THE CRISIS
There was but one way of escape now and that was by the front entrance.
Jim regained his feet but by the time he reached the lower hall, the
woman had rallied the brown and white renegades with taunts and fierce
ridicule, and they came again into the attack.
"Take him alive," cried the dwarf; "we will have some sport with him
before he dies."
"I won't die till my time comes," mumbled Jim; "as for the sport, I'll
have that myself."
There were at least twelve of the cutthroats who swarmed into the hall,
some of them reënforcements, men who had been sleeping in other parts of
the castle, and who had been aroused by the racket. Among them was a
huge fellow with a bristling red mustache, close cropped black hair, and
sinister dark eyes, all surface and no depth.
"Jack, darlint," cried the woman, "hit that jinted piece of hardware a
blow with a shillayleh, and show these Manuels and proud Castilians that
it's a holler sham."
"I'll do it for the honor of the ould sod, Annie, me gurl," he cried to
his wife, for such she was.
Jim was pretty thoroughly aroused by these taunts, and he did not wait
for the onslaught of the gallant son of Hibernia, but plowed his way
through the snarling Mexicans, who would have pulled him down, and with
a quickness that took the big Irishman by surprise, smote him with a
heavy swing upon the side of his fortunately thick head; that is,
fortunate for him, and down he went full length, crushing two small,
protesting "Manuels" in his fall. He was the victim of the iron hand,
minus the velvet glove.
But now a trick was brought into play which Jim himself had used once or
twice in the course of his adventurous career. While he was busily
engaged with the matter in hand, he suddenly found his arms pinioned by
a rawhide lasso, cast by the expert hand of Master Dwarf. In a minute he
was utterly helpless, unable to move arms or legs, and then how the
Mexicans came into the attack!
With Southern fury they struck at the iron Jim with feet and fist, and
then they wrung their injured hands and nursed their bruised toes, until
Jim could not help laughing, in spite of the seriousness of the
situation; but he did not laugh long.
The ordeal began quickly for him, and he realized that there was no
escape for him from the hands of his ruthless and revengeful enemies. It
was impossible for John Berwick to help him; indeed, the engineer would
be fortunate to escape himself. Besides him, there was absolutely no one
within several thousand miles who could bring him help.
If only Jo and Tom and Juarez were near, the old frontier combination,
he would not despair of being rescued; but Jim repressed quickly any
thought of his brothers and friend, for the recollection would be sure
to weaken him, and he needed all his fortitude at this point, when cruel
Death and he stood face to face once more, and seemingly for the last
time.
It was a dramatic scene, as well as one of terror, in the splendid
banquet hall, where Jim awaited execution. The blaze was leaping upward
in the great fireplace, and the ruddy spread of light showed the tall
figure of James Darlington, bound hand and foot, with his back to the
northern end of the banquet room. The armor had been torn off from him
with bruising force. The side of his face was torn and bleeding, the
work of Red Annie's husband when his opponent was helpless.
Jim had steeled himself for what must come, and he had to admit that he
would just as soon be back in Colorado in the hands of the Indians as in
the power of the present gang. At least as far as the dwarf was
concerned, there was more of personal hatred than in the case of the red
men. And where natural cruelty is urged on by a desire for revenge, then
look out.
"We will try this game first," cried the dwarf, "and see how brave this
white-headed gringo is."
The others laughed and made wagers on their skill, all except the
Irishman, who glowered at the Mexicans and then at Jim. It was not a
pastime he was expert in. The hunchback took a step forward with his
dagger poised over his shoulder, and holding it by its sharp tip. Then
it flashed red straight for Jim's eye, apparently, but it would have
missed his head by a hair's breadth if he had stayed quiet.
But he was free to move his head and instinctively he dodged; this
roused the Mexican to perfect fury, and he grabbed a poniard from the
man next to him, and aimed for the body. There was murder in his every
move, there was no mistaking that. It looked as if Jim's time had
certainly come.
But what of John Berwick, the former chief engineer of the _Sea Eagle_?
Why did he not make some effort to aid his friend, and superior
officer, Captain Jim? Let us go back a ways, and we will find an answer
to this query. As you remember, when Jim started to find his way into
the castle, he left Berwick in a clump of bushes not far from the house.
In one way he was alone, and in another he was not, for there was the
body of the unfortunate secret service man, who had lost his life in the
gulch below, not far from the beach. But most people would have chosen
to be alone rather than in such company.
The engineer watched Jim as he climbed up to the broad window and
disappeared with a wave of his hand. For a time he listened, on edge for
some outbreak, and expecting every minute to see Jim take a flying leap
from some window, accompanied by a salute of fireworks and pistol
flashes. Once or twice he was positive that he heard a cry or a sound of
a struggle in the great silent house, but nothing came of it.
It was cold standing there, motionless. He did not want to attract
possible attention by moving about, and a thought came to him upon which
he acted. His silent companion had no use for apparel. He secured the
heavy gray coat and put it on over his own. His hat he had lost, and
substituted that of the officer.
An hour or more went by. He found himself growing very sleepy, and no
wonder, if we recall what a strenuous twelve hours he had just gone
through. Nor did he have the stimulus of interest that Jim had to keep
him keyed up. He fought against this sense of overpowering drowsiness,
that was like a heavy adversary that was slowly pressing him into
unconsciousness.
It had him by the wrists tiring him, weighing on the pit of his stomach,
numbing the back of his brain, making his limbs as heavy as ponderous
lead. It seemed to the wearied engineer that there was nothing in this
world to be desired but a good sound sleep; he fought against it
desperately, but after a long struggle he suddenly succumbed; his head
dropped, and he lay prone in the grass, apparently as lifeless, as the
unfortunate a few feet distant.
When he awoke it was with utter bewilderment. Where was he, with grass
and trees and shrubs all about him? That certainly was a pistol shot
which had aroused him. Then he came to his senses, sprang quickly to his
feet, and pushed his way through the copse until he got a clear view of
the castle. There he saw faint gleams of light through the broad
windows of the room, which Jim had entered.
In a moment he had heard enough to convince him that there was serious
business going on in the castle, and that "the captain," as he sometimes
called Jim, was in certain danger. Now, John Berwick did not have the
natural headlong courage of Jim, but he was a man of great coolness and
nerve, when the occasion demanded it. He resisted the impulse to rush
boldly into the house, for he saw that it would be foolhardy, as he was
unarmed, and it would only be making a bad matter worse.
He stood with his head slightly bent, gently whistling to himself; his
hands in his pockets, as if nothing of importance was going on in the
gloomy, looming castle a few feet away, but John Berwick was thinking,
and his thinking, it chanced, was apt to be to some purpose. Then a
curious smile came over his face, that was not exactly pleasant, and
with fair reason.
The engineer had come to a decision, and hit upon a plan. He and the
dead man were about of the same build, practically of the same height,
and superficially they had a similarity of appearance, and he was
dressed in his coat and hat. The latter he grasped firmly and pulled
well down over his face. The coat and hat were the only conspicuous
things about him.
Just now there was a sudden terrible clangor in the castle.
"Sounds like somebody was discharging the cook," he remarked with
whimsical humor, "and that she was throwing the hardware around."
This tumult, as the reader well knows, was our esteemed friend, James,
falling downstairs in his full suit of armor, which was sufficient to
account for the racket. It did not take Berwick long after that to get
ready, and you would have been certain that it was none other than the
dead detective come to life, as he stooped hurriedly across the lawn. He
did not try any roundabout way of making entrance into the castle, but
ran directly to the massive front doors, hoping to find them unlocked,
but in this he was doomed to disappointment.