"Who's Bill? Yer boy friend?"
"Is he hurt?"
"I hope so. He sure gave Tony a nasty crack. A rough little guy, he
is--some scrapper. It looked like a battle royal to me when I left an'
brung yer up here. But don't get the wrong idea, kid. By this time, one
of the bunch has slipped a knife into him--pretty slick at that sort o'
thing, they are."
Dorothy said nothing, but he read her feelings in her face.
"Cheer up, sister," he said, heaping a plate with baked beans and
sitting down at the table. "Pardon me, if I finish supper. That lad
ain't so hot. You've got me now, haven't yer? I'm a better man than he
was, Gunga Din!"
"Yes, you are--I _don't_ think!"
"How do yer get that way?"
"Well--" Dorothy eyed him uncompromisingly--"why are you afraid of me,
then?"
"_Afraid?_ You little whippet!" He paused, his knife loaded with beans
half way to his mouth. "Say--that's a good one! What are yer givin' us?"
"You keep me tied up, don't you? Why? You're twice my size and you've
got a gun--"
"Two of 'em, little one--my rod and yourn."
"Yet you're afraid to loosen my hands."
"No, I'm not--but--"
"Please," she begged, changing her tone. "My face itches terribly from
all that dust and I--"
"Well, what do yer think I am? A lady's maid?"
"Don't be silly--I just hate to sit here talking to you, looking such a
fright!"
"So that's it," he laughed. "Don't try yer Blarney on me! I'm as ugly as
mud and yer knows it. Though I'll say yer need a little make-up--and
I'll let yer have it. But just get rid of that idea that you've got me
buffaloed--yer haven't!"
He pushed back his chair and coming round the table, untied the rope
that bound her wrists.
"Thanks." She began to rub her hands, which were numbed and sore.
"Don't mention it," he leered. "Now yer can doll up to yer heart's
content while I shovel some more chow into me. I sure am empty an'
that's no lie!"
"Hey, Mike!" called a man's voice from the doorway behind her. "Where do
they keep the wheelbarrer in this godforsakin' dump?"
"In the shed out back," returned Mike, sliding his chair up to the table
again and picking up his knife. "What yer want it for? What's the
trouble?"
"Trouble enough!" grumbled the other. "There's a couple o' guys messed
up pretty bad down the line. Need somethin' to cart 'em up here in.
Sling me a hunk o' bread, will yer? I ain't had no chow."
"Tough luck!" Mike replied callously, his mouth full, and tossed him
half a loaf. "So long."
"So long--" sang out the other, and Dorothy heard him cross the porch
and thump down the steps.
She was busily engaged in flexing her stiff fingers. She began to feel
better, stronger, quite like her old self again. But the news that two
men were badly hurt was anything but comforting. Was Bill one of them?
she wondered.
With an effort, she thrust the thought from her, and drawing forth a
comb and a compact from a pocket, she commenced the complicated process
of making herself presentable. If she was to make her escape before the
rest of the gang arrived she must work fast. But not too fast, for every
second brought back renewed strength to her cramped arms and fingers.
"How's that?" she asked a few minutes later, replacing comb and compact
in her pocket and getting to her feet.
"Say! You're some looker! I'd never have thought it!"
Mike pushed back his chair and came toward her, wiping his mouth with
the back of a hand. "Say! You've got Sadie lashed to the silo!"
"Who's Sadie? Your steady?" she asked, playfully pointing a forefinger
at him.
Mike leaned back against the table. "Never mind Sadie," he retorted.
"I've got an idea."
"Spill it."
"You wanta breeze--get outa here, don't yer?"
"What a mind-reader!"
"Cut it, kid!" Mike's tone was tense with earnestness. "That guy you
been travelin' with is either dead or a cripple. Sposin' you pal up with
me. Tell me yer will, kid, and we'll hop it together, now."
"How about the rest of the gang?"
"What about 'em. I ain't a regular--just horned in on this deal to make
a coupla grand extra."
"But I'm expensive--" she laughed.
"I'll say you are! What of it? I make good money. I'm no lousy crook.
I've got a real profession."
"What is it?"
"I'm a wrestler, kid, and I ain't no slouch at it, either."
For a moment Dorothy paled. For some reason she seemed taken aback.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
Dorothy straightened her lithe figure.
"Not a thing," she shrugged. Then musingly, "So you're a wrestler, eh?"
"Sure--what did yer think I was--a gigolo?"
Dorothy giggled. "Know this hold?" she asked casually.
And then a startling thing occurred--especially startling to the
unsuspecting Mike. There was a flash of brown-sweatered arms, a swirl of
darker brown hair and Mike felt himself gripped by one elbow and the
side of his neck. He knew the hold, had practiced it in gymnasium, but
not for some years. To be seized violently thus aroused the man and it
brought an instinctive muscular reaction which was assisted by a stab of
pain as Dorothy's thumb sank upon the nerve which is called the "funny
bone."
Yes, Mike knew the hold, and how to break it and recover; so as Dorothy
swirled him backward onto the table with uncanny strength, he pivoted.
Then, clutching her under her arms, he clasped his hands just beneath
her shoulder blades, bearing downward with his head against her chest.
It was a back-breaking grip, but her slender form twisted in his arms as
though he had been trying to hold a revolving shaft. An arm slipped over
his shoulder, a hand fastened on his wrist and began to tug it slowly
upward with the deliberate strength of a low-geared safe hoist. Then the
other hand, stealing around him, encircled the middle finger of his
clasped hand and began to force it back--a jiu jitsu trick. If he
resisted, the finger would be broken. To release his clasp would mean a
probable dislocation of the other arm.
Mike realized that he had to do not only with a phenomenally strong
girl, but with a skilled and practiced exponent of Oriental wrestling
tricks. He was by no means ignorant of this school, and countered the
attack in the proper technical way--with utter relaxation for the
moment--a supple yielding, followed by a swift offensive. Though he was
broader of shoulder and heavier, the two were nearly of equal height,
possibly of equal strength, but of a different sort. Mike's was slower,
but enduring; Dorothy's more that of the panther--swift, high of
innervation, but incapable of sustained tension.
Such maneuvers as immediately followed in this curious combat were
startling. Mike felt that he was struggling with an opponent far more
skilled than himself in jiu jitsu, one trained to the last degree in the
scientific application of the levers and fulcrums by which minimum force
might achieve maximum results in the straining of ligaments and
paralysis of muscles.
And to give him his due, for all his bluff about striking her with the
gun on the way up to the house, Mike had some decent instincts beneath
his roughness. Whereas he was striving to overcome without permanently
injuring the girl, Dorothy had no such qualms. She was fighting with
deliberate intention of putting him out of the running, for at least
such time as would permit her to carry out her plans for escape.
But for a time Mike's efforts were purely defensive, his object to save
himself from disgraceful defeat. What would the gang say if she bested
him, a professional wrestler, and make her getaway?
They fell across the table, shattering the crockery, then pitched off on
to the floor with Mike underneath.
He writhed over on his face and offered an opening for an elbow twist
which was not neglected. There was an instant when he thought the joint
would go; but he broke the hold by a headspin at the cost of infinite
pain.
Mike had seen the state in which jiu jitsu wrestlers left their
vanquished adversaries. Defeat at this girl's hands would probably leave
him helpless and crippled for three or four hours. It was not a pleasant
thought. He would have to hurt her--hurt her badly, if he could.
He was flat on his face again when suddenly he felt his automatic jerked
from its holster and she sprang to her feet.
"If you move an eyelash," said Dorothy, rather breathlessly, "I'll pull
the trigger!"
"If you don't drop that rod at once, I'll blow the top of your head
off," declared a dispassionate voice from the doorway.
Dorothy dropped the gun.
_Chapter XIV_