THE LAMP
The bluff was ended. It was as if the wind blew a cloud suddenly from
the face of the sun and let the yellow sunlight pour brightly over the
world; so everyone in the room at the voice of Sally knew that the time
had come for action. There was no vocal answer to her, but each man rose
slowly in his place, his gun naked in his hand, and every face was
turned to Bard.
"Gentlemen," he said in his soft voice, "I see that my friend Lawlor has
not wasted his lessons in manners. At least you know enough to rise when
a lady enters the room."
His gun, held at the hip, pointed straight down the table to the burly
form of Jansen, but his eyes, like those of a pugilist, seemed to be
taking in every face at the table, and each man felt in some subtle
manner that the danger would fall first on him. They did not answer, but
hands were tightening around revolver butts.
Lawlor moved back, pace by pace, his revolver shaking in his hand.
"But," went on Bard, "you are all facing me. Is it possible?"
He laughed.
"I knew that Mr. Drew was very anxious to receive me with courtesy; I
did not dream that he would be able to induce so many men to take care
of me."
And Sally Fortune, bracing herself against the wall with one hand, and
in the capable grasp of the other a six-gun balanced, stared in growing
amazement on the scene, and shuddered at the silences.
"Bard," she called, "what have I done?"
"You've started a game," he answered, "which I presume we've all been
waiting to play. What about it, boys? I hope you're well paid; I'd hate
to die a cheap death."
A voice, deep and ringing, sounded close at hand, almost within the
room, and from a direction which Bard could not locate.
"Don't harm him if you can help it. But keep him in that room!"
Bard stepped back a pace till his shoulders touched the wall.
"Sirs," he said, "if you keep me here you will most certainly have to
harm me."
A figure ran around the edge of the crowd and stood beside him.
"Stand clear of me, Sally," he muttered, much moved. "Stand away. This
is a man's work."
"The work of a pack of coyotes!" she cried shrilly. "What d'ye mean?"
She turned on them fiercely.
"Are you goin' to murder a tenderfoot among you? One that ain't done no
real harm? I don't believe my eyes. You, there, Shorty Kilrain, I've
waited on you with my own hands. You've played the man with me. Are you
goin' to play the dog now? Jansen, you was tellin' me about a blue-eyed
girl in Sweden; have you forgot about her now? And Calamity Ben! My God,
ain't there a man among you to step over here and join the two of us?"
They were shaken, but the memory of Drew quelled them.
"They's no harm intended him, on my honour, Sally," said Lawlor. "All
he's got to do is give up his gun--and--and"--he finished weakly--"let
his hands be tied."
"Is that all?" said Sally scornfully.
"Don't follow me, Sally," said Bard. "Stay out of this. Boys, you may
have been paid high, but I don't think you've been paid high enough to
risk taking a chance with me. If you put me out with the first shot that
ends it, of course, but the chances are that I'll be alive when I hit
the floor, and if I am, I'll have my gun working--and I won't miss. One
or two of you are going to drop."
He surveyed them with a quick glance which seemed to linger on each
face.
"I don't know who'll go first. But now I'm going to walk straight for
that door, and I'm going out of it."
He moved slowly, deliberately toward the door, around the table. Still
they did not shoot.
"Bard!" commanded the voice which had spoken from nowhere before. "Stop
where you are. Are you fool enough to think that I'll let you go?"
"Are you William Drew?"
"I am, and you are----"
"The son of John Bard. Are you in this house?"
"I am; Bard, listen to me for thirty seconds----"
"Not for three. Sally, go out of this room and through that door."
There was a grim command in his voice. It started her moving against her
will. She paused and looked back with an imploring gesture.
"Go on," he repeated.
And she passed out of the door and stood there, a glimmering figure
against the night. Still there was not a shot fired, though all those
guns were trained on Bard.
"You've got me Drew," he called, "but I've got you, and your
hirelings--all of you, and I'm going to take you to hell with me--to
hell!"
He jerked his gun up and fired, not at a man, for the bullet struck the
thin chain which held the gasoline lamp suspended, struck it with a
clang, and it rushed down to the table. It struck, but not with the loud
explosion which Bard had expected. There was a dull report, as of a shot
fired at a great distance, the scream of Sally from the door, and then
liquid fire spurted from the lamp across the table, whipped in a flare
to the ceiling, and licked against the walls. It shot to all sides but
it shot high, and every man was down on his face.
Anthony, scarcely believing that he was still alive, rushed for the
door, with a cry of agony ringing in his ears from the voice beyond the
room. One man in all that crowd was near enough or had the courage to
obey the master even to the uttermost. The gaunt form of Calamity Ben
blocked the doorway in front of Bard, blocked it with poised revolver.
"Halt!" he yelled.
But the other rushed on. Calamity whipped down the gun and fired, but
even before the trigger was pulled he was sagging toward the floor, for
Bard had shot to kill. Over the prostrate form of the cowpuncher he
leaped, and into the night, where the white face of Sally greeted him.
Outside the red inferno of that room, as if the taste of blood had
maddened him, he raised his arms and shouted, like one crying a wild
prayer: "William Drew! William Drew! Come out to me!"
Small, strong hands gripped his wrists and turned him away from the
house.
"You fool!" cried Sally. "Ride for it! You've raised your hell at
last--I knew you would!"
Red light flared in all the windows of the dining-room; shouts and
groans and cursing poured out of them. Bard turned and followed her out
toward the stable on the run, and he heard her moaning as she ran: "I
knew! I knew!"
She mounted her horse, which was tethered near the barn. He chose at
random the first horse he reached, a grey, threw on his back the saddle
which hung from the peg behind, mounted, and they were off through the
night. No thought, no direction; but only in blind speed there seemed to
be the hope of a salvation.
A mile, two miles dropped behind them, and then in an open stretch, for
he had outridden her somewhat, Anthony reined back, caught the bridle of
her horse, and pulled it down to a sharp trot.
"Why have you come?"
Their faces were so close that even through the night he could see the
grim set of her lips.
"Ain't you raised your hell--the hell you was hungry to raise? Don't you
need help?"
"What I've done is my own doing. I'll take the burden of it."
"You'll take a halter for it, that's what you'll take. The whole
range'll rise for this. You're marked already. Everywhere you've gone
you've made an enemy. They'll be out to get you--Nash--Boardman--the
whole gang."
"Let 'em come. I'd do this all over again."
"Born gunman, eh? Bard, you ain't got a week to live."
It was fierceness; it was a reproach rather than sorrow.
"Then let me go my own way. Why do you follow, Sally?"
"D'you know these mountains?"
"No, but----"
"Then they'd run you down in twelve hours. Where'll you head for?"
He said, as the first thought entered his mind: "I'll go for the old
house that Drew has on the other side of the range."
"That ain't bad. Know the short cut?"
"What cut?"
"You can make it in five hours over one trail. But of course you don't
know. Nobody but old Dan and me ever knowed it. Let go my bridle and
ride like hell."
She jerked the reins away from him and galloped off at full speed. He
followed.
"Sally!" he called.
But she kept straight ahead, and he followed, shouting, imploring her to
go back. Finally he settled to the chase, resolved on overtaking her. It
was no easy task, for she rode like a centaur, and she knew the way.