SLADE'S PRISONER
When Ruth regained the use of her senses she was lying on a bed in a
small, evil-smelling room. An oil-lamp burned upon a little stand in one
corner. A door--the only one--was closed--locked. She saw the stout
wooden bar in its sturdy side slots.
At first she thought she was alone; and with a hope that made her
breathless she lifted herself, swinging around until her feet were on
the floor, intending to leap to the door, open it, and escape. A sound
arrested her, a chuckle, grim and sinister, in a man's voice. She
flashed swiftly around, to see Slade sitting in a chair near the foot of
the bed. He was bending forward, his elbows on his knees, his knuckles
supporting his chin, watching her with a wide, amused grin.
For a long, breathless space she looked at him; noting the evil light in
his eyes and the cruel, bestial curve of his lips. She saw how his gaze
quickened as he watched her; how he had drawn one foot under
him--obviously to be used as leverage for a rapid leap should she try to
reach the door.
"It ain't no use, ma'am," he said; "you're here, an' you're goin' to
stay for a while." He got up and walked to the door, placing his back
against it and grinning widely as he looked down at her, as she yielded
to a long shudder of dread.
During the silence that followed Slade's words Ruth could hear faint
sounds from below--the clinking of glasses, the scuffling of feet, a low
murmur of voices. She knew, then, that they had brought her to a room
above a saloon--the Wolf, she supposed, for that was where Warden said
he intended to bring her.
She watched Slade fearfully, divining that he meant to attack her. She
could see that determination in his eyes and in his manner. He was still
grinning, but now the grin had become set, satyric, hideous. It was a
mere smirk. No mirth was behind it--nothing but passion, intense,
frightful.
She glanced swiftly around, saw a window beyond the foot of the bed with
a ragged shade hanging over it. She knew the Wolf was only two stories
in height, and she felt that if she threw herself out of the window she
would suffer injury. But she meant to do it. She got her feet set firmly
on the floor, and was about to run toward the window, when Slade leaped
at her, seeing the reckless design in her eyes.
She had been moving when Slade leaped, and she evaded the arm he
extended and slipped away from him. She heard Slade curse. She was
almost at the window when he rushed at her again; and to keep him from
grasping her she dodged, bringing up against the farther wall, while
Slade, losing his balance, plunged against the window, crashing against
the glass and sending a thousand broken fragments tinkling on the floor
of the room and into the darkness outside.
She was alert to the advantage that had suddenly come to her, and she
ran lightly to the door and tried to lift the bar. She got one end of
it from a socket, but the other stuck. She pulled frantically at it. It
finally came loose, with a suddenness that threw her off balance, and
she reeled against the bed, almost falling.
She saw Slade coming toward her, a bestial rage in his eyes, and she
threw herself again at the door, grasping it and throwing it wide open.
She tried to throw herself out of the opening, to the stairs that led
straight downward into the barroom. But the movement was halted at its
inception by Slade's arms, which went around her with the rigidity of
iron hoops, quickly constricting. She got a glimpse of the room
below--saw the bar and the men near it--all facing her way, watching
her. Then Slade drew her back and closed the door.
He did not bar the door, for she was fighting him, now--fighting him
with a strength and fury that bothered him for an instant. His strength,
however, was greater than hers, and at last her arms were crushed
against her sides with a pressure that almost shut off her breath.
Slade's face was close to hers, his lips loose; and his eyes were
looking into hers with an expression that terrified her.
She screamed--once--twice--with the full power of her lungs. And then
Slade savagely brought a big hand over her mouth and held it there. She
fought to escape the clutch, kicking, squirming--trying to bite the
hand. But to no avail. The terrible pressure on her mouth was
suffocating her, and the room went dark as she continued to fight. She
thought Slade had extinguished the light, and she was conscious of a
dull curiosity over how he had done it. And then sound seem to cease.
She felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. She was conscious only of
that terrible pressure over her mouth and nose. And finally she ceased
to feel even that.