ONE AGAINST THREE
Skullen, in the act of removing his coat, was caught unprepared. Before
he could fling the garment aside Locke was upon him, aiming a well-meant
blow for the point of Mit's jaw.
Skullen realized that it was no trifling thing to stop such a blow as
that, and he jerked his head aside, as he dropped his coat. The blow
caught him glancingly and sent him staggering, upsetting the chair from
which he had recently risen. Locke grabbed the edge of the table and
pitched it against the ruffian's two companions, who had hastily started
to get up. They fell over, with the table on top of them.
Lefty followed up his advantage, and kept right on after Skullen.
Uttering a snarl of astonished rage, the latter sought to grapple, but
the southpaw knew that he could not afford to waste time in that sort of
a struggle. Whatever he did must be done swiftly, effectively, and
thoroughly. Delay meant only disaster to him. Avoiding the clutching
hands of his antagonist, he struck Mit on the neck, below the ear,
staggering him again.
Skullen had not looked for such a whirlwind assault. He had fancied
the trapped man would wait until set upon, and he had believed he
would have little trouble in beating Lefty to the full satisfaction of
his revengeful heart. He was strong and ponderous, and he could still
strike a terrible blow, but years had slowed him down, his lack of
exercise had softened his muscles, his eye had lost its quickness,
while indulgence in drink and dissipation had taken the snap and ginger
out of him. He had not realized before how much he had deteriorated, but
now, witnessing the lightning-like movements of Lefty Locke, he began
to understand, and sudden apprehension overcame him.
"Bill! Snuff!" he roared. "Get into it! Get at him, you snails! Soak
him!"
His appeal to his companions was an unintentional admission that he
suddenly realized he was no match for the man he had attempted to beat.
The flickering gaslight had given him a glimpse of a terrible blazing
look in Locke's eyes. Once, in the ring, he had seen a look like that
in the eyes of an opponent who had apparently gone crazy. And he had
been knocked out by him!
Scrambling up from beneath the capsized table, Bill and Snuff responded.
Lefty knew that in a moment they would take a hand in the fight, and
then the odds would be three against one, and none of the three would
hesitate at any brutal methods to smash the one. Once he was beaten
down, they would kick and stamp him into insensibility; and later,
perhaps, he would be found outside somewhere in the back alley, with
broken bones, possibly maimed and disfigured for life.
The knowledge of what would happen to him, if defeated, made him doubly
strong and fierce. He endeavored to dispose of Skullen first, believing
that by doing so he would have half the battle won.
Skullen's howls to his companions came to an abrupt termination. Like
an irresistible engine of destruction, Locke had smashed through the
defense of the ruffian, and, reaching him with a terrible blow, sent
him spinning and crashing into a corner of the room. At the same instant,
Bill, joining in, was met by a back kick in the pit of his stomach, and,
with a grunt, he doubled up, clutching at his middle with both hands.
This gave the southpaw a chance to turn on Snuff, who had not, so
far, shown any great desire to help his pals. The creature had seemed
physically insignificant, sitting at the table, but now, in action,
he moved with the quickness of a wild cat, in great contrast to the
ponderousness of Skullen. And he had a weapon in his hand--a blackjack!
The southpaw realized that, of his three antagonists, the creature
springing at him like a deadly tarantula was the most to be dreaded.
Insanity blazed in the fellow's eyes. He struck with the blackjack,
and Lefty barely avoided the blow.
Locke snapped out his left foot, and caught the toe of the man plunging
past him, sending him spinning to the floor. Snuff's body struck a leg
of the overturned table and broke it off short, but the shock of the
fall seemed to have absolutely no effect upon him; for he rebounded
from the floor like a rubber ball, and was on his feet again in a flash,
panting and snarling.
"Get him, Snuff--get him!" urged Skullen, coming up out of the corner
where he had been thrown.
Bill, recovering his breath, was straightening up. All three of the
thugs would be at the southpaw again in another jiffy. Lefty darted
round the table, avoiding the blackjack, but realizing what a small
chance he had with his bare hands. He could not keep up the dodging
long. Then he saw the broken table leg, and snatched it up. With an
upward swing, he landed a blow on Snuff's elbow, breaking his arm.
The blackjack flew to the smoky ceiling, and then thudded back to the
floor.
Feeling sure he had checked his most dangerous antagonist, Lefty turned,
swinging the table leg, and gave Skullen a crack on the shoulder that
dropped him to his knees. He had aimed at Mit's head, but the fellow
had partially succeeded in dodging the blow.
Another blow, and the cry of alarm that rose to Bill's lips was broken
short. Bill went down, knocked senseless.
But Snuff, in spite of his broken arm, was charging again. He was seeking
to get at the southpaw with his bare left hand! The pitcher, however,
had no compunction, and he beat the madman down instantly.
Groaning and clinging to his injured shoulder, Skullen retreated hastily
to the wall, staring in amazement and incomprehension at the breathless
but triumphant man he had lured into this trap. In all his experience
he had never encountered such a fighter.
There being no one to stop him now, Lefty walked to the door leading into
the alley, found the key in the lock and turned it. One backward look
he cast at the two figures on the floor and the man who leaned against
the wall, clutching at his shoulder.
Policemen seemed to be scarce in that neighborhood, and Locke found one
with difficulty. The officer listened incredulously to Lefty's story.
"Mike's is a quiet place," he said. "Didn't make a mistake about
where this happened, did you? Well, come on; we'll go round there and
see about it."
The saloon was open when they reached it. The red-headed bartender was
serving beer to an Italian and a Swede. The vagrant had vanished. The man
behind the bar listened with a well-simulated air of growing indignation
when the policeman questioned him. He glared at the pitcher.
"What are you tryin' to put across, bo?" he demanded fiercely. "You
never were in here before in your life. Tryin' to give my place a bad
name? Nothin' like what you say ever happened around here. Nice little
yarn about bein' decoyed here by some coves that tried to beat you up!
Say, officer, is this a holdup?"
"I've told you what he told me," said the policeman.
"In my back room!" raged the barkeeper. "There ain't been nobody in
there for the last two hours. Come here an' have a look." He walked
to the door and flung it open.
Skullen and his partners were gone. Even the broken table had been
removed. There was nothing to indicate that a desperate encounter had
taken place there a short time before.
"You cleaned up in a hurry," said Lefty.
At this the barkeeper became still more furious, and was restrained by
the officer, who scowled at the pitcher even as he held the other back.
"You don't look like you'd been hitting the pipe, young feller,"
growled the representative of the law; "but that yarn about being
attacked by three men looks funny. Don't notice any marks of the scrap
on you. They didn't do you much damage, did they? Say, you must have had
a dream!"
Locke saw the utter folly of any attempt to press the matter. "As long
as you insist upon looking at it in that way, officer," he returned,
with a touch of contempt that he could not repress, "we'll have to
let it go at that. But I'll guarantee that there are three men somewhere
in this neighborhood who'll have to have various portions of their
anatomies patched up by a doctor as the aftermath of that dream."