KOPPY PAYS
Koppy, under the impetus of the conference, set his mind more firmly to
the problem facing him. Under the present method of attack the outcome
was a question of endurance. And in endurance the disposition of the
besieged was an enormous factor to offset the hopelessness of rescue or
escape. So long as they remained within the shack they could come to
little harm, if food, water, and ammunition held out.
Exposed to the rifles of the besiegers were, however, two of their
principal foes. The Indian dashed recklessly from post to post.
Sooner or later he would pay for it. The continued impunity of the
boss was more maddening. Above the rails Koppy could see the slight
bulge on which so many shots had been wasted. Probably it was only
Torrance's clothing. From the floor of the forest he seemed to be
reasonably protected.
Koppy raised his eyes. With a smile he selected a thick-stemmed tree
and, with the aid of willing and suddenly excited hands, lifted himself
to the lower boughs. There, leaning against the trunk, a circle of
projecting boughs about him, he laughed. Torrance lay in full view.
Gloatingly Koppy slid his rifle along a convenient branch, took aim,
and fired. The ring of metal told how close he was.
On his followers below he bent malignantly joyful eyes. It was only a
question of time now.
The next bullet must have touched Torrance's shoulder, for he winced
and edged closer to the near rail. Koppy cheered and recklessly waved
his rifle.
A shot snapped from over the grade, and a piece of bark flicked
stingingly into the Pole's face. The surprise of it almost tumbled him
from his perch. And before he could cover himself completely with the
trunk of the tree a second bullet whipped through the leaves so close
to his eyes that he felt the wind of it.
Across the grade the Indian jerked in his rifle with an oath and ran to
the shack.
"Dang rotten toy!" he sputtered, slamming the borrowed gun on the
table. "Gi' me my own. I got two cartridges left. One'll do. Thar
ain't no better place for it."
The crowd beneath Koppy's perch was growing fast. The Pole could hear
their whispered exclamations, see the whites of their faces turned up
to him for the report of each shot. In a wave of anger and misgiving
he realised the rashness of adding another responsibility to those of
leadership. Only too eagerly they were piling on his solitary
shoulders the whole burden of the fight.
He must kill the boss! He must kill the boss!
It ran through his head like a threat--a dirge. His aim wavered.
Bullet after bullet sped harmlessly about Torrance. A cold sweat broke
out on the Pole. He leaned out to order others into the surrounding
trees--but realised as he glowered into their upturned faces that this
was no time for orders, but for action.
He reported a hit--boasted, shouted, forced himself to laugh exultantly.
Where would it all end?
He gripped his fists until the nails bit into his palms, and took a
fresh hold of himself. With set teeth, steadier than he had ever been,
he thrust the rifle out again along the branch.
At that instant Werner clambered up the grade--and close behind him
Morani.
Koppy gasped. A flash of pride at the unexpected temerity of two of
his lieutenants. But it faded swiftly before two driving fears.
Torrance had risen to meet them; and Koppy knew the force of that great
fist. But if his own men won! Koppy had a vision of vanished
glory--of lost leadership. Morani and Werner had taken their lives in
their hands to accomplish that which he was failing to do from the
protection of a tree.
Snapping his teeth together, he put his eye coolly to the rear sight.
If his own men were in the way--well, that was their lookout. He was
aiming at Torrance.
A hush fell over the forest. From the foot of the tree the bohunks
read crucial drama in Koppy's manner. . . .
With a bellow of rage Torrance was on his feet. A single blow he
struck at Werner's mad eyes. The head before him snapped back, the
bent legs crumpled. As if he had been shot, Werner's limp body slid
backwards down the sand. For a moment it hung balanced over the edge,
then bent slowly over and plunged out of sight.
Morani, alone now but forced to carry it through, struck swiftly.
Torrance managed to take the point of the stiletto on his left arm.
With his right he grabbed the Italian's arm and jerked sideways and
down. A sickening snap, and Morani's dark face went a sickly cream.
Without changing his hold, Torrance flung out sideways, as a petulant
child discards a doll that has lost favour. Morani had never a chance.
Lifted clear of the trestle, he pitched headlong into the chasm.
But in the effort Torrance's foot slipped. He tried to drop to save
himself, but too late. Clawing at the ends of the sleepers, he fell
over the way Morani had gone. The breath in a hundred throats held.
Mahon closed his eyes.
But in the scramble the contractor's right leg fell between the
sleepers, and as his body turned for the final plunge, his foot caught
and held. The leg snapped, but it held. Torrance's head, swinging
down outside the trestle, crashed into one of the supports. And there
he hung, unconscious.
In the fleeting moments of the triple tragedy Koppy could not pull the
trigger. But as the boss lay motionless in the open, an evil smile
came to the Pole's face. Closing his left eye, he took firm hold of
the stock of his rifle and set his finger to the trigger.
Something passed swiftly across the sights. He opened both eyes and
raised his head. Tressa Torrance was climbing fearlessly out on the
trestle supports to her father's assistance, calling for help.
Koppy gasped. A veil seemed to fall over his eyes. A drop of sweat
fell to his rifle butt. When he could see once more he slowly drew
back the gun, eyes staring. Slowly he turned to the expectant faces
below him. They knew nothing of what had happened--was happening--out
there on the trestle. But they felt in some vague way that he was
failing them.
With deliberation Koppy shifted his rifle about, reversing it. Wonder
began to dawn on the faces at the foot of the tree, but not a sound
came from them. Coolly and firmly the butt slid out along the branch
where the barrel had been.
He felt steadier now--no nerves--no fears. With unhurried care he
caught the trigger over a twig and let it rest there. His head turned
slowly about in a half circle, not toward the crowd below but out over
the green forest and up into the brightening sky. Then he leaned out
and peered at the shack. Moving back in the arc, his eyes rested on
Tressa supporting her father's head, though a false step meant certain
death.
And Ignace Koppowski smiled--a cleaner, more human smile than had
crossed his face for many a year.
"Good girl!" he shouted. "I'll help. Listen."
With the smile still on his lips he jerked the barrel of the rifle
toward him.
With the explosion came another from across the grade. And before the
first echo two others from the forest behind.
Koppy's body crashed through the branches and fell among his gaping
followers.
There was blood now, more than they wished. It spurted over them from
their fallen leader. It welled from a shrieking companion who lay
twisting on the ground beside their dead leader.
One incredulous moment--then, clutching and clawing, but silent as ever
in their fears, they ran for the camp, the only haven they knew. The
panic spread through the rest out among the trees. And a trail of
weapons marked their course.
From a growth of shrub a woman in an Indian blanket peered toward the
grade. She saw the Indian standing there furiously snapping his empty
rifle after the fleeing bohunks. And with a smile she faded away.
Westward, along the grade, from the shadows Helen Mahon stepped, rifle
in hand. In a puzzled way she looked first toward the spot where the
squaw had fired from. Then she ran for the trestle.
When she reached it Torrance's body lay on the grade. Mahon, at the
sound of her feet, swung about and held out his arms.
"Darling," he murmured, "you saved us. You haven't lost your aim."
But she shook her head. "I fired to frighten. Some one else--"
They carried the limp body within the shack and laid it tenderly on the
couch. There was still life, and they worked with prayers on their
lips. . . .
From outside broke two sharp whistles. Mahon, with a puzzled frown,
looked from the front door. An awkward little broncho was trotting
past the corner of the house toward the stable.
Williams came to him. "I'm afraid it's no use, sir," he whispered.
"Nothing could stand up under that."
Mahon appealed to his wife. "Help us, Helen, it's got past us."
The sudden thunder of hoofs along the river side of the shack drew the
two Policemen to the door. Three horses, the broncho in the lead, were
climbing the grade. The broncho started out on the trestle, head bent,
measuring each step, moving from sleeper to sleeper. And at its heels,
obedient as sheep, were Torrance's two horses.
Six hundred yards of open trestle before the fill-in at the other side!
Mahon held his breath. . . .
"Mother o' Mike!" The horses had trotted out to safety, and Murphy was
capering gleefully about.
Mahon rushed to the corner of the shack and looked about. The Indian
was nowhere in sight.
Helen, with wet cheeks, was bathing the white face of the contractor.
Tressa, searching Helen's eyes for hope, saw it vanish in those tears.
With a crooning cry she sank beside the couch and lifted her father's
head in her arms.
"Daddy! Daddy, speak to me!"
But the face was the face of the dead.
Stooping, she gently brushed her father's lips with her own, as her
mother had done in the days of long ago.
"'Jim!'" she whispered. "'Jim!'"
The eyelids quivered and parted, and the eyes beneath looked vaguely
through.
"Mary!" he murmured. Then a sigh. "It hurts--so." One limp hand
trembled to his bruised head. "All right, Mary!" Then in a stronger
voice: "All right, Mary, I'll stay."
The film passed from before his sight.
"By hickory, Tressa, I thought I was dead--and Mary was taking me in
hand. She can get along without me, she says, but you can't. But you
needn't tell Adrian. Where's my pipe?"
Murphy was capering about the room, whooping and rubbing his eyes. The
injured man fixed him with stern gaze.
"Murphy, what are you doing here, making a fool of yourself at this
hour? Don't you know you're due at the gravel pit in less than two
hours? That fill-in commences to-day--no matter what's happened."
But Murphy was already far up the grade, brandishing his shillalah and
shouting at the top of his voice:
"'Uggins! 'Uggins! I'm coming."