Part 37 (1/2)
With the spurt of flame, Sinclair leaped back until his shoulders grazed the wall. He crouched beside the ma.s.sive chest of drawers. It might partially shelter him from fire from the window.
There fell one of those deadly breathing s.p.a.ces of silence--silence, except for the chattering of the lamp, as it steadied on the table and finally was still. There was a light crunching noise from the opposite side of the room. Cartwright had moved and put his foot on a fragment of the shattered chimney.
Sinclair studied the window. It was a rectangle of dim light, but nothing showed in that frame. He who had fired the shot must have crouched at once, or else have drawn to one side. He waited with his gun poised. Steps were sounding far away in the building, steps which approached rapidly. Voices were calling. Somewhere on the farther side of the room Cartwright must have found the best shelter he could, and Sinclair shrewdly guessed that it would be on the far side of the chest of drawers which faced him.
In the meantime he studied the blank rectangle of the window. Sooner or later the man who stood on the ledge would risk a look into the dark interior; otherwise, he would not be human. And, sure enough, presently the faintest shadow of an outline encroached on the solid rectangle of faint light. Sinclair aimed just to the right and fired. At once there was a splash of red flame and a thundering report from the other side of the room. Cartwright had fired at the flash of Sinclair's gun, and the bullet smashed into the chest beside Sinclair. As for Sinclair's own bullet, it brought only a stifled curse from the window.
”No good, Riley,” sang out the voice. ”This wall's too thick for a Colt.”
Sinclair had flung himself softly forward on his stomach, his gun in readiness and leveled in the direction of Cartwright. There was the prime necessity. Now heavy footfalls rushed down the hall, and a storm of voices broke in upon him.
At the same time Cartwright's gun spat fire again. The bullet buzzed angrily above Sinclair's head. His own brought a yell of pain, sharp as the yelp of a coyote.
”Keep quiet, Cartwright,” ordered the man at the window. ”You'll get yourself killed if you keep risking it. Sheriff!”
His voice rose and rang.
”Blow the lock off'n that door. We got him!”
There was an instant reply in the explosion of a gun, the crash of broken metal, the door swung slowly in, admitting a dim twilight into the room. The light showed Sinclair one thing--the dull outlines of Cartwright. He whipped up his gun and then hesitated. It would be murder. He had killed before, but never save in fair fight, standing in a clear light before his enemy. He knew that he could not kill this rat he detested. He thought of the wrecked life of the girl and set his teeth. Still he could not fire.
”Cartwright,” he said softly, ”I got you covered. Your right hand's on the floor with your gun. Don't raise that hand!”
In the shadow against the wall Cartwright moved, but he obeyed. The revolver still glimmered on the floor.
A new and desperate thought came to Sinclair--to rush straight for the window, shoot down the man on the ledge, and risk the leap to the ground. ”Scatter back!” called the man on the ledge.
That settled the last chance of Sinclair. There were guards on the ground, scattered about the house. He could never get out that way.
”Keep out of the light by the door,” commanded the man at the window.
”And start shooting for the chest of drawers on the left-hand side of the room--and aim low down. It may take time, but we'll get him!”
Obviously the truth of that statement was too clear for Sinclair to deny it. He reviewed his situation with the swift calm of an old gambler. He had tried his desperate coup and had failed. There was nothing to do but accept the failure, or else make a still more desperate effort to rectify his position, risking everything on a final play.
He must get out of the room. The window was hopelessly blocked. There remained the open door, but the hall beyond the door was crowded with men.
Perhaps their very numbers would work against them. Even now they could be heard cautiously maneuvering. They would shoot through the door in his general direction, unaimed shots, with the hope of a chance hit, and eventually they would strike him down. Suppose he were to steal close to the door, leap over the bed, and plunge out among them, his Colt spitting lead and fire.
That unexpected attack would cleave a pa.s.sage for him. The more he thought of it, the more clearly he saw that the chances of escape to the street were at least one in three. And yet he hesitated. If he made that break two or three innocent men would go down before his bullets, as he sprang out, shooting to kill. He shrank from the thought. He was amazed at himself. Never before had he been so tender of expedients. He had always fought to win--cleanly, but to win. Why was he suddenly remembering that to these men he was an outlaw, fit meat for the first bullet they could send home? Had he been one of them, he would have taken up a position in that very hall just as they were doing.
Slowly, reluctantly, fighting himself as he did it, he shoved his revolver back into his holster and determined to take the chance of that surprise attack, with his empty hands against their guns. If they did not drop him the instant he leaped out, he would be among them, too close for gunplay unless they took the chance of killing their own men.
Keeping his gaze fixed on Cartwright across the room--for the moment he showed his intention, Cartwright would shoot--he maneuvered softly toward the bed. Cartwright turned his head, but made no move to lift his gun. There was a reason. The light from the door fell nearer to the rancher than it did to Sinclair. To Cartwright he must be no more than a shapeless blur.
A gun exploded from the doorway, with only a glint of steel, as the muzzle was shoved around the jamb. The bullet crashed harmlessly into the wall behind him. Another try. The sharp, stifling odor of burned powder began to fill the room, stinging the nostrils of Sinclair.
Cartwright was coughing in a stifled fas.h.i.+on on the far side of the room, as if he feared a loud noise would draw a bullet his way.
All at once there was no sound in the hotel, and, as the wave of silence spread, Sinclair was aware that the whole little town was listening, waiting, watching. Not a whisper in the hall, not a stir from Cartwright across the room. The quiet made the drama seem unreal.
Then that voice outside the window, which seemed to be Sinclair's Nemesis, cried: ”Steady, boys. Something's going to happen. He's getting ready. Buck up, boys!”