The Case and the Girl Part 18

"Then you do not accept my word; do not believe what I have told you?"

"Not that exactly, Miss Natalie; I could have faith in your word, except that I believe you to be mistaken, deceived. Hobart is not square; he is using you for his own ends. Under these conditions, I would be a coward to give such a promise, and leave you helpless in this man's power."

"You intend then to refuse?"

"I do; I'll fight it out."

She stared at him, scarcely believing her own ears, her lips parted, a look of angry fright in her eyes.

"You are a fool, Captain West," she burst forth at last, unable to hold back the words. "I have done my best for you, and you spurn that. Now look out."

She stepped backward, still fronting him, and, with hand behind her, rapped sharply on the panel of the door.

CHAPTER XVII

FACING DEATH

The change in the girl was so p.r.o.nounced, her action so impetuous, as to leave West startled and silent. The thought came to him instantly that she was not the innocent victim he had supposed. Her words, and movements expressed disappointment, rather than regret. She was angry at his choice, ready to withdraw from him all sympathy, all a.s.sistance. Her plea had failed, and the woman had become a tigress. Then she must have been endeavouring to deceive him; as deeply interested as these others--in getting him safely off the trail of this crime. It was a hard lesson, one that instantly turned all his theories upside down, but the truth came to him with blinding, sickening force--she was as guilty as Hobart; they were both working to the same end, endeavouring to get him safely out of the way. They would accomplish this with lies if possible, if not then with force. It was for no other purpose he had been granted this interview alone--in the hope that he might thus be deceived by her. Now he saw through the trick.

These thoughts swept West's brain in a sudden flash of revelation, but he had no chance to act; to denounce her, to make a single movement, before the door opened swiftly, and Hobart slipped eagerly into the room. The first glance the fellow had of the prisoner, standing erect and unbound, must have deceived him into believing the girl had succeeded in her quest.

"So you've set him free," he exclaimed. "The fellow has come to his senses, has he?"

"No, he has not," she snapped with temper darkening her eyes. "I was not afraid of him, so I let him loose, but he's made me no promise. Now it is up to you; I'm done."

She slipped out through the opening, and Hobart leaned against the door, pushing it shut behind her, his scowling eyes watching West intently.

"So, that is how it stands, is it, my man?" he growled threateningly.

"You even refuse to accept the word of the lady, do you?"

"Those are very nearly the facts," West replied steadily. "Then I told her I thought she must be mistaken; now I believe she was sent here for no other purpose but to deceive me. If I ever had any doubt of a crime, it has vanished since this interview."

"What crime?"

"Murder; the killing of Percival Coolidge. Is that plain enough, Hobart?

I want you to understand. I am fighting this case from now on in the open; it is going to be man to man."

"What the h.e.l.l do you mean, you cur?"

"I'll tell you," went on West coldly, determined now to so anger the fellow as to bring the whole matter to a climax, reckless of the consequences. "I charge you with murder. I haven't the proof, but I'll get it; I do not know the object, but I'll find out."

"You fool! you'll never get away from here. My G.o.d, you must be crazy!"

"Never was saner in all my life, Hobart. I am a soldier, and am taking a soldier's chance. Now listen. I feel no particular interest in the death of Percival Coolidge. In my judgment the world is just as well off with him dead as alive. But what this means to Natalie Coolidge is another matter entirely."

"She told you--"

"Yes, she told me--a lie. That is what hurts; what makes me ready to take any chance to put you where you belong. You have lied to her, deceived her, made her your accomplice in crime. I'm fighting for a woman, because she has got no one else to fight for her."

"Oh, I see; in love, hey--with her, or her money?"

"With neither so far as I know," frankly. "She is a woman helpless in your hands; that is sufficient."

"But, h.e.l.l, she hasn't any use for you--didn't she tell you so?"

"Quite plainly--yes. But that is no excuse for any man to play the coward. I am not afraid of you, Hobart, or your gang. You got me before by treachery; I was not looking for trouble. But now I am. I am going through that door, and if you try to stop me you are going to get hurt."

The fellow grinned, one hand thrust into the outer pocket of his coat, his eyes narrowed into ugly slits.

"You think so! You haven't a weapon on you, West, and if you take a step, I'll put you out of commission. I know how to handle your kind, you big bluffer. What I want to know is what you have got in your head, for, believe me, I don't take any stock in this woman stuff. Are you after the coin?"

"What coin?"

"Well, maybe a slice of old Coolidge's boodle. There's enough of it for all hands to have a dip. How does that hit you?"

"Sounds interesting at least," admitted West, so earnestly as to attract the other's attention. "But let's talk it over among ourselves--who is listening there?"

Hobart glanced behind at the nearly closed door. It was for only a second he was off guard, yet that was enough. With one leap forward, West struck, his clinched fist smashing against the side of the fellow's jaw.

It was a wicked, vicious blow, with all the propelling force of the body behind it, and Hobart went down stunned, crashing the door tightly shut as he fell. Once he strove blindly to reach his feet, tugging madly at the weapon in his pocket, but West, feeling no mercy, and wide awake to the fact that any shooting would mean a call for help, struck again, sending his groggy opponent flat, and unconscious. It was all the swift work of a minute, and there had been no noise to arouse alarm. Hobart had not even cried out; the only audible sounds being the sharp click of the door, and the dull thud of a falling body.

West emptied the man's pockets, slipping two revolvers into his own; then stood for an instant motionless, staring down into the white upturned face. He had followed the impulse of the moment; had struck savagely; knowing it was his only chance. Thus far he had done well; but what next?

He was conscious of but one thought, one purpose--to escape from this house, unpledged and still free to act. Yet how could this be accomplished? He had no plan, no knowledge even of his surroundings, of what lay beyond the walls of this room. His eyes swept the bare interior, seeing nothing to inspire hope. Hobart had said this room was practically a prison, and it looked it--the walls bare, and unbroken, and a rough single cot. All possibility of egress lay in the closed door, and a narrow window high up in the opposite wall, also tightly shut, and shaded by a heavy curtain.

His hand tried the door cautiously; the k.n.o.b turned easily enough, but there was no yielding to his pressure. The lock was evidently on the outside, and he could discover no key-hole, no possibility of operating it from within. Then, besides in all probability, a guard would be posted outside in the hall, waiting for some signal from Hobart. West glanced again at the rec.u.mbent figure, bending over to make sure of his condition, then, gripping a chair, silently crossed the room.

There was not a minute to lose. He knew that he must choose quickly whatever course he pursued. Any instant Hobart might recover consciousness, and gain a.s.sistance by a rap on the door; indeed his confederates without might not wait for the signal. The silence within, the length of time, might arouse suspicion. The only chance lay in immediate action. Standing on the chair West found the window had been securely nailed into place, but this had been done so long ago, it was quite possible for him to work the nails loose, yet it required all his strength to press up the warped sash sufficiently far to enable him to gain a view outside. It was not encouraging. Evidently he was upon the third floor, at the rear of the building, looking down into a cluttered up back yard. His eyes could scarcely distinguish what was below, as the only glimmer of light came from a far distant street lamp at the end of an alley, the faint rays creeping in through holes in the fence. Yet one black shadow seemed to promise the sloping roof of a shed directly below; but even with that to break his fall, it was a desperate leap.

He stared into those uncertain depths, endeavouring to measure the distance, deceived by the shifting shadows, afraid of what lay hidden below. For the moment he forgot all that was behind him, his whole mind concentrated on the perils of so mad a leap into the dark. The awakening came suddenly, the chair jerked from beneath his feet, his body hurled backward. He fell, gripping at the window seat, so that he was flung against the support of a side wall, able to retain his feet, but not to wholly ward off a vicious blow, which left him staggering. Half blinded, West leaped forward to grapple with the a.s.sailant, but was too late.

Hobart rushed back out of reach of his arms, and rapped sharply on the door panel. It opened instantly, and big Mike, closely followed by another man, pushed forward into the room. West was trapped, helpless; one man pitted against three. He backed slowly away, brushing tack the dishevelled hair from his eyes, watching them warily, every animal instinct on the alert.

Mike took one comprehensive glance at the scene, at the overturned chair, the half-open window, the trapped man crouching motionless against the further wall. The meaning of it all was plain, and his bar-room training gave quick insight as to the part he was to play. He spoke gruffly out into the dark of the hall behind him, an order to some one concealed there; then shut the door tightly, and faced West, his head lowered like a bull about to charge. West understood; he was locked in to fight it out--three against one. Hobart was nearest to him, his face swollen and red, his eyes ugly slits, with teeth snarling between thin lips. The fellow laughed sneeringly, as their glances met.

"Now we'll take care of you, Captain," he taunted. "Never mind his guns, Mike; there's not a load in either of them. Give the guy what he is looking for. Come on you terriers!"

But West did not wait. There was only one chance, and he took it--to carry the fighting to them. He had no doubt of the emptiness of his guns, and hurled one straight at Hobart's head, leaping forward with the other clutched in his hand straight at Mike, who had scarcely time to fling up one hand in defence. The thrown weapon missed its mark by a narrow inch, striking the wall behind, and falling clattering to the floor, but the other broke through the big saloon-keeper's guard, and sent him reeling to his knees, a gush of blood reddening his hair. Again and again West struck him, driving him p.r.o.ne to the floor before the other two dragged him away, wrestled the weapon from his hand, and closed with him in a desperate death grapple.

What followed he never could relate. He was mad with fury of the fight.

A mere animal defending life with every means at hand, caring nothing for either wound or hurt so that he won out in the end. Mike was out of it, but the two grappling him fought like wild cats, rough barroom fighters, resorting to any tactics to disable their opponent. Yet it was this that saved him. Crazed as he was, madly as his brain whirled in the fierce struggle, his long training held supreme--he knew how to fight, remembered instinctively every trick and guard. Again and again his clinched fist reached its mark, and slowly he broke away from clutching hands, and regained his feet. It was a terrific struggle, but luck, as well as skill, was with him. The next he knew, out of the red ruck, was that he had Hobart by the throat, jammed against the wall, with fingers clinched in the throat. Then he saw the other coming, a dim, shapeless thing, that he kicked at viciously. The boot must have landed, for he was suddenly free to strike the purple face fronting him, and fling the helpless rocking body in a huddled ma.s.s on the floor.

By G.o.d, it was over with; he had won breathing s.p.a.ce, a chance to see what was about him. Yet that was all. The fellow he had kicked was already up, doubled from the pain of the blow, but with mad eyes glaring at him. Hobart had struggled to his knees, cursing fiercely as he swept the blood out of his eyes. They would both be on him again in a minute, more desperate than ever, and the door was locked--there was no chance there. The window! Ay! there was the window. Death either way, yet a chance; and he was man enough to take it. He leaped on the chair, and clambered up; he heard Hobart swear, and felt the grip of a hand on his dangling leg; kicked himself free, and was on the ledge. He never looked below, or took time to poise for the leap. Heedless, desperate, scarcely realizing what he was doing, he flung his body out over the edge, and fell.

CHAPTER XVIII