Part 35 (1/2)

The nails of her fingers found his cheek, gas.h.i.+ng 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 thras.h.i.+ng 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.