When Ross stepped out into the darkness his first thought was that he
would make a dash for liberty. This hope died almost before it was born,
though, for he felt the muzzle of a revolver pressed close to his ribs
and Garfin’s rasping voice growled into his ear:
“Make just one move fer a break an’ I’ll plug ya. The boss says he’s
goin’ to hang ya in the morning, but I’d like to save him tha trouble.”
Ross knew that Garfin was not indulging in idle words. The gunman would
gladly kill him. Then, too, out in the shadows another form kept them
close company. He knew this was Poole and that should he succeed in
worsting Garfin his chance of escaping the second gunman’s bullets was
very remote. No, the time was not yet.
The three trudged back to Ross’s one-room prison, and it was only a
minute or two until the door had slammed on him, the bolt had fallen into
place and the lock snapped its vicious message.
He was once more a prisoner.
Ross sought in the darkness for the crude chair and threw himself down
into it. He knew that for the time being there was no chance of escape,
so he gave himself up momentarily to a contemplation of his plight.
Who was this strange girl whom he had rescued, only to have her vanish
into the night? Why had she not spoken tonight? Why had she given him no
hint of action? Who was Beebe, that he would accept a betrothal which was
obviously odious to the girl? And, lastly, who was Ward with his mad eyes?
Who was Waring, and what had he done to merit such malicious vengeance on
the part of Ward?
These and many other questions Ross asked himself, but he had no
satisfactory answer to any one of them. Only a jumble of baffling mystery
presented itself. His brain seethed with impossible solutions, but he had
to admit that actually he was completely at sea.
Only a few facts stood out which could be accepted as a basis on which to
work.
He, Ross, had been taken for another man, Waring by name. Ward evidently
hated Waring intensely and was determined to put him to death for a
wrong, either fancied or real. There could be no doubt, too, that Ward
was, in a degree, insane.
What part Beebe was playing Ross could not determine, beyond the facts
that he was in favor with Ward and that he wanted the girl and would take
her on whatever terms he could get her.
The girl was obviously in great peril. It could be seen that she hated
Beebe, but at the same time was powerless to resist any order of her
uncle. Ross could readily see that she was in a position where death
might well be preferable to what she was facing.
And, undeniably, there was the fact that he, Ross, was sure to meet death
in the morning unless he could devise some way out of his dilemma.
The night was far gone when he had finished considering these things.
It was then that a plan of action first suggested itself to him. As it
matured in his mind he realized that it was a forlorn hope; but his
circumstances were so utterly desperate that there seemed nothing to do
but give it a trial. He knew that its success would depend entirely on
the element of surprise.
Having once settled in his mind what he should do, Ross threw himself
down on the crude table and was soon sound asleep.
It was hardly daylight when he awoke, but he did not allow himself to
drop back to sleep again. He was going to be ready.
It was fully three hours later that he heard approaching footsteps.
Slipping quietly across the room, Ross flattened himself against the wall
beside the door and waited.
The footsteps drew nearer and nearer. A key grated in the lock. It
clicked. The bolt was raised. Slowly the door swung on its hinges.
Like a flash, Ross slipped from his hiding-place and darted through the
doorway. The only human within sight was Garfin. Like a mad thunderbolt
Ross bore down upon him.
Taken by surprise, Garfin barely had time to fire before Ross was upon
him. Too startled to take definite aim, his bullet went wild. With a
force that was terrific Ross struck him with the full impact of his body.
The two went down in a tangled heap. Garfin’s gun was knocked from his
grasp and went spinning a dozen feet away.
Garfin was not without courage of a kind, but all his life he had
depended on a gun to enforce his arguments. Physical combat had not been
one of his long suits, and now he found himself no match for his younger
antagonist.
Stan Ross was far from a weakling physically. Long months afoot in
the desert had made him as hard as nails. Not so long ago he had been
known as a football player of some note. Now he used that knowledge of
rough-and-tumble combat to the fullest extent.
Taking Garfin by surprise, Ross had the initial advantage, and when the
two went down he was on top. Striking, kicking, using the crushing force
of his body, he went at the gunman in a demoniacal storm. For an instant
it looked as though he would beat his enemy into insensibility before he
could offer any material resistance.
But Garfin was fighting for his life and he knew it. He was not to be
vanquished so easily. In a moment the two men were threshing and rolling
on the ground in a fierce struggle.
Youth, however, was not to be denied. Those sledge-hammer blows were
having a telling effect. Garfin was weakening. Gradually Ross was wearing
him down.
Ross sought the throat of his enemy. Garfin’s breath came in gasps. His
eyes were bulging. Gradually Ross brought his knee up until it pressed
into Garfin’s stomach. A final effort would end the struggle. Slowly
Garfin’s head bent backward. Then—
A crashing, blinding blow caught Ross on his head. For a brief instant a
million fires flamed before his eyes. Then utter blackness.
He slumped forward across the body of his antagonist.
_CHAPTER SEVEN_