Free The Glass Village by Ellery Queen

Adams, struggling with the wheel. “Say, isn’t that a wagon road? Maybe—”
    â€œDon’t be a fool, man,” roared the Judge. “How far will we get?”
    But Ferriss Adams’s coupé had already plunged into the marsh, its wheels whining for traction.
    They slipped and skidded after the fleeing man. He had been forced onto the path; apparently a few seconds of floundering in swampwater up to his knees had made the road with its mere five inches of mud seem like a running track. He ran stooped over, dodging, weaving, ducking, as if he expected bullets. The satchel was under his arm now.
    They were in the marsh area about four and a half miles northeast of Shinn Corners, well beyond Peepers Pond. It was posted with county signs warning against dangerous bogs, and the heavy rain of almost two hours had not added to its charms. Now a rolling mist closed in that made Adams curse.
    â€œWe’ll lose him altogether in this pea soup! We’ll have to chase him on foot—”
    â€œWait, Ferriss.” The Judge was peering ahead, fingering his gun nervously. “Watch it! Stop the car!”
    The brakes shrieked. The coupé skidded to a halt. Adams jumped out, looking ahead wildly.
    The car had stopped on the brink of a soft black stretch of the marsh. Adams picked up a heavy rock and lobbed it into the stuff. The rock sank out of sight immediately. The surface of the muck quivered as if it were alive.
    â€œQuagmire.” Adams cursed again. “We’ve lost him.”
    The rain bounced off them. Each man stood in a nimbus of spray, peering.
    â€œHe can’t have got far,” said Johnny.
    â€œ There he is! ” cried Adams. “Stop! Stop, or we shoot!”
    The fugitive was wading frantically through the knee-deep morass forty yards away.
    â€œMr. Shinn—Judge—shoot, or give me a gun—”
    Johnny pushed the excited man aside. The Judge was looking at him curiously.
    â€œStop,” called Johnny. “Stop, and you won’t be hurt.”
    The man pressed on in a violent splash of arms and legs.
    â€œWhy don’t you shoot? ” Adams shook his fist at Johnny.
    Johnny raised the 20-gauge and fired. At the roar of the gun the fugitive leaped convulsively and fell.
    â€œYou hit him, you hit him!” shrieked the Cudbury lawyer.
    â€œI fired over his head,” said Johnny. “Stay right there!” he called.
    â€œScared witless,” said the Judge. “There he goes!”
    The man bounded to his feet, glared about him. He had lost his suitcase, his hat. He crouched and scuttled behind a big swamp oak. By the time they reached the tree he had vanished.
    They kept together, calling, occasionally firing a shot into the air. But the tramp was gone as if the bog had caught him.
    Eventually they struggled back to the wagon road.
    â€œYou should have put a bullet in his leg,” Ferriss Adams was saying heatedly. “I’d have done it if I had a gun!”
    â€œThen I’m glad you don’t, Ferriss,” said the Judge. “He won’t get away.”
    â€œHe’s got away, hasn’t he?”
    â€œNot for long, I warrant you. If he sticks to the swamp, he’s bottled up. If he takes to the main road, he’ll be caught in a matter of minutes. Burney Hackett and the others should be along any time now. What is it, Johnny?”
    Johnny touched the Judge’s elbow. “Look.”
    They were back at the dead end of the wagon road. Adams’s coupé no longer stood on the brink of the bog. It was settling into the quagmire. As they watched, it stopped.
    All but a foot of its top had been sucked under.
    â€œMy car,” said Ferriss Adams dazedly.
    Johnny pointed to a series of deep narrow oval holes in the mud midway between the tracks of the car, ending at the edge of the bog.
    â€œHis tracks. He released the brake, put his shoulder to the rear end, and pushed the car in.