FACING DEATH
The change in the girl was so pronounced, her action so impetuous, as to
leave West startled and silent. The thought came to him instantly that
she was not the innocent victim he had supposed. Her words, and movements
expressed disappointment, rather than regret. She was angry at his
choice, ready to withdraw from him all sympathy, all assistance. Her plea
had failed, and the woman had become a tigress. Then she must have been
endeavouring to deceive him; as deeply interested as these others--in
getting him safely off the trail of this crime. It was a hard lesson, one
that instantly turned all his theories upside down, but the truth came to
him with blinding, sickening force--she was as guilty as Hobart; they
were both working to the same end, endeavouring to get him safely out of
the way. They would accomplish this with lies if possible, if not then
with force. It was for no other purpose he had been granted this
interview alone--in the hope that he might thus be deceived by her. Now
he saw through the trick.
These thoughts swept West's brain in a sudden flash of revelation, but
he had no chance to act; to denounce her, to make a single movement,
before the door opened swiftly, and Hobart slipped eagerly into the
room. The first glance the fellow had of the prisoner, standing erect
and unbound, must have deceived him into believing the girl had
succeeded in her quest.
"So you've set him free," he exclaimed. "The fellow has come to his
senses, has he?"
"No, he has not," she snapped with temper darkening her eyes. "I was not
afraid of him, so I let him loose, but he's made me no promise. Now it is
up to you; I'm done."
She slipped out through the opening, and Hobart leaned against the door,
pushing it shut behind her, his scowling eyes watching West intently.
"So, that is how it stands, is it, my man?" he growled threateningly.
"You even refuse to accept the word of the lady, do you?"
"Those are very nearly the facts," West replied steadily. "Then I told
her I thought she must be mistaken; now I believe she was sent here for
no other purpose but to deceive me. If I ever had any doubt of a crime,
it has vanished since this interview."
"What crime?"
"Murder; the killing of Percival Coolidge. Is that plain enough, Hobart?
I want you to understand. I am fighting this case from now on in the
open; it is going to be man to man."
"What the hell do you mean, you cur?"
"I'll tell you," went on West coldly, determined now to so anger the
fellow as to bring the whole matter to a climax, reckless of the
consequences. "I charge you with murder. I haven't the proof, but I'll
get it; I do not know the object, but I'll find out."
"You fool! you'll never get away from here. My God, you must be crazy!"
"Never was saner in all my life, Hobart. I am a soldier, and am taking a
soldier's chance. Now listen. I feel no particular interest in the death
of Percival Coolidge. In my judgment the world is just as well off with
him dead as alive. But what this means to Natalie Coolidge is another
matter entirely."
"She told you--"
"Yes, she told me--a lie. That is what hurts; what makes me ready to take
any chance to put you where you belong. You have lied to her, deceived
her, made her your accomplice in crime. I'm fighting for a woman, because
she has got no one else to fight for her."
"Oh, I see; in love, hey--with her, or her money?"
"With neither so far as I know," frankly. "She is a woman helpless in
your hands; that is sufficient."
"But, hell, she hasn't any use for you--didn't she tell you so?"
"Quite plainly--yes. But that is no excuse for any man to play the
coward. I am not afraid of you, Hobart, or your gang. You got me before
by treachery; I was not looking for trouble. But now I am. I am going
through that door, and if you try to stop me you are going to get hurt."
The fellow grinned, one hand thrust into the outer pocket of his coat,
his eyes narrowed into ugly slits.
"You think so! You haven't a weapon on you, West, and if you take a
step, I'll put you out of commission. I know how to handle your kind,
you big bluffer. What I want to know is what you have got in your head,
for, believe me, I don't take any stock in this woman stuff. Are you
after the coin?"
"What coin?"
"Well, maybe a slice of old Coolidge's boodle. There's enough of it for
all hands to have a dip. How does that hit you?"
"Sounds interesting at least," admitted West, so earnestly as to attract
the other's attention. "But let's talk it over among ourselves--who is
listening there?"
Hobart glanced behind at the nearly closed door. It was for only a second
he was off guard, yet that was enough. With one leap forward, West
struck, his clinched fist smashing against the side of the fellow's jaw.
It was a wicked, vicious blow, with all the propelling force of the body
behind it, and Hobart went down stunned, crashing the door tightly shut
as he fell. Once he strove blindly to reach his feet, tugging madly at
the weapon in his pocket, but West, feeling no mercy, and wide awake to
the fact that any shooting would mean a call for help, struck again,
sending his groggy opponent flat, and unconscious. It was all the swift
work of a minute, and there had been no noise to arouse alarm. Hobart had
not even cried out; the only audible sounds being the sharp click of the
door, and the dull thud of a falling body.
West emptied the man's pockets, slipping two revolvers into his own; then
stood for an instant motionless, staring down into the white upturned
face. He had followed the impulse of the moment; had struck savagely;
knowing it was his only chance. Thus far he had done well; but what next?
He was conscious of but one thought, one purpose--to escape from this
house, unpledged and still free to act. Yet how could this be
accomplished? He had no plan, no knowledge even of his surroundings, of
what lay beyond the walls of this room. His eyes swept the bare interior,
seeing nothing to inspire hope. Hobart had said this room was practically
a prison, and it looked it--the walls bare, and unbroken, and a rough
single cot. All possibility of egress lay in the closed door, and a
narrow window high up in the opposite wall, also tightly shut, and shaded
by a heavy curtain.
His hand tried the door cautiously; the knob turned easily enough, but
there was no yielding to his pressure. The lock was evidently on the
outside, and he could discover no key-hole, no possibility of operating
it from within. Then, besides in all probability, a guard would be posted
outside in the hall, waiting for some signal from Hobart. West glanced
again at the recumbent figure, bending over to make sure of his
condition, then, gripping a chair, silently crossed the room.
There was not a minute to lose. He knew that he must choose quickly
whatever course he pursued. Any instant Hobart might recover
consciousness, and gain assistance by a rap on the door; indeed his
confederates without might not wait for the signal. The silence within,
the length of time, might arouse suspicion. The only chance lay in
immediate action. Standing on the chair West found the window had been
securely nailed into place, but this had been done so long ago, it was
quite possible for him to work the nails loose, yet it required all his
strength to press up the warped sash sufficiently far to enable him to
gain a view outside. It was not encouraging. Evidently he was upon the
third floor, at the rear of the building, looking down into a cluttered
up back yard. His eyes could scarcely distinguish what was below, as the
only glimmer of light came from a far distant street lamp at the end of
an alley, the faint rays creeping in through holes in the fence. Yet one
black shadow seemed to promise the sloping roof of a shed directly below;
but even with that to break his fall, it was a desperate leap.
He stared into those uncertain depths, endeavouring to measure the
distance, deceived by the shifting shadows, afraid of what lay hidden
below. For the moment he forgot all that was behind him, his whole mind
concentrated on the perils of so mad a leap into the dark. The awakening
came suddenly, the chair jerked from beneath his feet, his body hurled
backward. He fell, gripping at the window seat, so that he was flung
against the support of a side wall, able to retain his feet, but not to
wholly ward off a vicious blow, which left him staggering. Half blinded,
West leaped forward to grapple with the assailant, but was too late.
Hobart rushed back out of reach of his arms, and rapped sharply on the
door panel. It opened instantly, and big Mike, closely followed by
another man, pushed forward into the room. West was trapped, helpless;
one man pitted against three. He backed slowly away, brushing tack the
dishevelled hair from his eyes, watching them warily, every animal
instinct on the alert.
Mike took one comprehensive glance at the scene, at the overturned chair,
the half-open window, the trapped man crouching motionless against the
further wall. The meaning of it all was plain, and his bar-room training
gave quick insight as to the part he was to play. He spoke gruffly out
into the dark of the hall behind him, an order to some one concealed
there; then shut the door tightly, and faced West, his head lowered like
a bull about to charge. West understood; he was locked in to fight it
out--three against one. Hobart was nearest to him, his face swollen and
red, his eyes ugly slits, with teeth snarling between thin lips. The
fellow laughed sneeringly, as their glances met.
"Now we'll take care of you, Captain," he taunted. "Never mind his guns,
Mike; there's not a load in either of them. Give the guy what he is
looking for. Come on you terriers!"
But West did not wait. There was only one chance, and he took it--to
carry the fighting to them. He had no doubt of the emptiness of his guns,
and hurled one straight at Hobart's head, leaping forward with the other
clutched in his hand straight at Mike, who had scarcely time to fling up
one hand in defence. The thrown weapon missed its mark by a narrow inch,
striking the wall behind, and falling clattering to the floor, but the
other broke through the big saloon-keeper's guard, and sent him reeling
to his knees, a gush of blood reddening his hair. Again and again West
struck him, driving him prone to the floor before the other two dragged
him away, wrestled the weapon from his hand, and closed with him in a
desperate death grapple.
What followed he never could relate. He was mad with fury of the fight.
A mere animal defending life with every means at hand, caring nothing for
either wound or hurt so that he won out in the end. Mike was out of it,
but the two grappling him fought like wild cats, rough barroom fighters,
resorting to any tactics to disable their opponent. Yet it was this that
saved him. Crazed as he was, madly as his brain whirled in the fierce
struggle, his long training held supreme--he knew how to fight,
remembered instinctively every trick and guard. Again and again his
clinched fist reached its mark, and slowly he broke away from clutching
hands, and regained his feet. It was a terrific struggle, but luck, as
well as skill, was with him. The next he knew, out of the red ruck, was
that he had Hobart by the throat, jammed against the wall, with fingers
clinched in the throat. Then he saw the other coming, a dim, shapeless
thing, that he kicked at viciously. The boot must have landed, for he was
suddenly free to strike the purple face fronting him, and fling the
helpless rocking body in a huddled mass on the floor.
By God, it was over with; he had won breathing space, a chance to see
what was about him. Yet that was all. The fellow he had kicked was
already up, doubled from the pain of the blow, but with mad eyes
glaring at him. Hobart had struggled to his knees, cursing fiercely as
he swept the blood out of his eyes. They would both be on him again in a
minute, more desperate than ever, and the door was locked--there was no
chance there. The window! Ay! there was the window. Death either way,
yet a chance; and he was man enough to take it. He leaped on the chair,
and clambered up; he heard Hobart swear, and felt the grip of a hand on
his dangling leg; kicked himself free, and was on the ledge. He never
looked below, or took time to poise for the leap. Heedless, desperate,
scarcely realizing what he was doing, he flung his body out over the
edge, and fell.