Both hurried to the single window. Where the wagon trail skirted the
base of the rocky hillside, a half dozen crouching figures came into
view. Armed with rifles and pistols, they were creeping cautiously up
the incline.
A single shot from above caused some of the group to drop flat. Others
dodged into the brush. There was a movement among the lengthening
shadows at the left.
"What goes on!" demanded Sally. "Gang war?"
"They're not shooting at each other," Marlin asserted, after watching
the cautious maneuvers of the two groups. "Looks as if they were
closing in on some one. Sheriff's posse, I guess."
Another shot directed their eyes to the rock behind which the fugitive
or fugitives must be hiding.
From its concealment, a figure edged into view. There appeared to be
only one.
"Poor devil--sure is done for," commented Marlin. "Must be public enemy
number one, to judge by the number in the posse. Look! There he goes!"
Crouching close to the ground, the overalled figure dodged from cover
to cover, each fleeting appearance bringing a fusillade of shots from
the converging squads. He replied with a couple of bursts from his own
weapon, then fell on his stomach behind a rock and commenced reloading.
Perhaps it was because their experience had prejudiced them against all
forces of law; perhaps it was merely sympathy with the underdog, that
impelled Sally and Marlin to pull mentally for the fugitive.
"That's no protection!" breathed Sally. "They'll have him between a
crossfire. Why doesn't he make a dash for it?"
"Where'll he dash?" queried Marlin.
For answer, Sally opened the door a crack and called sharply, "Here!"
The outlaw glanced desperately over his shoulder, then, crouching and
dodging, he made a zig-zag retreat up the hill. A rattle of shots
accompanied this daring retreat. It was incredible that such an open
target could escape the murderous bullets coming from all directions.
A final spurt and the fugitive fell sprawling across the threshold.
Marlin dragged him inside as Sally slammed and bolted the door. Blood
spurted from a neck wound and the outlaw clutched at his side, groaning.
"Done for--Thanks!" he gasped. "You better--" The effort at speech
ended in a gasp.
The sound of running boots on the gravel, followed by a peremptory
knock, indicated the arrival of the posse.
"Open up! This is the law!" an imperative voice called.
Sally tugged at the wounded man. "Stall 'em off!" she whispered
tensely. "I'll get him back inside."
With a hopeless gesture, Marlin tried to restrain her. "We'll only get
ourselves in dutch--We can't hope to--"
Her look of scorn checked the protest. Shrugging, he lifted the
desperately wounded man and supported him into the tunnel. Once erect,
the outlaw seemed able to stumble along by leaning heavily on the
bare-footed girl. Marlin closed the door and gave attention to the
increasing demands from out in front.
He unlatched the swinging window.
"What's up?" he demanded.
A stocky figure detached itself from the group of twelve or fifteen
bunched around the door.
"You're obstructing the law! Open that door!"
"Easy now," returned Marlin. "I'm not obstructing any law. I just want
to know what it's all about? Who are you?"
"Sheriff Bates of Grinnell County. You're harboring an outlaw--the
Picaroon Kid."
"Never heard of him. What'd he do?"
"Held up a bank, for one thing," snapped the sheriff. "Wanted for other
jobs and for killing two deputies. You gonna open that door?"
"Sure, I'll open it," Marlin spoke slowly, trying to give Sally time.
"The poor devil's carcass is full of lead--no danger of his getting
away."
* * * * *
Withdrawing, Marlin methodically fastened the window, then had an
ostentatiously difficult time manipulating the door lock.
"Cut out that stalling!" called the sheriff furiously. "Are you gonna
open up, or do we smash our way in?"
Marlin opened the door. With an impatient grunt, the sheriff brushed
past him, glaring around uncertainly.
"Where'd you hide him?"
The outlaw's gun lay on the floor where it had been dropped in his
fall, and a trail of blood led across the board floor. The sheriff
snatched up the weapon, then crossed the room in a stride, flinging
open the inner door. He peered down the tunnel.
"Some hideout!" he commented. "We'll look into this. Come on, men."
Marlin moved ahead of them, managing to delay progress by feeling his
way with extreme caution through the dark passage. Eventually, they
emerged on the shelving ledge.
"Where'd he go?" demanded the sheriff, surveying the scene.
"You know as much as I do."
A hasty search of bunkhouses and cook shack was sufficient to show
that they were unoccupied. Two or three of the posse discovered a
continuation of the blood trail, and they followed it to the descent
which led to the sphere. Marlin's anxious eyes caught a glimpse of a
bare foot disappearing in the entrance pipe. No one else was in sight.
"What's that big ball?" demanded the sheriff, staring.
"You've got me."
The blood trail led unmistakably toward the sphere. Soon the sheriff
was peering curiously through the opening.
"The Kid's inside all right. Blood smears all down the pipe. Somebody
climb in after him."
The men looked uncertainly at one another. It would be a simple matter
for any armed person inside to put a bullet through the first head that
showed itself. The sheriff evidently had no relish for the prospect and
did not care to designate any one for the job. He turned to Marlin.
"You go in there," he ordered.
"Tell your buddies they'll save trouble by bein' reasonable. Tell 'em
to pass the Kid out. If they don't we'll toss a few tear gas bombs
inside. You gonna do it?"
"What else can I do?"
With some forcible assistance from behind, Marlin worked his way down
the tube. At the inner edge, hands grasped him by the shoulders and
helped him to land on a floor of some kind.
"You tell 'em what I said!" came the sheriff's voice. "No stalling!"
His eyes unaccustomed to the darkness, Marlin allowed himself to be
guided along some sort of a wooden platform. It slanted at an angle
which made walking difficult. The guiding hands proved to be DuChane's.
"This is a hell of a mess," the latter breathed. "What's to be done?"
"Give up the outlaw. We're trapped in here like rats," Marlin answered.
"If we don't come through, they'll toss in tear bombs. Can any of you
imagine what that would be like in this place?"
"Leave it to that fool Sally!" McGruder said harshly.
The girl turned on him with a spiteful retort as an impatient call
reached them from outside. Marlin raised his voice.
"Give me a chance!" he bellowed.
The words echoed through the hollow interior. "It's dark in here. I've
got to find 'em, haven't I?" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "How's
the wounded jasper?"
"Passed out," DuChane informed him. "I'll lead you to him."
Feeling their way, they emerged in a box-like enclosure partly filled
with tools. Maw Barstow, holding a feeble flashlight, squatted beside
a huddled mass which was evidently the wounded man. Cradling his head
in her lap was Pearl. An accidental shifting of the flashlight beam
revealed her tranquil, madonna-like smile as she gazed down at the
blood-smeared face.
"Sorry," Marlin announced. "We've got to get rid of this bad bozo.
How's he doing?"
"You ain't gonna move the pore critter!" countered Maw fiercely.
Protest was futile. DuChane settled the argument by seizing the
shrieking woman and holding her while Marlin gathered up the
unconscious outlaw and felt his way back toward the opening. He was
nearly thrown from his feet once as the platform--apparently the whole
sphere--gave an unexpected lurch.
"Where's the place?" he demanded, sensing figures in the darkness
surrounding. "I can't see the light."
Sally's laugh reached him shrilly. "And what's more, you won't."
He paused, uncomprehending. Link's squeaky voice brought the
explanation.
"They can't get us now. McGruder and me levered the pipe out with a
board. You oughta see the stuff pour in."
The full enormity of this was slow in penetrating Marlin's mind.
"What's that!" called DuChane, his voice rising in alarm. He came
stumbling toward them in the darkness. "Now isn't that fine! It isn't
enough that we're trapped in here, but we've got to make the trap
foolproof by blocking the only way out!"
Unmindful of the stormy exchange of insults and recriminations that
surged around him, Marlin picked his way back to the tool room and
deposited his groaning charge at Maw Barstow's feet.
"Better dress the wounds," he commented. "Where's Eli?"
"Somewhere down there," Maw replied vaguely. "Pearlie, darlin', help me
get this bloody shirt offen the pore dear."