When the gray dawn came he looked in vain for his horse. The broken bridle dangled eloquently from the sapling.
Chilled to the bone and wet, Morgan set out, determined to make Duncan pay in some way for this night just past. He imagined the confidence man, at the end of a multiplicity of adventures, completely at his mercy — even on his knees, begging for mercy. What he wouldn’t say to Duncan then! Or, if Duncan resisted, what he wouldn’t do to Duncan! These pleasant thoughts served to pass the time, but they brought him no nearer the edge of the swamp. When night fell his weariness overcame his fear of snakes and he slept.
By rare good luck he shot a wild turkey the next morning and managed to broil it over a smouldering fire. Near the fire he stayed all day, for it still rained and he felt rheumatic.
Another night came, and another day of rain. He lost track of time. The feeling that he had spent most of his life in the swamp depressed him. As a matter of fact, it was the fifth day when the storm finally ceased.
Morgan, sitting in the warm, bland sunlight, took stock of himself. The prosperous, well-dressed detective who had entered the swamp had become a mass of discomforts to which rags clung. He was undecided as to whether the rheumatism or his lack of tobacco hurt the more. He had only two cartridges left, and from past experience he knew they might not bring him a single morsel. It behooved him to get on his feet and escape from this hole, rheumatism or no rheumatism.
With the sun shining he could be reasonably sure he was keeping to a straight fine. But the swamp was evidently interminable. His lack of success pricked his anger against Duncan. He swore aloud.
“Let me get my hands on that slick article who let me in for this! Just let me see him! Just let me get within striking distance!”
It was about this time that he turned pale and leaned weakly against a tree. He had heard a man shout.
As he opened his lips he wondered if the rain, the cold, the long disuse had affected his voice. Would it respond to his will at this vital moment? It was more than a shout. It was a roar that left his throat. And from somewhere a voice answered, triumphantly, hysterically.
Almost immediately Morgan saw a man running toward him, splashing through pools, waving his arms, crying out incoherently. Morgan straightened and began running, too, in the direction of this figure so like a scarecrow. It was a human being. It meant companionship, conversation, a touch of the world again. Heaven knew he needed all that!
Then Morgan saw that it was Duncan. At the same moment Duncan saw that it was Morgan.
Duncan sprang behind a tree. He thrust his arms out in frantic gestures. Morgan drew his revolver. He walked steadily forward.
“Duncan, my dear, it’s struck twelve. Come on out now and take your medicine.”
“Gently! Gently!” Duncan called. “I give you fair warning!”
Morgan walked faster.
“Fire away. I’ll take my chances.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Duncan said. “I haven’t a gun. Do you think I would harm a hair of your head if I had? I have a better weapon than that. Come any closer and I’ll run like the devil.”
Morgan stopped. Vengeance was in his heart, but he permitted himself a glimpse at the reverse of the picture.
“Duncan! For God’s sake, don’t do that!”
“Then you’ll listen to reason.”
Morgan smiled again.
“It’s a bluff, Duncan. Maybe you can run like Bryan, but you haven’t the nerve.”
“Be reasonable or you’ll see,” Duncan threatened. “I’m a human being. So are you, I take it.”
Morgan’s smile broadened.
“Don’t be foolish with other people’s money and bet on it.”
Duncan pulled at the torn fringe of his short sleeves. He shifted his feet.
“Suppose I surrendered?” he asked. “Where would you find a policeman or a patrol wagon? Could you get me out of here?”
“I can’t seem to find a taxi for myself,” Morgan replied. “But I’ll land you in the cooler yet.”
“If we live,” Duncan said, “and nothing happens, and all goes well, and deus volens.”
“Don’t swear in a foreign tongue,” Morgan answered.
“Let’s confer on the main problem,” Duncan proposed. “If you don’t agree I’ll run and leave you alone. I don’t believe you’re very good company for yourself just now.”
“As far as that’s concerned,” Morgan grinned, “if I were you I’d hate myself by this time.”
“So I do, and I want a truce,” Duncan blurted out.
Morgan sighed.
“All right,” he agreed. “I’ll mark this place, and when we’re through you can go play Indian again.”
Duncan stepped out. His hair was heavy and tangled. The thick black growth on his face made his eyes seem very large, white, and hungry.
“If I had had you along,” Morgan said, “I needn’t have been afraid of the snakes.”
Duncan came straight to him and put his hand on his shoulder.
“You don’t know how good it is to see you, Morgan. I’ve been denied even the companionship of my horse. He got bogged.”
Morgan’s voice was a little husky as he asked:
“Say, you don’t happen to have a cigar hidden away on your clothes?”
“No, but I retain the essentials.”
He produced a large sack of cheap flake tobacco and a package of cigarette papers.
“I never smoked those puff rolls,” Morgan said disappointedly. “I couldn’t roll one of them if it would get me out of this swamp.”
“Permit me to roll it for you,” Duncan offered.
And he did it, deftly and lovingly, and passed it to the detective. Then he rolled one for himself, and they sat on a log, shoulders touching, while they smoked contentedly.
“So you’re Bob Morgan!” Duncan said. “The famous Morgan! I must confess your present state isn’t up to your reputation. You might at least have brought a few necessities in with you.”
Morgan glanced at the soiled, tattered figure.
“Beau,” he said, “believe me, you’re not up to it. If you come any more of that easy money talk on me I’ll scream for help.”
They both spoke in soft, silky, wondering voices, as though admiring the unaccustomed sounds; and at Morgan’s words they burst into high-pitched laughter that was so terrifying in their ears it ceased immediately.
“Glad to meet you, Duncan,” Morgan said gruffly. “But I don’t want to tap any wires or buy any green goods. Let that be understood.”
Duncan shook his head.
“Morgan,” he announced, “there is something radically wrong with us.”
“Better patent that discovery.”
Duncan shook his head again.
“No,” he continued. “We’re not living up to tradition.”
“I’m scarcely living at all,” Morgan said.
“For a detective and a fugitive,” Duncan declared, “we show extraordinary good sense. Romantically speaking, we should be at each other’s throats.”
“Cut it, and prepare me another whiff of joy.”
But Duncan good-humouredly refused to manufacture any more cigarettes until Morgan had consented to some working arrangement.
The decision to join forces until they had found a way out of the swamp, if the thing could be done, was a matter of a moment. That the chase should recommence once they were out was also agreed to at once. They divided only on the start the detective should give the criminal. Morgan offered half an hour, and Duncan demanded half a day. Morgan wanted to smoke. Duncan was hungry. Morgan produced from his pocket a few small bones to which tiny shreds of meat still clung, and these he kept prominently in view while the other carelessly dangled the paper and the tobacco bag in his fingers. They began to compromise.