All Pete remembers is:

      Someone in his room...
      A noise he doesn't recognize...
      Shadows melding 'bove his bed...
      Then, there's a bag on his head,
      or, something, and he blacks out...
      Waking up on State Route 1-2-3-
      at a Bickel Bus stop
      in daylight, a knapsack
      for a pillow, well packed
      with his things, and him dressed.

How?  And the note, addressed
to him in Clark's hand,
which he recognizes
from prize-essays posted
on the school corkboard?
He tears the envelope
open.  Hundred dollar bills,
three of them, spill from it.
Life is full of surprises.
Hoping it gets better
(it can't get any worse)
he reads THE LETTER:

      Pete, Your Pa's been arrested
      for an old murder.
      I think you know whose, and why,
      and, in the Law's callous eye,
      you are an accessory.
      I tried to stop that G-man
      from storming your Pa's loft,
      but, try to understand,
      he was in the right.
      Still, I'd have no hand
      in ruining your life.
      I couldn't do that and
      live my own peaceably.
      So, I've made an... arrangement
      (to pick my words carefully).
      You'll soon see the Prof. (Dudley
      Batson a.k.a. Marvel),
      whom I'm sure you'll recall
      from when my Pa died.
      He'll drive up in his Ford
      and get you out of Kansas
      as fast as a truck can.
      That's very fast, I'm told.
      Don't shun your Pa's memory.
      John Ross was a good man once,
      and now you've got the chance
      to do some good in the world,
      to redeem your family name.
      When it's safe, I'll send word
      and you can visit your Ma's grave
      and your Pa in prison.
      It had to be like this, Pete.
      I hope I am forgiven.

It got worse.  Pete shakes the dust
off his trousers, rubs out his eyes
and stands.  His eyes are very dry.
He can't cry; he is a free man
at long last.  Under the bus stop,
he waits for the 'Marvel Express,'
shuffling in the roadside dirt,
shifting his weight from boot to boot,
humming tunelessly.  Freedom hurts.