By nightfall, though, Bud Sealy had gathered his senses and had decided to act intelligently. To avoid any possibility of interference from people in town—there were a number of hotheads in Holt who might drink enough to think they ought to try something, and it was just the beginning of pheasant season so there were plenty of shotguns available in the racks behind the seats in the pickups—he and Dale Willard secretly moved Jack Burdette out of his cell and drove him out to the county line. It was long after dark. Sealy had handcuffed Burdette again and had shoved him into the backseat of the police car behind the protective grille. Burdette had objected, had cursed and shouted, thinking that Sealy was going to ride him out into the sandhills and kill him. But Sealy had told him to shut up and finally he had. Behind the police car Dale Willard followed in Burdette’s red Cadillac.
When they were across the county line they turned off onto a gravel road. Sealy got out and unlocked the back door. “Get out,” he said.
“Bud. Now listen.”
“Get out, you son of a bitch.”
“Bud. Listen to me. You better listen.”
“Goddamn you.” Sealy withdrew his gun and shoved it under Burdette’s chin. “Move.”
Burdette slid slowly out of the car and stood up onto the road. He began to rave. “Willard,” he said. “Willard, you’re here. You know that. You’re going to be involved if you let this happen. You know that, Willard.”
“Shut up,” Sealy said. “We’re all involved. Now turn around.”
“Willard. Don’t let this happen, Willard.”
“Unlock him,” Sealy said.
Willard removed the handcuffs. He handed them to the sheriff.
“Now,” Sealy said, “get the hell out of here, you son of a bitch. And don’t you ever come back.”
“What?”
“I’m letting you go. You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“What? So you found out. You can’t hold me.”
“Something like that.”
“I knew you couldn’t. I told you—”
“Shut up.”
Burdette stared at him.
“And don’t you ever come back here again,” Sealy said. “You hear me? I’m warning you. Don’t you ever come back here. By god, you won’t be so lucky the next time.”
Jack Burdette looked once more at the sheriff, then again at Willard. He walked over to his car. The engine was still running. He got in and backed the Cadillac onto the highway. Then he honked once, in apparent farewell, a kind of final affront, and roared away. It was not quite midnight then.
The next morning there was a new, even more intense feeling of public outrage in Holt when people discovered that the red Cadillac was gone and that Burdette had been allowed to leave. For a long while that morning groups of men and boys stood in the parking lot at the courthouse where the shiny red car had stood all week. They swore to one another that they would do something yet; they would take some action. But no one could think what it should be.
Meanwhile Bud Sealy sat in his basement office looking out at them from behind his barred window. For several hours they stood there talking impotently and disgusted; finally about noon they began to disperse, to wander home for lunch. After everyone had gone, Sealy called his wife and told her to bring him some coffee and a sandwich. He didn’t want to leave, he said; he expected them to come back. And after the noon meal many of them did. They began to talk again, to gesture and swear. In the end, however, nothing happened. It was too late for the local men to do anything about it.
Throughout that morning, though, there had been the fear that something might occur, that someone might be crazy enough to attempt something violent. So about midmorning I suggested to Jessie that we leave town for a couple of days. I had been staying at her apartment all week, out of a sense of protectiveness, and now we decided to take the boys and drive to Denver, to stay in a motel, and drive up into the mountains somewhere. The aspen would have already turned but it would be pleasant in the mountains, I told her, and quiet. She thought that would be a good idea. She called the cafe and told them she wouldn’t be coming in. Then we packed and left.