A NEAR THING
The woman at the breakfast table was the first in the room to see Bill
and Osceola spring through the open window. She screamed, the four men
jumped to their feet, sending chairs crashing backward to the floor, the
table rocking—and pandemonium broke loose.
Gripping their rifles by the barrels and swinging them like clubs, the
lads charged the surprised kidnappers, who pulled revolvers and began
shooting almost immediately. But after the first few shots, attackers
and attacked became involved in a scrimmage so close and so heated that
firing was impossible. Bill, wielding his rifle like a singlestick,
managed to ward off the clubbing revolvers of his assailants, but
Osceola, dropping his gun, went at them like a wild man, using fists
alone.
In the midst of the fracas, a man sprang onto Bill’s back. By use of a
jiu jitsu trick he catapulted his attacker over his head and on to the
breakfast table which collapsed, sending broken china and glass in every
direction. Osceola staggered and fell to the floor under the blow from a
revolver butt, and Kolinski pressed the muzzle against the stunned
Seminole’s temple. Like a streak of light, Bill jerked his automatic
from its holster and the Pole went over backward with a bullet through
his shoulder. Then Bill saw the woman, who still stood behind the debris
of the breakfast table, pick up a plate and sail it through the air at
him. He tried to duck, but was again held fast from behind. A burning
pain seared his eyeballs and he, too, dropped insensible to the floor.
Bill awoke, gasping and sputtering, his head and shoulders drenched in
water. His head was splitting, and the darkness round about him was shot
with a myriad of dancing lights.
“Give the Indian another bucketful,” wheezed a cracked voice from the
gloom.
Bill heard Osceola’s characteristic grunt as the water splashed over
him. His mind began to clear, and soon he realized that he was bound
hand and foot and that his eyes were bandaged. Again he heard the
unmistakable wheeze in the cracked voice, and this time the high-pitched
tones were full of sarcasm.
“And all this comes from entering where angels fear to tread!” A man’s
voice, surely, thought Bill, but an old man—
The unseen speaker chuckled and went on with his monologue. “Although we
have not met before, my young friends, I have climbed these many stairs
to bid you goodbye. It pains me to send you off in this abrupt fashion,”
again he chuckled, “but I cannot take you with _me_—and you are probably
familiar with the adage that dead men tell no tales. You will be glad to
hear that the young lady, Miss Deborah Lightfoot, will not mind her
passing on to Happy Hunting Grounds quite as much as you two will. She
was given a hypodermic in the car on the way up here, and is, to all
intents and purposes, asleep.”
“But—surely you don’t mean to kill an innocent girl!” raged Bill.
“Ha-ha!” tittered the old man. “So that gets you on the raw, eh? What
says the bereaved husband-to-be?”
“Sachems of the Seminole Nation do not waste their words on buzzards.”
“Thank you, young man,” wheezed the voice. “It is interesting to learn
at first hand that the American Indian is as stoical in undergoing
mental torture as in burning at the stake! But to return to your
girl-friend on the floor over there—Miss Lightfoot made two bad
mistakes. She had the misfortune to get a good look at one of my
associates when he was searching for a certain emblem. And in the car,
she ripped off my mask, and _she saw me_! Against my wishes, I must send
her away with you, or else certain plans of mine would be jeopardized.”
“Well, Osceola, old man,” said Bill, ignoring their tormentor. “Sorry I
got you into this, and sorrier still we both have to listen to this
pitiful drivel. Unless he stops his cackle soon, I’ll be forced to take
a nap in self-defense.”
“So long, Bill, old sport,” Osceola replied in his deep, grave voice.
“Happy hunting—and sweet dreams!”
“Very pretty, very pretty indeed, young gentlemen. So sorry to bore you
longer. You will be interested to know that my lookout on the hill tells
me the police have just left Heartfield’s in their cars. They should
reach here in about fifteen minutes. But you must not become too
impatient. You see, I have a surprise for you and for them. In slightly
over a quarter of an hour, this house and those in it will go shooting
skywards—in other words, blow up. Good-bye again,—I must fly now, and
I’m sure my news will help you keep your courage to the very end.”
Bill heard footsteps creaking on bare boards, then a door slammed. He
turned at once to his friend.
“How are you tied?”
“Roped—wrists behind my back—and ankles. Blindfolded, too.”
“Same here. Wriggle over and I’ll get my hands on the knots.”
“Coming—but rip off this bandage first, and I’ll do the same for you.
Then I can use my teeth on your wrist bonds—it’ll be easier and quicker
that way.”
Bill heard Osceola slither across the floor and the bandage was ripped
from his head. He in turn pulled off the young Seminole’s bandage and
while his friend’s sharp teeth were working on the knotted ropes that
bound his wrists, Bill sat up and took in their surroundings.
He saw that they were in a small room, empty of furniture. There were
two windows in each of the four walls of the room. A door cut off one
corner, and near it, Deborah lay on the floor, deep in her drugged
sleep.
“I’ll bet we’re in the cupola,” said Bill, his eyes on the girl. “If I’m
right, it’s a four-story drop to the ground, and that door looks too
strong for us to bash in before the explosion.”
Osceola grunted, then spat copiously. Bill found that his wrists were
free, and swinging round, he began to work on the rope which bound his
friend.
“Ugh,” uttered the Seminole in disgust, “my mouth is full of hemp. I
always did hate the taste of it.”
“Well, what I want to know is how we’re going to get out of here—and
with Deborah?”
“I can’t tell you. Wait till we get our legs free. Maybe the outlook
from the windows will give us an idea.”
“And maybe it won’t,” snorted Bill, working with feverish haste on the
tight knots. “You know, I believe that old devil hoped we’d get loose.”
“How come?” Osceola, his hands free at last, was tearing at the rope
around his ankles.
“Wants us to get free of these things—then find out there’s no way down
short of jumping—hello!” He cocked his head, “somebody’s idling an
airplane engine!”
“So that’s what the old buzzard meant when he said he’d have to fly! The
bunch are making their getaway, eh?”
“Guess so. Well, I’m free—how about you?”
“Yep.”
Both lads sprang to their feet, feeling very stiff and dizzy, and
hobbled to a window. They saw that the cupola raised its ugly head on
the very center of the slate roof. The roof looked almost flat, but in
reality sloped slightly down to rusty tin gutters at its eaves. A glance
to the sides showed that the house boasted two yellow brick chimneys.
Directly in front of the old mansion, a large field spread out for a
quarter of a mile toward the highway. On the field a large monoplane was
taxying into the wind, preparatory to the take-off. “Fokker Universal,”
muttered Bill.
“I wish we had her up here,” said the young Chief. “We’re wasting time,
Bill. We can’t have more than five or six minutes left. Give me a hand
with Deborah. We’ll get her out of this window and onto the roof.”
“And then what? There isn’t a tree near the house. If we had a rope—”
“I’ve got it! There must be rainpipes down from the gutters. We’ll go
down by one of those.”
“You mean, the leader will go down with you! Those gutters are old and
rusty and full of holes. The leaders are sure to be in as bad or worse
shape. It would be suicide to try it, especially with one of us carrying
Deborah’s weight.”
“Great grief, Bill! What can we do? Think of Deborah—blown to pieces—”
“Hey, hey—get a grip on yourself. Snap out of it and let me think.”
“Maybe the door isn’t locked, after all—” Osceola snatched at this
desperate thought—
“Try it if you like. But I heard that old wretch or one of his men slam
the bolt and so did you.”
Osceola ran to the door and tried the handle, but without success. Then
he backed off and flung the full force of his weight against it. The
sturdy oak hardly creaked.
“Don’t let the thought of Deb make you lose your nerve, man,” said Bill,
still looking out of the window.
Osceola’s face grew grim. He walked back to Bill and grasped his hand.
“Thanks, old pal. And goodbye. I’m going to Deborah now. At least, we
can die together!”