rim, and were back on the trail when darkness fell.
Starr was panting; but was not nearly so winded as Collins. He set the pace through the gloom, heading for the foothills to the north. They reasoned that hours would pass before their escape was discovered. Moreover, pursuing posses would be at a disadvantage among the trackless foothills.
The following night they crossed a small stream at a gravel bar and spied a dead fish lying on the bank. Throwing themselves flat on their stomachs, they devoured it in great bites; for with the exception of a rabbit, which a surprised bob cat had dropped, this was their first meal since their escape.
Because of the chain which linked them together, they formed close partnership. Neither could lie down, sit down or arise without the consent of the other. Bitterly they cursed the links of steel which turned their waking hours into a series of mishaps.
So far, posses had not appeared on their trail. This was not strange, considering the wide expanse of sparsely settled country which must be searched. The fugitives were in little dread of men; but, waking or sleeping, they could not rid their minds of the thought of avenging dogs. The anticipation of bloodhounds caused a cold sweat to dampen Starr's clothes, while Collins gritted his teeth and lunged forward with desperate steps. Both men knew of the dogs, half bloodhound, half mastiff, that were owned by a rancher near Mills Junction. It was the boast of the country that these terrible dogs seldom lost a trail, and, when loosed unmuzzled, had been known to rend fugitives limb from limb.
Starr and Collins had one hope. Some years ago Starr had spent several weeks with a renegade hermit, who had a shack in the woods beyond the foothills. If they could reach his shack he would remove their manacles. He might be dead, or he might have moved, but the fugitives hoped against hope that he would be ready to aid and hide them.
The nights were cool in the foothills; but the days were hot. Berries were abundant, hanging dead ripe on countless bushes, providing food. When they stopped to rest they worked persistently at their manacles. If they could sever the chain which bound them wrist to wrist, their progress would be easier and safer. This much accomplished, they might devise a way to remove the handcuffs. They dragged the chain back and forth over flint rocks. They worked and strained and pulled; but the stout links refused to yield. After each trial, Starr and Collins arose cursing, and continued their flight toward the north.
EARLY one morning both men paused simultaneously, holding their breath while they listened. From the south floated a faint echo which froze the blood in their veins. Again the sound echoed. It was the baying of a hound. The baying increased in loudness, as the pursuit grew closer.
Starr and Collins crashed through the brush to a small rock pile; gasping and moaning they dragged their wearied bodies on top of the rocks, and saw the hounds lope through the brush into an open space. The great dogs were unmuzzled. As the fugitives cringed before the attack, the triumphant baying of the hounds gave place to a plaintive whimper. The great dogs paused in their tracks; the hair bristled on their backs, while their tails sank between their legs. Their brute instinct had warned them of a peril which tearing fangs would not guard against.
A wolf had emerged from the brush to the north of Starr and Collins, and its bared fangs, the fetid slaver streaming from its jaws, the eyes staring balefully and the dull, upstanding hair showed that the wolf was mad.
The dogs fled from its approach, but the men were in the path of the frenzied animal. They tried to leap away from the dripping jaws which slashed them;
