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Philip stood close to him, a smoking .38 in his hand, while Mendoza, clutching at his chair for support, sank slowly to the ground. Close to the boy's ear spoke Steve. "Beat it. Make your getaway through that door. Meet me at Johanson's corral." The boy plunged through the doorway into the darkness outside. Toward the exit after him backed the cowpuncher.
The cowpuncher slid down cautiously and left the lumber yard by way of the alley in the rear. He followed a barb-wire fence which bounded a pasture, and at the next corner crossed the street warily into United States territory. By alleys and back ways his feet took him to Johanson's stable. Noiselessly he crept toward it from the rear. Some one was inside saddling a horse.
Elsa lifted up her loving hand to Johanson's face as it was bent over the book, and with her own little handkerchief wiped his tears; then she went out silently, which was probably the best thing she could have done under the circumstances. The next day Johanson went to the pastor in his study. "I have not come to talk about my fitness for confirmation," he said. "Little Elsa has taught me better.
Johanson's work in the poorhouse on his music-paper had been the solace of those long, dark penitential hours. His alternations between deep depression and dawning hope, and at last his full, deep conviction that there was pardon for all in the abundant mercy of God through Christ, had been expressed in the musical compositions that had made their way over the length and breadth of the land.
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