THE BATTLE OF THEIR LIVES
At the first sign of trouble the few people in the post office lobby
had devoted their entire energies to getting away.
Nor did any of the postal employés appear to offer aid.
They had little stomach for such a deadly affair as this was certain to
be.
And Noll?
At the first note of Prescott's voice, as the lieutenant leaped at
Blick, Private Terry had dropped below the level of the window ledge.
There his hand closed on his revolver.
With this in hand, he bounded for the door that the young Army officer
had left open.
But all this took time, and what was going on in the post office lobby
outside seemed to take place in split seconds.
Noll had just bounded out in sight of the scramble for life as Blick
fired the last two shots.
Even as the wretch pressed the trigger, however, Hal Overton took
another quick grip on the fellow's wrist.
Thus was the soldier boy's life saved for the instant.
But the weapons that Blick carried were automatic revolvers, each
holding nine cartridges. The scoundrel therefore held several lives in
his hands if he could only get a chance to free his wrists sufficiently.
Still the three fought, rolled and scrambled across the floor.
Now, Private Noll Terry was hovering over the combatants.
At first the strenuous trio moved with such bewildering speed and were
so hopelessly mixed up that Noll actually wondered what he could do.
At last he saw his chance and tried for it.
Whack!
Clubbing his revolver, Soldier Noll brought the butt of the weapon down
with fearful force--on some one's head.
By sheer good luck it proved to be Blick's head.
Almost completely stunned, Blick rolled over on his back, Lieutenant
Prescott bearing down on one of Blick's arms, while Hal Overton held
the other.
Leaping around, Noll thrust the muzzle of his own revolver into Blick's
mouth.
"Shall I pull the trigger, sir?" demanded Noll coolly.
"No," responded Lieutenant Prescott with equal coolness. "I think we
have the rascal now."
Jack Blick came back to consciousness to see his weapons go spinning
across the floor in different directions.
"Now, if he makes any further efforts at trouble, Terry, just pull the
trigger," directed Lieutenant Prescott. "Blick, put your hands in front
of you, over your stomach."
Sullenly the fellow obeyed. Lieutenant Prescott snapped a pair of
handcuffs over the fellow's wrists.
"Now, you'll keep without spoiling," predicted the young Army officer,
leaping to his feet. "Pull him up, men."
Though his right wrist was swelling, Prescott employed that hand to
thrust his revolver back into the holster over his hip.
Hal and Noll dragged Blick to his feet.
Like a flash the scoundrel darted away from them. No one had told the
Army people that Jack Blick was an expert at throwing off shackles. But
now Blick squeezed his wrists and hands through the steel bracelets
before his would-be captors could realize it.
As part of the same movement he raced to where one of his revolvers lay.
Stooping and picking it up, Blick wheeled like a streak of light on his
knees.
But Soldier Hal had his own weapon up. He fired, coolly--for life.
The bullet drilled through Blick's wrist, forcing him to drop the
revolver like hot iron.
The fellow's left hand, however, picked up the weapon.
Bang!
Once more Blick dropped his weapon, for Noll Terry had fired,
shattering the fellow's left fore-arm.
Now, apparently, Jack Blick was out of the fighting game.
But Lieutenant Prescott, who had just snatched his pistol from its
holster, dashed forward, holding the muzzle of his weapon almost in the
fellow's face.
"Stop all nonsense, now, my man, or we'll kill you without a word of
parley," warned the young officer in an even but deadly and convincing
tone of voice.
Hal slipped a cord from his pocket, knotted a noose, and dropped it
over the fellow's head, drawing the noose tight.
"I think we can hold him this way, sir," Hal suggested to the
lieutenant.
"Yes; get behind him, Overton. Let him walk slowly, but don't stand for
any bolt. You get behind Blick, too, Terry, and hold your revolver on
his back. If he tries to bolt, or makes a single hostile sign, shoot to
kill. We're through with anything like nonsense."
With his uninjured left hand Lieutenant Prescott helped the prisoner to
the floor.
"Now march, my man," ordered the officer. "Out into the street. Don't
try to hurry, either."
Thus they proceeded to the street, Lieutenant Prescott with drawn
revolver in his left hand keeping just behind the soldier boys, and
with ever an eye of watchfulness on the prisoner's steps.
Only six doors below stood the police station. Thither they conducted
Blick, and the solitary day policeman of the little town, seeing the
crowd that had formed and followed, came rushing to the scene.
"Get a doctor first," Lieutenant Prescott ordered, when they had Jack
Blick safely inside the station house.
A physician was on hand inside of two minutes. He washed and dressed
the rascal's wounds.
Then a blacksmith was sent for, and others brought portable forge and
bellows. An "Oregon boot" was shaped and riveted to Blick's lower left
leg, and a red-hot piece of iron welded on over the rivets.
This "Oregon boot" is a famous device in some western states. It is
simply an extremely heavy cylinder of iron. The prisoner who wears
it can barely draw his left foot along. Running would be out of the
question. Nor, when the blacksmith's job was done, could Blick, even
had he been provided with ordinary tools, have succeeded in getting
that "boot" off his leg in less than four hours.
The day policeman of Mason City, who was also chief of the "force,"
swore in six armed citizens as special policemen. They were to watch
the prisoner day and night until other officers arrived to take him
away to stand trial.
"I guess you'll keep now, won't you, Blick?" asked Lieutenant Prescott,
smiling in at the prisoner, who lay on a bench behind the barred door
of a cell, his guards just outside.
"You think you got me, don't you?" jeered Jack Blick harshly.
"I think we did," the young Army officer agreed, smilingly. "Have you
any doubts, my man?"
"It took three of you to do it, and if there'd been only two of you,
I'd have gotten away," snarled the desperado.
"I'll admit that that is probably true," assented Prescott, as smiling
as ever. "Blick, you're a nervy, deadly man. But fellows of your class
always ought to bear in mind that the community is bigger than any one
man can possibly be. You're caged now, and you have always been bound
to be, sooner or later."
"Perhaps you feel pretty big now?" sneered Jack Blick.
"I can't say that I do," rejoined Lieutenant Prescott coolly. "As
nearly as I can judge, I feel just about as big as I did yesterday, or
the day before. How about you, men?"
"I know very well that I felt a lot bigger the day I first stepped into
the uniform than I do now," laughed Soldier Hal.
"I always feel largest on pay-day," smiled Private Noll Terry. "And
this is a long way from pay-day."
"I've got friends in this town. Friends of my own kind," broke in Jack
Blick harshly. "Don't forget that."
"Why?" queried Lieutenant Dick Prescott.
"Because," snarled Blick, showing his teeth, "you've been marked by my
friends already. You won't get out of town and back to camp alive!"