The nails of her fingers found his cheek, gashing it deeply. The pain from the hurt made him furious.
"d.a.m.n you, you devil, I"ll fix you!" he cursed. And in an access of b.e.s.t.i.a.l rage he tore her hands from his face, crushed them to her sides, wrenching them cruelly, until she cried out in agony.
Then, his face hideous, he seized her by the shoulders and crushed her against the outside wall, so that her head struck it and she sagged forward into his arms, unconscious.
The lock on Barney Owen"s rifle had jammed just as Dale entered the room, following the rush of the men to the outside door. He had selected Dale as his target.
He tried for a fatal instant to work the lock, saw his error, and swung the weapon over his head in an attempt to brain the man nearest him.
The man dodged and the rifle slipped from Owen"s hands and went clattering to the floor. Then the man struck with the b.u.t.t of one of the pistols he had picked up from the floor, and Owen went down in a heap.
When he regained consciousness the room was empty. For a time he lay where he had fallen, too dizzy and faint to get to his feet; and then he heard Dale"s voice, saying:
"A bullet wouldn"t go through it. Shoot!"
At the sound of Dale"s voice a terrible rage, such as had seized Owen at the moment he had stuck the rifle through the window, gripped him now, and he sat up, swaying from the strength of it. He got to his feet, muttering insanely, and staggered toward the kitchen door--from the direction in which Dale"s voice seemed to come.
It took him some time to reach the door, and when he did get there he was forced to lean against one of the jambs for support.
But he gained strength rapidly, and peering around the door jamb he was just in time to see Dale step on a chair and lift himself over the part.i.tion dividing the kitchen from the pantry.
Owen heard the commotion that followed Dale"s disappearance over the part.i.tion; he heard the succeeding crashes and the scuffling. Then came Dale"s voice:
"d.a.m.n you, you devil, I"ll fix you!"
Making queer sounds in his throat, Owen ran into the sitting-room where the weapons taken from the men had been piled. They were not there.
He picked up the rifle. By some peculiar irony the lock worked all right for him now, but a quick look told him there were no more cartridges in the magazine. He dropped the rifle and looked wildly around for a another weapon.
He saw a lariat hanging from a peg on the kitchen wall. It was Sanderson"s rope--Owen knew it. Sanderson had oiled it, and had hung it from the peg to dry.
Owen whined with joy when he saw it. His face working, odd guttural sounds coming from his throat, Owen leaped for the rope and pulled it from the peg. Swiftly uncoiling it, he glanced at the loop to make sure it would run well; then with a bound he was on the chair and peering over the top of the part.i.tion, the rope in hand, the noose dangling.
He saw Dale directly beneath it. The Bar D man was standing over Mary Bransford. The girl was on her back, her white face upturned, her eyes closed.
Grinning with hideous joy, Owen threw the rope. The loop opened, widened, and dropped cleanly over Dale"s head.
Dale threw up both hands, trying to grasp the sinuous thing that had encircled his neck, but the little man jerked the rope viciously and the noose tightened. The force of the jerk pulled Dale off his balance, and he reeled against the part.i.tion.
Before he could regain his equilibrium Owen leaned far over the top of the part.i.tion. Exerting the last ounce of his strength Owen lifted, and Dale swung upward, swaying like an eccentric pendulum, his feet well off the floor.
Dale"s back was toward the wall, and he twisted and squirmed like a cat to swing himself around so that he could face it.
During the time Dale struggled to turn, Owen moved rapidly. Leaping off the chair, keeping the rope taut over the top of the part.i.tion, Owen ran across the kitchen and swiftly looped the end of the rope around a wooden bar that was used to fasten the rear outside door.
Then, running into the front room, he got the rifle, and returning to the kitchen he got on the chair beside the part.i.tion.
He could hear Dale cursing. The man"s legs were thrashing about, striking the boards of the part.i.tion. Owen could hear his breath as it coughed in his throat. But the little man merely grinned, and crouched on the chair, waiting.
He was waiting for what he knew would come next. Dale would succeed in twisting his body around before the rope could strangle him, he would grasp the rope and pull himself upward until he could reach the top of the part.i.tion with his hands.
And while Owen watched and waited, Dale"s hands came up and gripped the top of the wall--both hands, huge and muscular. Owen looked at them with great glee before he acted. Then he brought the stock of the rifle down on one of the hands with the precision of a cold deliberation that had taken possession of him.
Dale screamed with the pain of the hurt, then cursed. But he still gripped the top of the part.i.tion with the other hand.
Owen grinned, and with the deliberation that had marked the previous blow he again brought the rifle stock down, smashing the remaining hand. That, too, disappeared, and Dale"s screaming curses filled the cabin.
Owen waited. Twice more the hands came up, and twice more Owen crushed them with the rifle b.u.t.t. At last, though Owen waited for some time, the hands came up no more. Then, slowly, cautiously, Owen stuck his head over the top of the part.i.tion.
Dale"s head had fallen forward; he was swinging slowly back and forth, his body limp and lax.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE AMBUSH
Streak had done well, having slightly improved on the limit set for the trip by Mary Bransford. With no delay whatever, Williams and his men and the Double A cowpunchers were headed for the ranchhouse, their horses running hard.
Sanderson was leading them, though close behind came several of the Double A men, their faces set and grim; and then one of Williams" men, a young fellow who had admired Mary Bransford from afar; then some more of the Double A men, and Williams and the remainder of his band of engineers.
There was no word spoken. In a few swift sentences Sanderson had told them what had occurred, and there was no need for words as they fled southwestward.
For a few miles the trail was hard and smooth, and the posse made good time. Then they struck a stretch of broken country, where volcanic action had split the surface of the earth into fissures and chasms, thus making speed impossible.
It took them long to cross the section, and when it was behind them they found themselves in a hilly country where the going was not much better than it had been in the volcanic area.
The trail was narrow, and they were forced to travel in single file.
Sanderson led the way, Streak thundering along, a living blot splitting the brown, barren wasteland, followed closely by other blots, rushing over the hazardous trail, the echoes of their pa.s.sing creating a rumble as of drumfire reverberating in a canon.
They came to a point where the trail led upward sharply, veering around the shoulder of a hill and dropping precipitously into a valley.
For an instant, as the riders flashed around the shoulder of the hill, they caught a glimpse of a group of riders coming toward them, visible to Sanderson and the others as they were for a second exposed to view in a narrow defile. Then the view of them was cut off, and Sanderson and the men following him were in the valley, riding desperately, as before.
Still there had been no word said. Sanderson had seen the oncoming riders, but he attached no importance to their appearance, for cowpunchers often rode in groups to some outlying camp, and these men might belong to some ranch in the vicinity.
There was a straight stretch of hard, smooth trail in the center of the valley, and Sanderson made Streak take it with a rush. Sanderson grinned grimly as he heard the other men coming close behind him--they were as eager as he, and as vengeful.
Up out of the valley went Streak, running with long, smooth leaps that gave no indication of exhaustion; Sanderson patted his neck as he raced upward out of the valley and into the defile where they had seen the riders.
Sanderson was halfway up the defile when he was a.s.sailed with the thought that by this time--even before this--they should have met the other riders--had the latter kept the trail.
Struck by a sudden suspicion that there was something strange about the disappearance of the riders, Sanderson abruptly pulled Streak up. The other men were some distance behind, and Sanderson slipped out of the saddle to give Streak a breathing spell.
The movement saved his life, for his feet had hardly struck the ground when he heard the thud of a rifle bullet, the sharp crash of the weapon, and saw the leaden missile rip the leather on the cantle of the saddle.
As though the shot were a signal, there followed others--a ripping, crashing volley. Sanderson saw the smoke spurts ballooning upward from behind some rocks and boulders that dotted the hills on both sides of the defile, he saw several of his men drop from their horses and fall p.r.o.ne to the ground.