Slowly anger uprose again in Bowen’s soul. After all, the disaster
that was upon him and upon Alice Ferguson was not primarily his own
fault! It was due to the machinations, the fraud and trickery of
Henderson.
“We’re simply meshed in the net he has woven,” thought Bowen. “And
there’s no way out! Great Jehu, if I could only get my hands free for
five minutes!”
But he could not, and gave up the instinctive effort. His hands and
feet were numb and swollen by reason of the tight lashings. The thirst
that racked him was unbearable. He kept silent, however. Ask Henderson
for a drink? Beg Henderson for mercy? Not yet!
Time passed.
Through the curtain Bowen could hear Henderson answering the
telephone, but not in any manner to supply further information. He
knew that the man was smoking, could smell the tobacco: it wakened the
craving within him and intensified his thirst. Once Charley called up,
and presumably demanded permission to sell, for Henderson answered
savagely:
“I told you once before that I’d give orders! Now shut up. You sell
when I tell you to sell, and not before. Get that? I’m giving the
orders in this deal, and not you! You tell me when that stock climbs
to ninety—what? Never mind your predictions; I know what’s doing! When
it touches ninety, call me, that’s all. But don’t you dare sell until
I give you the word!”
Again the scratch of a match, followed by silence. Bowen’s eyes were
caught by a metallic glint on the threadbare carpet, two feet from his
head—just about opposite his elbow. He stared at it for a moment
without recognition. Then suddenly his gray eyes widened a little.
The object had been spilled with the other things from the
wall-cabinet. It was rusty and had evidently been long discarded,
forgotten. It was the slender steel blade of a safety-razor!
“Great Jehu!” muttered Bowen. “Great Jehu! If I only could!”
He was lying half on one side, half on his arms, which were bound
behind his back. Carefully he moved his numbed limbs, moved his aching
body. Inch by inch he moved it, sidling up and along until he judged
that his lashed hands were about level with the bit of rusted steel.
Gropingly he felt for it. A moment later his searching fingers came in
contact with the razor-blade.
Bowen relaxed, a deep breath of achievement swelling his chest. He lay
quiet, half fearing lest his movements had been heard by Henderson.
But no sign came from the other room.
As the possibilities unfolded, a desperate inspiration flashed upon
Bowen’s brain.
After all, there was still a chance, more than a chance, of retrieving
the disaster! That bit of rusted steel placed hope between his hands!
How late it was, he could not tell, but it must be long past noon,
although Cheadle had not yet returned with the luncheon. Bowen smiled
at the thought. If he could but free his feet and wrists! If he could
but down those two scoundrels! If he could but telephone to Gus
Saunders before two o’clock! Then the market for Apex Crown would be
at its height, and Saunders could unload before the crash!
Bowen had dreamed of millions, when he believed the mine to be good.
Now that it was a question of at best getting out from under, there
was still hope of cleaning up a tidy fortune. But he would have to
phone Gus Saunders before two o’clock!
Cautiously holding the edged blade in his almost senseless fingers,
Bob Bowen fumbled with it for the cord that bound his wrists behind
him. He could not make the keen blade reach. Just as he realized this,
just as he realized that the job was not going to be so easy as it had
seemed, he heard Cheadle enter the adjoining room.
“Done it, Henderson!” Cheadle apparently set down a basket, for there
was a rattle of dishes. “There’s lunch.”
“You fixed it all right? Sure it’s safe?” demanded the eager voice of
Henderson.
“Safe as shootin’, pardner! At two o’clock the storm busts, and Lord
help us if we ain’t somewheres else!”
“Leave that to me. What’s this you got to drink—milk! You’re a nice
one, you are! Bringing me milk to drink—”
“It’s all you get. I mean that you shall keep a clear head to-day,
pardner. No booze in yours until we’ve cashed in! Now lay out the
grub. Have you looked at _him_ in there? Has he waked up yet?”
“Don’t know and don’t care,” grunted Henderson.
Cheadle came striding through the doorway. Forewarned, Bowen closed
his hand over the bit of rusty steel in his palm. He looked up at
Cheadle, who bent over and examined his bonds.
“Don’t I get something to eat?” hoarsely demanded Bowen. “Give me a
drink at least—”
“You shut up.” Cheadle bestowed upon him a gentle kick. “You’re blamed
lucky to get off at all!”
Cheadle strode back to his partner in crime. Henderson began retailing
reports that had come over the phone, but now Bowen paid no heed to
the mumble of voices.
Working frantically, Bowen strove to reach his wrist-cords with the
edged steel. At first he found it practically impossible. Twice the
blade slipped in his numbed fingers and struck into his flesh. Fearful
lest he sever a wrist-artery, he took more caution.
At length he got a grip that held upon the thin steel, and to his keen
joy felt the tip of the blade touch a cord. Slowly it bit through. A
slight tug told him that the strand had parted. Dropping the blade, he
worked his arms until the severed cord loosened. Scarce sensible of
the motion, scarce able to make his brain control the congested
members, Bowen drew his arms from beneath him.
He was free—but for the moment, helpless. He could not move his hands;
they were swollen and purpled, quite without feeling.
For a while he lay, content to slowly chafe the life back into his
fingers. With an effort he sat up, found the razor-blade where he had
dropped it, and freed his ankles. Still he could do no more than
strive to bring the banished blood back into hands and feet. Motion
intensified his thirst, which seemed burning the throat out of him!
But he made no sound.
Slowly strength and control came back to his hands. He clenched them
with a grim smile; they were pretty good hands after all—quite equal
to the work that lay ahead! And suddenly, as he cautiously tried to
gain his feet without noise, he heard a chair scraped back in the
adjoining room.
“Confound that grapefruit!” It was Henderson who spoke, with
irritation. “I’m going across the hall to the toilet and wash up. Call
me if Charley rings up.”
“Sure,” responded Cheadle.
The door slammed after Henderson. The next instant Bowen heard the
footsteps of Cheadle crossing the floor—toward him.
Catlike, the man from Tonopah came to his feet, looked swiftly around
for a weapon. He could not trust his fists—yet! There was too much at
stake. He must call Gus Saunders before two o’clock!
As the dumpy figure of Cheadle parted the curtains, Bowen caught up a
small footstool—the first object to hand—and hurled it. The hassock
took Cheadle in the side of the head and knocked him sprawling. Before
he could recover, Bowen was upon him; and, without any mercy, struck
two blows that knocked out the fat little mining man.
Moving rapidly, Bowen caught up the cords that had bound him, tied
Cheadle hand and foot, and rolled the inert body under the bed. Barely
had he finished and come erect, when Henderson returned to the
adjoining room.
“Nothing doing yet, eh?” he sang out. The telephone rang, and saved
Bowen from making any response. Henderson took the message and
repeated his former commands.
“Well, didn’t I tell you the stock was kiting up? Now you wait for my
order to sell, and keep your ear close to the phone! I want no monkey
business at the last moment.”
Henderson banged up the receiver. “She’s up to ninety, Cheadle!” he
called exultantly. “What ’d I tell you, eh? It’s just ten minutes of
two now. In five minutes I’ll give Charley orders to sell—”
“I’ll bet you two to one you don’t,” said Bowen, stepping into the
room.
He had thought to take Henderson by surprise; to down the
thunderstruck man without a struggle. But he had far underestimated
Dickover’s former agent. Henderson had spread upon a small table which
bore the telephone, the dishes borne in by Cheadle. Without a second’s
hesitation, Henderson picked up a heavy restaurant coffee-cup and
hurled it fair and square at the face of his opponent.
Caught athwart the forehead by the missile, Bowen almost crumpled up.
Henderson was upon him like a wildcat, beating at him with another
cup. Bowen could do no more than clinch.
Locked in each other’s arms, the two men reeled back and forth,
smashed over chairs, went crashing into the wall with terrific impact.
The shock separated them. Henderson’s arm swept up; the heavy crockery
cracked down upon Bowen’s head, struck full against the blood-black
bruise Cheadle had given him, and shivered to pieces.
Under that terrific blow, Bob Bowen felt himself going, and going
fast. He lunged forward and caught Henderson about the body: A final
great wave of strength surged into him, and he threw Henderson over
his hip—an old wrestling trick. He saw the man drive head first into
the wall—and saw no more. For the second time, his knees were loosened
and black darkness engulfed his soul.
When he wakened again, Bowen sat up and looked around dazedly,
wondering at the deadly ache in his head. He remembered by slow
degrees. He saw Henderson lying across the room, lying in a limp mass.
He heard the man’s stertorous breathing. It was the deep, hard
breathing of a man badly hurt.
Slowly Bob Bowen came to his feet. Staggering, he came to the table,
clutched the bottle of milk, poured the revivifying fluid down his
throat. A deep sigh of satisfaction burst from him—and then he
remembered. Two o’clock! How long had he lain senseless?
With a groan, Bowen flung himself across the room to Henderson’s side.
His fingers trembling, he drew out Henderson’s watch. It was two
forty!
A moment later, Bowen seized the telephone and gave the number of Gus
Saunders. He waited, frantic with suspense, until he heard the
broker’s voice. There might yet be hope! Cheadle might have made
mistakes.
“You, Bob? Good Lord!” Saunders’s tone sent his heart down. “We’ve
been looking all over town for you—”
“What’s your last report on Apex Crown?” cried Bowen hoarsely. “Has it
broken—”
“Broke all to smash at two o’clock. Last report was eight cents here
and going down fast. Miss Ferguson is here. You’d better come down and
settle up—”
Bowen slammed the receiver on the hook. “Oh, hell!” he said simply.
“Well, we’ll face the music!”