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Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, August 03, 1947, Image 131

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045462/1947-08-03/ed-1/seq-131/

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ROPE ENOUGH
Continued from page eleeen
innocent. It felt hot against the cold palm
of his hand. Grannan took it and threw it.
It fell with a soft ctup where the water was
deepest, and wiftked yellow in the sunlight
for a second before disappearing.
“Don't look so down-hearted,” Grannan
said. "They’ll find something when they search
the island. I want ’em to.” He fished an
empty from his own pocket. A thirty-thirty.
“They’ll find this,” he said. “Your gun fired
it.”
Hp tno&pri it tnwarri thp innt wHpfp thp
tent had been pitched. It roiled a little on
the hard ground and came to rest against a
chimp of grass. “Get back to your boat.”
Will was past caring. A man could do no
more than his best; after that, if hick left
him, there was no point in struggling. On the
way out of the swamp he might find a way to
escape again, but it wasn’t likely. Not with a
man Uk Grannan poling a boat behind him,
ready to snatch up a rifle and shoot. He
stepped into his boat, took up the pole and
pushed the rickety craft clear.
Then he began to wonder... Maybe Tom
Grannan didn’t mean to take him back.
He turned his head. The Model 20 was
wedged between Gran nan’s arm and body.
Why didn’t he lay it down in the boot? Will
knew the answer. Gran nan meant to shoot
him in cold blood as soon as they were some
distance from the island! Then he could say
to Sheriff Downey. “You gave orders to shoot
on sight. He tried to get away. I shot him.”
Will’s flesh crawled in anticipation of the
bullet’s impact. In desperation he searched
the water lane for a way of escape.
It was only a fool’s chance — an opening,
boat wide, through the sea of sawgrass to his
left. In this rickety old boat it was no chance
at all. But he had to take it.
He set himself to thrust the pole deep and
spin the boat around it. Timed his strokes as
he neared the opening. One ... two ...
three... Then suddenly the lane of escape
was blocked. Out from behind a hummock
glided a two-man boat occupied by Sheriff
Downey and Helen’s father.
Will stopped poling. In silence he stared
at the shotgun in the sheriff’s hands as the
big boat slid alongside. The look of rage on
Tom Grannan’s face had already vanished.
“I caught him on the island," Gran nan
said. “He was huntin’ for the missing cart
ridge case, I expect.” His voice was matter
of-fact. “I was bringin’ him in to turn him
over to you.”
The sheriff lowered his gun and looked
toward the island. Nothing in his reply gave
Will comfort. “We figured to have another
' /■ ■■ .
“No, thanks. Seldom touch the stuff”
look for that empty ourselves. Might’s well
do it, now we’re here.” He glanced at Helen’s
hither, and got a nod in answer.
Grannan led the way. But on the island
he shrewdly let the others do the looking.
Just once he peered at Will. His thin smile
said plainly, “Go ahead and tell ’em.”
Sheriff Downey picked up the empty.
"Thirty-thirty,” he said, and looked at Will.
Will said nothing. What was the use?
Grannan was right — no one would believe
him. He waited.
The sheriff glanced at Helen’s father then,
and both stepped forward. Will gasped. It
was dime so quickly that Grannan never
<
guessed what they were up to. Too late, the
poacher struggled to throw himself clear.
Downey’s handcuffs snapped shut. Tom
Grannan gazed in livid anger at his wrists.
“What’s eatin' you?” he snarled. “That
thirty-thirty empty is his, not mine!”
"You put it here,” the sheriff said.
“You’re crazy! Why would I — ”
“You knew if we found a thirty-thirty case.
Will’s last hope was gone. So you got hold
of one in the likeliest place — out of Will’s
boat, in the creek back of his house. You *
brought it here.” The sheriff glanced sideways
at Helen’s father. “You were right, John.
I’m glad I listened to you.”
Tom Grannan was not one to give up with- v
out a battle. “You can’t prove I did any such
thing!”
“This,” Downey said, “isn’t just any thirty
thirty case. Grannan. It’s special.” He held
it up. "See the scratches in the bottom of it?
I put ’em there — with witnesses. The same
witnesses saw me plant this in Will Clay’s
boat this morning. You figure out. Grannan,
what that proves.”
Tom Grannan was as gray and still as the
dead cypresses in the swamp. Helen’s father,
smiling a little, put an arm around Will Clay’s
shoulders.
“It was Helen made us do it, Will,” he said.
“One thing you won’t need to prove is the
faith of the girl you marry.” The End
\

Here’s to Romance—win a Smoother Skin with just One Cake of Camay!
Your complexion is the measure of your
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•7 and clear. Yfes, and you can win a
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■ ML \
-
OF MR. AND
MRS. HOOKER
6ram taught bride deep-sea fishing.
Bride caught all the fish! Lucky
about her skin, too—Marian will
' r+’.'H
Edvard taofc Marian to lots of football
games at the Yale Bowl. Lovely Marian
is devoted to Camay—her very first cake
worked wonders for her skin.

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