by W E Johns
‘Not till we’ve hung the murderers,’ was the reply.
‘You won’t come in here while I’m on my feet,’ declared Delaney wrathfully.
The crash of another bullet against the door was the answer.
‘Look here, Delaney, you’d better go,’ suggested Biggles. ‘There’s no sense in your getting killed from a mistaken idea of duty. Leave us to it. We’ll hold ‘em off as long as we can.’
‘The Force has never lost a prisoner yet and I ain’t going to be the first,’ was the curt rejoinder.
‘Get a log, somebody,’ came from outside. ‘Bring a log, and we’ll soon have the door down.’
The words were taken up on all sides. ‘A log—a log.’ McBain’s voice could also be heard demanding torches.
By this time it was quite dark, so the need for some illumination was easily understood.
‘Well, I’m afraid it means bloodshed,’ said Delaney regretfully. He took up a position beside the window and waited.
‘Here they come with a tree,’ he answered presently, and levelling his revolver, fired two shots.
There came a yell from outside. The two shots were answered by a dozen, and Delaney staggered back, clutching at his shoulder.
‘Have they hit you?’ cried Biggles anxiously.
‘Got me through the shoulder,’ snarled the constable, leaning back against the wall.
Biggles went to the window, shouted out that the constable had been hit, and demanded a truce while bandages were fetched.
A howl of execration was the reply, and he ducked back just in time to escape a fusillade.
‘Their blood’s up,’ groaned Delaney. ‘Nothing will stop ‘em now. I know. I’ve seen this sort of thing before.’
‘Maybe we’d better surrender,’ suggested Biggles. ‘I don’t like this idea of you losing your life to save us.’
‘I’ve never lost a prisoner yet, and I ain’t starting now,’ returned Delaney obstinately.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders.
A moment later the building shook as a heavy weight struck the door with a crash.
Delaney cursed, and snatching up his revolver with his left hand, emptied it into the middle of the rough-hewn pine logs from which the door was made.
The shots were followed by a sudden silence.
‘They’ve killed Fred,’ said a voice charged with passion. Instantly such a yell arose as made the others weak by comparison. Again the building shook as the attack on the door was resumed.
Biggles’s jaw set. Revolver in hand, he crept to the window and peeped out, hoping to see the man who had been responsible for the riot. But if McBain was there he was too wise to show himself. Four men were just lifting the heavy log which was being used as a battering-ram. The eyes of the spectators were on them. Biggles took careful aim at the nearest man’s arm and pulled the trigger. The man staggered, and released his hold on the log, which fell on the feet of the next man to him. Again Biggles fired, shooting at the legs of the other three. Another man fell, and there was a general dash for cover. Biggles jumped aside as the answering shots came, and coughed as the acrid smell of cordite drifted back into the room.
Several times as the night wore on the attack was resumed, but on each occasion it was beaten off by the defenders.
‘With luck we shall just last one more attack,’ announced Delaney during a pause.
‘How so?’ asked Biggles.
‘I’ve only one cartridge left.’
‘And I’ve none. My gun’s empty,’ said Biggles quietly, tossing the now useless weapon on the floor.
‘What do you reckon the time is?’ asked Wilks, who had spent most of the night leaning against the wall smoking, since there was nothing he could do.
‘Can’t be far short of dawn,’ said Delaney. ‘I wonder what they’re up to out there. They seem to be sort of quiet.’
‘We shall soon know, I fancy,’ replied Biggles, as the sound of stealthy footsteps, accompanied by furtive muttering and whispering, came from outside.
There came a sudden rush, and then again silence.
An orange light flickered on the window frame, faint at first, but growing rapidly brighter. A crisp crackling told the defenders the worst.
‘They’ve set the place on fire,’ gasped Biggles.
‘That’s the end of it, then,’ announced Algy calmly. ‘Either we go out or we stay here and fry.’
‘Of the two I prefer to go out,’ said Biggles.
‘And me,’ nodded Wilks.
Delaney swore soundly, but it did no good. Smoke oozed under the door and eddied in through the window. Presently they were all coughing.
Delaney went over to the door. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I can’t do any more. If you can save yourselves, do it, but if you should get clear give yourselves up at the nearest police post. I shall be after you again, else.’
Biggles nodded. ‘We’re ready to stand our trial when the time comes,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid the crowd thinks otherwise. Come on. Let’s get it over.’
Smoke and flames poured into the room as Delaney threw open the door against which faggots had been piled. A yell went up.
‘I’ll go first,’ said the constable, and took a running jump over the blazing faggots.
Biggles followed. Almost before his feet touched the ground on the far side of the fire many hands had seized him and borne him to the ground, where, helpless, his wrists were tied behind his back. He was then dragged to his feet and marched off.
The same fate befell the others, and presently the three of them were assembled in the middle of a jubilant throng. Only the constable had not had his wrists tied together. He remained with his prisoners, protesting in the strongest possible terms at the crowd’s behaviour, but he might as well have saved his breath for all the effect the words had. The crowd had nothing against him, so beyond a certain amount of horse-play he was left alone.
A shout went up for ropes, which were soon produced, whereupon a move was made up the main street, the crowd surging along with the prisoners in its centre.
‘Where are we going?’ Biggles asked Delaney, who was walking beside him.
‘There ain’t no sense in telling you lies,’ answered the constable. ‘There’s a tree up on the top there, on the way to the aerodrome, with a convenient branch.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Biggles, not without bitterness.
The eastern sky had already been grey with the approach of dawn when they had evacuated the jail; by the time they reached the tree—which was, in fact, near the edge of the aerodrome—it was comparatively light.
The prisoners were led under a branch, which projected at right-angles from the trunk.
Three ropes, with nooses already made, were thrown over it.
‘It’s hard to believe that this is really happening, isn’t it said Algy, looking at the tree and then at the eager crowd in a dazed sort of way.
‘It is,’ agreed Biggles.
‘Silly sort of way to die,’ complained Algy.
‘And all my fault for bringing you out here,’ muttered Wilks, in a voice heavy with remorse.
‘Rot! ‘ said Biggles. ‘You’ve nothing to blame yourself for. It’s just a bit of luck that nobody could have foreseen. My greatest regret is that that hound McBain looks like getting away with it.’
‘No use trying to get the crowd to listen to us, I suppose?’ suggested Algy without enthusiasm.
‘Not the slightest,’ returned Biggles. ‘I should have tried it had there been any hope of them listening, you may be sure. Look at ‘em. They won’t even listen to Delaney, who most of ‘em must have known for years. No, I don’t usually give up easily, but I must confess that there seems to be no way out of this pickle.’
A noose was slipped round his neck. Turning, he watched the others being treated in the same way, regardless of Delaney’s frantic expostulations.
‘Keep your eyes on McBain, Delaney,’ called Biggles loudly. ‘He’s the man who murder
ed Mose.’ Then, quick to the others, ‘Poor old Ginger. Looks as if he’s not coming back after all.’
A Life or Death Struggle
WHEN GINGER had fallen outside the remote cabin he had not been killed. He had not even been hit by the shot which had been fired at him. He felt the whistle of the bullet as it passed his cheek, and the shock had caused him to stumble. And even as he stumbled he realized with a lightning flash of inspiration that the moment he recovered himself he would be a mark for a second shot. So he dived headlong to the ground.
This was, primarily, an act of pure self-preservation, for in this position he offered a smaller target than in any other, and he was well aware of it. In moments of extreme peril the brain often works faster than at any other time, and hard upon Ginger’s first thought came another, the recollection of a trick that is as old as the hills. Men have practised it from the beginning of time. Animals still practise it—some regularly. Indeed, after one of them has the ruse been named—playing ‘possum. In short, Ginger feigned death hoping that the man who had fired at him would be deceived and might give the pretended corpse a chance to turn the tables.
Lying absolutely still on the turf, Ginger heard the cabin door open, heard some one emerge and walk towards him. It was a nasty moment, and it required all his fortitude to remain as he was, because, for all he knew, the man was even then sighting his rifle to make sure of his work. It was not to be wondered at that Ginger’s scalp tingled—almost as if it was conscious of what was about to happen to it.
The grass rustled as the unseen man approached. There was a momentary pause, then a hand closed over the back of Ginger’s head, and he knew it was time to move.
With a grunt he sprang to his feet, looking wildly for his attacker, and saw a man whom he recognized at once—the Indian member of McBain’s gang.
With the scalping knife in his hand, the Indian had instinctively started back at Ginger’s unexpected return to life; but the withdrawal was only momentary; with his smile of victory replaced by a snarl of disappointment and anger, he leapt forward again to attack.
But the brief respite had given Ginger a chance to get his balance. His right hand flew to his pocket and came up grasping his automatic, but before he could pull the trigger the Indian, with a lightning sweep of his left arm, had knocked the weapon aside so that the bullet crashed into the end of the cabin. What was more, the blow knocked the automatic clean out of Ginger’s hand; it described a short flight through the air and came to rest on the turf some ten yards or more away.
Ginger did not attempt to run, for he knew that the fleet-footed Redskin would quickly overtake him. In desperation, he leapt forward to seize the arm that held the knife; he did this before the Indian had time to recover fully from the blow he had struck at the automatic, with the result that they both went down with a crash, Ginger falling across the arm which he had seized so that the knife was not six inches from his face. To prise the weapon from the Indian’s hand would be, he knew, beyond his strength, so he resorted to a method which he once saw employed during a fight between two drunken miners. He used his teeth. Taking the bones in the back of the brown hand between his jaws, he bit with all his strength. Under the excruciating agony the Indian let out a scream, and the hand jerked open convulsively. But before Ginger could possess himself of the knife, the Indian, with a tremendous effort, flung himself sideways, with the result that they both rolled over away from the weapon.
Both were now disarmed, but of the two the Indian was the heavier and Ginger knew that in the end this must tell against him. The automatic was his only chance. Somehow he must reach it, although, having by this time rolled over several times, he was by no means sure of its exact whereabouts. Meanwhile, all his strength was needed to keep the Indian’s hands from his throat.
For perhaps a minute the struggle continued without marked advantage on either side. Sometimes the Indian was on top, and sometimes Ginger, who, knowing what his fate would be if he weakened, was now fighting with the fury of despair. He managed to get on top again, but before he could break free and make a dash for the automatic the Indian had flung him off again, this time with such force that he rolled some distance away. He was brought up by a stone against which he struck his head with a force that made him gasp. Yet even in his sorry plight he had the wit to realize that it was a stone, and that a stone can be a useful weapon in emergency.
By the time his wildly groping hand had found and closed over the stone, the Indian was more than half-way towards him, so slightly raising himself, he flung the missile with every ounce of his fast-waning strength, and then twisted sideways.
The stone caught the Redskin full in the mouth, producing an animal snarl of rage and pulling him up short, spitting blood. For a brief moment his sombre eyes blazed into Ginger’s; then they went beyond him, and he darted forward.
Ginger was on his feet in an instant, and it took him not more than a split second to see what his adversary was after. It was the rifle which had been left against the tree stump, and which Ginger now saw for the first time. To reach the weapon first was obviously impossible. Frantically his eyes scanned the short turf, seeking the automatic. He saw it, made a rush for it, and reached it at the precise moment that the Indian grabbed the rifle.
Both weapons came up together and two reports rang out, one following the other so closely that the sounds blended. But Ginger’s shot had been fired first, by an interval of time so short as to be immeasurable. But it was enough.
Where the rifle bullet went Ginger did not know. It had not hit him, and that was all that concerned him. He was staring at the Indian, whose behaviour was unlike anything he had ever seen before. At Ginger’s shot he had appeared to throw the weapon up into the air before taking several running steps backward, then he fell and finished up flat on his back.
Ginger, gasping for breath, concluded, not unnaturally, that he had killed the man. Reeling with exhaustion, he took a pace towards him, whereupon to his amazement and dismay the Indian sprang to his feet and dashed away.
Ginger was in no mood to let the man get away; he represented too big a danger. Jerking up his weapon, he let drive at the running form, and missed. At least, the Indian continued running; furthermore, as he ran he twisted and turned in a manner that made shooting almost a waste of powder. Three times Ginger fired without any of the shots taking the slightest effect, and by that time the Redskin was out of effective pistol range.
Still running, he disappeared from sight in the belt of timber that skirted the water’s edge.
With a grunt of mortification Ginger dropped the muzzle of the automatic and walked across to where the rifle was lying; on picking it up he perceived the cause of the Indian’s strange behaviour. His—that is, Ginger’s—first shot had not hit the man; it had hit the rifle. By a strange chance the bullet had struck the trigger-guard, and the force of the impact had, of course, knocked the weapon from the man’s hands. Also it must have spoilt his shot. Considering the matter, Ginger could not make up his mind who was the luckier—he or the Indian.
Looking at the sky he saw that the day was fast drawing to a close, so he made his way towards the open door of the cabin in order to pursue the quest that had brought him to the spot.
He did not intend to stay long. The surprise of his encounter with the Indian had left him not a little shaken; moreover, he was rather worried for fear the Indian would find some means of turning the tables on him; he saw that it was going to be difficult to search the cabin thoroughly and at the same time keep a close watch on the trees in which the Redskin had disappeared. To make matters worse, the light was failing. It would soon be dark, and the possibility of his being benighted in the cabin had not previously entered into his calculations. He still hoped to avoid it, particularly as the Indian was at large. Standing the rifle against the door, ready for action should it be needed, he looked around.
The first thing he saw was a fur coat hanging from a peg on the opposite wall. Its presence gav
e him something of a turn, for he recognized it at once from its unmistakable white blaze. It was McBain’s. He had worn it, he recalled, on the night of the murder of old Mose. What it was doing there he did not know, but it seemed evident that McBain had either left it behind by accident or else he had lent it to the Indian—
probably the latter. Anyway, he reflected, its presence proved, if proof were needed, that McBain was closely concerned with the cabin even if he did not actually own it.
A preliminary examination of such objects as were in view revealed nothing more of particular interest. There were a few pieces of furniture, mostly home-made, and of the roughest possible character. A packing case, on which were strewn some odds and ends of food, served for a table. Two chairs, a bench, an iron stove of the covered-in variety, a heap of firewood, a lamp of the hurricane type, a small pyramid of stores—that was all.
In the ordinary way Ginger would have looked no further, for there was nothing suspicious about such articles; indeed, they were more normal camp equipment, and it would have been more surprising had they not been there; but two circumstances combined to make him feel sure that there was more in the cabin than met the eye. In the first place, why had McBain’s machine landed there when there was every reason to suppose that it had the gold on board? Secondly, why had the Indian been left there? McBain was not the sort of man who would do anything without a good reason, certainly not when he was in the middle of a carefully prepared scheme. The presence of the Indian indicated that there was something in the cabin that needed guarding, and, in the circumstances, what could be more likely than that it was the gold?
Satisfied that his reasoning was correct, Ginger broke off in his ruminating and looked steadily in the direction of the trees, but there was no sign of the Indian, so without further loss of time he proceeded with the search. If the gold was there, then he would not rest until he had found it, he decided.
There was no question of there being a concealed cavity in the walls, for they were of solid tree-trunks set one above the other in single thickness. The roof was of split pine, through which daylight showed in many places, and clearly offered no hiding-place. There remained only the floor, and this, as far as it was visible, was solid enough.
