The Triumph of John Kars Part 53

"An' why not?" The half-breed's eyes were widely questioning. "It don't worry me a thing. We fixed Mowbray all right. He was no blamed sucker. I tell you right here there's no white outfit goin' to dip into my basket, an' get away with it. We'll hammer 'em good and proper. An' if that don't fix 'em, why, I guess there's always the starvation racket. That don't never fail when it's backed by winter north of 'sixty.' Them curs'll get his bones all----"

But the man at the stove was no longer paying attention. He had turned in his chair, and his eyes were on the door. His gla.s.s was poised in the act of raising it to his lips. It remained untouched.

"I thought----" Nor did he complete that which he had been about to say.

The door was thrust wide with a jolt. There was the swift clash of a knife ripping the cotton window behind him. Then came an incredulous e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, as two guns were held leveled in the doorway.

"G.o.d! Murray McTavish!"

The movements of those moments were something electrical. Everything seemed to happen at once. Every man playing his little part in the drama of it was accustomed to think and act in the moment of emergency.

These men owed their present existence to their capacity for survival where danger was ever lurking.

Seconds counted on the fingers on one hand were sufficient to decide the issue. A shot sung in through the uncovered window which carried back no "spat" to the man who fired it. But the eyes which had guided it beheld the half-breed at the counter sprawl across the account book which had yielded him so much satisfaction. Almost at the instant of his fall a lean, agile, dusky, disreputable figure leaped into the room through the aperture which his knife had freed of its covering.

Kars in the doorway had been no less swift. His automatic spoke, but it spoke no quicker than a similar weapon in the hands of Murray McTavish.

It was a situation pregnant with possibilities. The bulky body of the trader of Fort Mowbray had moved with the quickness, the agility of lightning. His gla.s.s had dropped to the filthy floor with a crash, and its place in his hand had been taken by a pistol in the twinkle of an eye. He was on his feet, and had hurled his bullet at the figure in the doorway in the s.p.a.ce of time elapsing between John Kars' startled exclamation and the discharge of his weapon, which had been almost on the instant.

With deadly purpose and skill Murray had taken no aim. He had fired for the pit of the stomach with the instinct of the gunman. Perhaps it was the haste, perhaps the whisky had left its effect on him. His shot tore its way through Kars' pea-jacket, grazing the soft flesh of his side below his ribs. The second and third shots, as the automatic did its work, were even less successful. There was no fourth shot, for the weapon dropped from Murray's nerveless hand as Kars' single shot tore through his adversary's extended arm and shattered the bones.

The injured man promptly sought to recover his weapon with the other hand. But no chance remained. A dusky figure leaped upon his back from behind, and the dull gleam of a long knife flourished in the lamplight.

Then came Kars' fierce tones.

"Push your hands up, blast you!"

Peigan Charley's arm was crooked about the trader's neck. There was no mercy in his purpose. The fierce joy of the moment was intoxicating him. The knife. He yearned, with savage l.u.s.t, to drive it deep into the fat body struggling under his hold. But Murray understood. One hand went up. The other made an effort, but remained helpless at his side. Instantly Kars stayed the ruthless hand of the savage.

"Quit it, Charley!" he cried. "Loose your hold and see to the other.

I got this one where I need him."

The Indian yielded reluctantly. He looked on for a moment while Kars advanced and secured the trader's fallen weapon. Then he pa.s.sed across to the counter.

The half-breed was badly wounded. But the Indian had neither pity nor scruple. He turned him over where he lay groaning across his counter.

He searched him and relieved him of a pair of loaded revolvers. Then, standing over him, he waited for his chief.

Nor had he to wait long. Kars completed his work in silence. For the time words were unnecessary. Murray was suffering intensely, but he gave no sign. His great eyes, glowing with malevolent fire, watched his victorious rival's movements, and a growing dread took possession of him at his silence. He was searched, carefully searched. Then Kars turned to the Indian as a thin haze of smoke crept in through the jamb of a door which communicated with some other portion of the building.

"Get him outside," he said. "Pa.s.s that rope along."

The Indian uncoiled the rawhide rope from about his chest and brought it across. Kars pointed at the fat figure of Murray.

"Get it about his feet so he can walk--that's all."

The Indian's appreciation rose. It was displayed in the fashion in which he secured the trader. He erred generously on the side of security. When he had finished Murray could hobble. There was no chance of his escape.

The mist of smoke was deepening. The smell of burning was in the air.

The prisoner suddenly displayed alarm.

"For G.o.d's sake get out of here," he cried, in a sudden access of panic. "The place is afire. The cellars under are full of explosives."

"That's how I figgered."

Kars' rejoinder was calmly spoken. He pointed at the half-breed.

"See to him, Charley," he said. And he waited till the Indian had roughly dragged the wounded man into the open. Then he turned to the panic-stricken trader.

"Now you," he commanded, and pointed at the doorway.

The night sky was lit with a dull red glow. A fierce fire was raging on the rising ground beyond the Indian village. A great concourse of dusky figures, men, and women, and pappooses were gathered at a safe distance watching with awe the riot of that terror which haunted their lives.

The whole village was awake, and had turned out to witness the calamity which had befallen. Others had joined them. Those others who had contemplated the destruction of the white invaders down in the river gorge. Their crude minds held no clue to the cause of the thing which had happened. Each and all wondered and feared at the non-appearance of the men who led them. But none dared approach the fire. None thought to extend help to its possible victims. Fire was a demon they feared. It was a demon they were ready enough to invoke to aid them in war. But his wrath turned against themselves was something to be utterly dreaded. So they stood and watched--from afar off.

There were others watching, too. But they were still farther off.

They were standing on a high ground in the shelter of a bluff of trees.

Their direction was towards the river, where the Indian had led them earlier in the night.

The fire licked up towards the heavy sky in jagged tongues of flame.

The Indians were held fascinated by their own terror. The others were waiting for other reasons.

Two figures were on the ground. One was squatting on his heavy b.u.t.tocks. The other was stretched p.r.o.ne and helpless. Two men were standing guard, their eyes wide for that which was to come. The Indian Charley was absent. He had gone to summon aid from the river.

That which was awaited came when the fire was at its height. It came with a roar, tossing the licking flames into a wild chaos of protest.

They were swept apart, and a great detonation boomed across to expectant ears. A pillar of smoke and flame shot up to the heavens.

Then a deluge of smoke partially obscured all vision.

"Good!" Kars' monosyllable was full of intense satisfaction.

"They'll go hungry for fighting fodder," said Bill.

Nor was there any less satisfaction in his comment.

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE END OF THE TERROR

Kars stood on the embankment watching the receding form of the aged chief, Thunder-Cloud, taking his departure with his escort. It was an outfit to inspire ridicule, were it not for the seriousness lying behind the human pa.s.sions governing the situation. Kars understood.

Those with him understood. Peigan Charley alone lacked appreciation.

He regretted the old man's coming under a truce. He even more regretted his departure--whole. But then Peigan Charley was a savage, and would never be otherwise.

The old man tottered along over the rough foresh.o.r.e which had been cleared of its human debris. His blanket-clad shoulders, though gay with color, were bowed with senility, a mockery of the vaunting splendor which glared out in vivid stripes. His escort, too, was mostly elderly. There were no fighting men in it. They were the counselors, who worked overtime with inadequate brains, and delivered the result by word of mouth with all the confidence of their kind.

It had been an interesting moment for the leaders of the camp. For Kars it had been something in the nature of a triumph. It had yielded him his reward for a superlative effort of reckless daring, in which the loyalty of his companions had helped him.