For a space of perhaps twenty seconds after John Aldous announced himself
there was no visible sign of life on the part of either Quade or Culver
Rann. The latter sat stunned. Not the movement of a finger broke the
stonelike immobility of his attitude. His eyes were like two dark coals
gazing steadily as a serpent's over Quade's hunched shoulders and bowed
head. Quade seemed as if frozen on the point of speaking to Rann. One hand
was still poised a foot above the table. It was he who broke the tense and
lifeless tableau.
Slowly, almost as slowly as Aldous had opened the door, Quade turned his
head, and stared into the coldly smiling face of the man whom he had
plotted to kill, and saw the gleaming pistol in his hand. A curious look
overcame his pouchy face, a look not altogether of terror--but of shock. He
knew Aldous had heard. He accepted in an instant, and perceptibly, the
significance of the pistol in his hand. But Culver Rann sat like a rock.
His face expressed nothing. Not for the smallest part of a second had he
betrayed any emotion that might be throbbing within him. In spite of
himself Aldous admired the man's unflinching nerve.
"Good evening, gentlemen!" he repeated.
Then Rann leaned slowly forward over the table. One hand rose to his
moustache. It was his right hand. The other was invisible. Quade pulled
himself together and stepped to the end of the table, his two empty hands
in front of him. Aldous, still smiling, faced Rann's glittering eyes and
covered him with his automatic. Culver Rann twisted the end of his
moustache, and smiled back.
"Well?" he said. "Is it checkmate?"
"It is," replied Aldous. "I've promised you scoundrels one minute of life.
I guess that minute is about up."
The last word was scarcely out of his mouth when the room was in
darkness--a darkness so complete and sudden that for an instant his hand
faltered, and in that instant he heard the overturning of a chair and the
falling of a body. Twice his automatic sent a lightning-flash of fire where
Culver Rann had sat; twice it spat threadlike ribbons of flame through the
blackness where Quade had stood. He knew what had happened, and also what
to expect if he lost out now. The curiously shaped iron lamp had concealed
an electric bulb, and Rann had turned off the switch-key under the table.
He had no further time to think. An object came hurtling through the thick
gloom and fell with terrific force on his outstretched pistol arm. His
automatic flew from his hand and struck against the wall. Unarmed, he
sprang back toward the open door--full into the arms of Quade!
Aldous knew that it was Quade and not Culver Rann, and he struck out with
all the force he could gather in a short-arm blow. His fist landed against
Quade's thick neck. Again and again he struck, and Quade's grip loosened.
In another moment he would have reached the door if Rann had not caught him
from behind. Never had Aldous felt the clutch of hands like those of the
womanish hands of Culver Rann. It was as if sinuous fingers of steel were
burying themselves in his flesh. Before they found his throat he flung
himself backward with all his weight, and with a tremendous effort freed
himself.
Both Quade and Culver Rann now stood between him and the door. He could
hear Quade's deep, panting breath. Rann, as before, was silent as death.
Then he heard the door close. A key clicked in the lock. He was trapped.
"Turn on the light, Billy," he heard Rann say in a quiet, unexcited voice.
"We've got this house-breaker cornered, and he's lost his gun. Turn on the
light--and I'll make one shot do the business!"
Aldous heard Quade moving, but he was not coming toward the table.
Somewhere in the room was another switch connected with the iron lamp, and
Aldous felt a curious chill shoot up his spine. Without seeing through that
pitch darkness of the room he sensed the fact that Culver Rann was standing
with his back against the locked door, a revolver in his hand. And he knew
that Quade, feeling his way along the wall, held a revolver in his hand.
Men like these two did not go unarmed. The instant the light was turned on
they would do their work. As he stood, silent as Culver Rann, he realized
the tables were turned. In that moment's madness roused by Quade's gloating
assurance of possessing Joanne he had revealed himself like a fool, and now
he was about to reap the whirlwind of his folly. Deliberately he had given
himself up to his enemies. They, too, would be fools if they allowed him to
escape alive.
He heard Quade stop. His thick hand was fumbling along the wall. Aldous
guessed that he was feeling for the switch. He almost fancied he could see
Rann's revolver levelled at him through the darkness. In that thrilling
moment his mind worked with the swiftness of a powder flash. One of his
hands touched the edge of the desk-table, and he knew that he was standing
directly opposite the curtained window, perhaps six feet from it. If he
flung himself through the window the curtain would save him from being cut
to pieces.
No sooner had the idea of escape come to him than he had acted. A flood of
light filled the room as his body crashed through the glass. He heard a
cry--a single shot--as he struck the ground. He gathered himself up and ran
swiftly. Fifty yards away he stopped, and looked back. Quade and Rann were
in the window. Then they disappeared, and a moment later the room was again
in gloom.
For a second time Aldous hurried in the direction of MacDonald's camp. He
knew that, in spite of the protecting curtain, the glass had cut him. He
felt the warm blood dripping over his face; both hands were wet with it,
The arm on which he had received the blow from the unseen object in the
room gave him considerable pain, and he had slightly sprained an ankle in
his leap through the window, so that he limped a little. But his mind was
clear--so clear that in the face of his physical discomfort he caught
himself laughing once or twice as he made his way along the trail.
Aldous was not of an ordinary type. To a curious and superlative degree he
could appreciate a defeat as well as a triumph. His adventures had been a
part of a life in which he had not always expected to win, and in
to-night's game he admitted that he had been hopelessly and ridiculously
beaten. Tragedy, to him, was a first cousin of comedy; to-night he had set
out to kill, and, instead of killing, he had run like a jack-rabbit for
cover. Also, in that same half-hour Rann and Quade had been sure of him,
and he had given them the surprise of their lives by his catapultic
disappearance through the window. There was something ludicrous about it
all--something that, to him, at least, had turned a possible tragedy into a
very good comedy-drama.
Nor was Aldous blind to the fact that he had made an utter fool of himself,
and that the consequences of his indiscretion might prove extremely
serious. Had he listened to the conspirators without betraying himself he
would have possessed an important advantage over them. The knowledge he had
gained from overhearing their conversation would have made it comparatively
easy for MacDonald and him to strike them a perhaps fatal blow through the
half-breed DeBar. As the situation stood now, he figured that Quade and
Culver Rann held the advantage. Whatever they had planned to do they would
put into quick execution. They would not lose a minute.
It was not for himself that Aldous feared. Neither did he fear for Joanne.
Every drop of red fighting blood in him was ready for further action, and
he was determined that Quade should find no opportunity of accomplishing
any scheme he might have against Joanne's person. On the other hand, unless
they could head off DeBar, he believed that Culver Rann's chances of
reaching the gold ahead of them would grow better with the passing of each
hour. To protect Joanne from Quade he must lose no time. MacDonald would
be in the same predicament, while Rann, assisted by as many rascals of his
own colour as he chose to take with him, would be free to carry out the
other part of the conspirators' plans.
The longer he thought of the mess he had stirred up the more roundly Aldous
cursed his imprudence. And this mess, as he viewed it in these cooler
moments, was even less disturbing than the thought of what might have
happened had he succeeded in his intention of killing both Quade and Rann.
Twenty times as he made his way through the darkness toward MacDonald's
camp he told himself that he must have been mad. To have killed Rann or
Quade in self-defence, or in open fight, would have been playing the game
with a shadow of mountain law behind it. But he had invaded Rann's home.
Had he killed them he would have had but little more excuse than a
house-breaker or a suspicious husband might have had. Tête Jaune would not
countenance cold-blooded shooting, even of criminals. He should have taken
old Donald's advice and waited until they were in the mountains. An
unpleasant chill ran through him as he thought of the narrowness of his
double escape.
To his surprise, John Aldous found MacDonald awake when he arrived at the
camp in the thickly timbered coulee. He was preparing a midnight cup of
coffee over a fire that was burning cheerfully between two big rocks.
Purposely Aldous stepped out into the full illumination of it. The old
hunter looked up. For a moment he stared into the blood-smeared face of his
friend; then he sprang to his feet, and caught him by the arm.
"Yes, I got it," nodded Aldous cheerfully. "I went out for it, Mac, and I
got it! Get out your emergency kit, will you? I rather fancy I need a
little patching up."
MacDonald uttered not a word. From the balsam lean-to he brought out a
small rubber bag and a towel. Into a canvas wash-basin he then turned a
half pail of cold water, and Aldous got on his knees beside this. Not once
did the old mountaineer speak while he was washing the blood from Aldous'
face and hands. There was a shallow two-inch cut in his forehead, two
deeper ones in his right cheek, and a gouge in his chin. There were a dozen
cuts on his hands, none of them serious. Before he had finished MacDonald
had used two thirds of a roll of court-plaster.
Then he spoke.
"You can soak them off in the morning," he said. "If you don't, the lady'll
think yo're a red Indian on the warpath. Now, yo' fool, what have yo' gone
an' done?"
Aldous told him what had happened, and before MacDonald could utter an
expression of his feelings he admitted that he was an inexcusable idiot and
that nothing MacDonald might say could drive that fact deeper home.
"If I'd come out after hearing what they had to say, we could have got
DeBar at the end of a gun and settled the whole business," he finished. "As
it is, we're in a mess."
MacDonald stretched his gaunt gray frame before the fire. He picked up his
long rifle, and fingered the lock.
"You figger they'll get away with DeBar?"
"Yes, to-night."
MacDonald threw open the breech of his single-loader and drew out a
cartridge as long as his finger. Replacing it, he snapped the breech shut.
"Don't know as I'm pertic'lar sad over what's happened," he said, with a
curious look at Aldous. "We might have got out of this without what you
call strenu'us trouble. Now--it's _fight!_ It's goin' to be a matter of
guns an' bullets, Johnny--back in the mountains. You figger Rann an' the
snake of a half-breed'll get the start of us. Let 'em have a start! They've
got two hundred miles to go, an' two hundred miles to come back. Only--they
won't come back!"
Under his shaggy brows the old hunter's eyes gleamed as he looked at
Aldous.
"To-morrow we'll go to the grave," he added. "Yo're cur'ous to know what's
goin' to happen when we find that grave, Johnny. So am I. I hope----"
"What do you hope?"
MacDonald shook his great gray head in the dying firelight.
"Let's go to bed, Johnny," he rumbled softly in his beard. "It's gettin'
late."