The Silent Hour by Elisabeth Grace Foley Page B

trying to keep your spirits up. But I’m your friend too, Jim,
and I don’t want to see you get railroaded. I’ve been thinking
things over—I talked to Mrs. Meade too—and I’ve got an idea or two
of my own. But it’ll take some time to prove ’em. Do you want to
know what I think?” Randall took a deep breath. “I think you should
skip out of town for a few days, just to stall off that trial.”
    “Jump bail? That’s crazy; it’d make me look
guilty right—”
    “I know it sounds crazy, but if it saves you
from hanging isn’t it worth it? Just listen to me for a minute. All
you’ve got to do is stay up in the hills for a few days and stay
out of sight, and if this hunch of mine pays off I can help you
make it all right with the sheriff afterwards.”
    “And if it doesn’t? Then what?”
    “Jim, you sound like a born pessimist! At
worst you won’t be any worse off than you are now. It’s just a
question of time—three days might be enough to play this hunch, but
then it might not. I think you ought to try it and buy some more
time.”
    “You’re trying to get me out of the way,”
said Jim, studying his friend with something approaching suspicion.
“What for? What—who do you suspect?”
    “I’m not,” said Randall. “I’ve told you
why—and believe me, I’m only trying this for your own good. Won’t
you just think about what I’ve said?”
    Jim thought it over for a minute. Randall,
seeing that he looked undecided, was quick to follow up on his
opportunity. “We can switch horses here—you’ll want a fast horse.
If anybody asks questions we can say you’re trying him out because
you were thinking of buying him from me. And you’ll want some money
with you, for emergencies…have you got any?”
    “No, only a couple dollars. I can’t ask Hall
for a loan; he’d know what was up.”
    Randall hesitated, and then said, “I’d lend
you some, only I don’t think there’s time—”
    “No, you couldn’t. I don’t want to get you in
trouble.”
    “No, just leave that end of it to me,” said
Randall, grinning rather dryly. “You could ride home first,
couldn’t you, if you’ve got any money there?”
    “Yes…I guess I could. I’ll want to get some
blankets and a camp outfit—and all our money is still in
Grandfather’s safe. The sheriff left it all as it was since there
wasn’t any question of robbery. I can leave a note in the safe for
Hall, and—” Jim paused and bit his lip. “I want to leave a letter
with you, to deliver. Have you got anything I can write with?”
    “Not here. You could step in the Colonial
lobby and write a note—go ahead now and I’ll have the horses
saddled when you get back.”
    There was no one else in the stable except
Old Ted muddling around with a pitchfork up near the doors. Randall
had not lowered his voice any noticeable degree, and the details of
their plan carried clearly. When Jim had gone out, and Randall set
about saddling the fast, slim brown horse, Old Ted laid down his
pitchfork and slunk quickly and quietly out.
    Randall put his own saddle on Jim’s big black
horse, and led the brown to the door of the stable. In a few
minutes Jim returned, looking pale but determined, with a folded
and sealed letter in his hand. “Will you give this to Frances
Ruskin?” he said, holding it out to Randall. “I—I didn’t mention
you by name, but I’ve got to let her know the truth. I don’t want
her to think that I’ve just lost my nerve.”
    Randall accepted the commission, not without
a slight twinge of conscience, and hoped it did not show in his
face. He handed the brown horse’s reins to his friend. Jim, as he
put his foot in the stirrup, gave vent to a mirthless chuckle.
    “I’ve always been intending to get my hands
on this horse,” he said. “You’re an awfully trusting fellow.”
    “Good luck,” said Randall, “and be
careful…”
    He watched Jim ride off up the street, the
latter looking as if he appreciated the