Part 43 (1/2)

SLADE'S PRISONER

When Ruth regained the use of her senses she was lying on a bed in a small, evil-smelling room. An oil-lamp burned upon a little stand in one corner. A door--the only one--was closed--locked. She saw the stout wooden bar in its st.u.r.dy side slots.

At first she thought she was alone; and with a hope that made her breathless she lifted herself, swinging around until her feet were on the floor, intending to leap to the door, open it, and escape. A sound arrested her, a chuckle, grim and sinister, in a man's voice. She flashed swiftly around, to see Slade sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed. He was bending forward, his elbows on his knees, his knuckles supporting his chin, watching her with a wide, amused grin.

For a long, breathless s.p.a.ce she looked at him; noting the evil light in his eyes and the cruel, b.e.s.t.i.a.l curve of his lips. She saw how his gaze quickened as he watched her; how he had drawn one foot under him--obviously to be used as leverage for a rapid leap should she try to reach the door.

”It ain't no use, ma'am,” he said; ”you're here, an' you're goin' to stay for a while.” He got up and walked to the door, placing his back against it and grinning widely as he looked down at her, as she yielded to a long shudder of dread.

During the silence that followed Slade's words Ruth could hear faint sounds from below--the clinking of gla.s.ses, the scuffling of feet, a low murmur of voices. She knew, then, that they had brought her to a room above a saloon--the Wolf, she supposed, for that was where Warden said he intended to bring her.

She watched Slade fearfully, divining that he meant to attack her. She could see that determination in his eyes and in his manner. He was still grinning, but now the grin had become set, satyric, hideous. It was a mere smirk. No mirth was behind it--nothing but pa.s.sion, intense, frightful.

She glanced swiftly around, saw a window beyond the foot of the bed with a ragged shade hanging over it. She knew the Wolf was only two stories in height, and she felt that if she threw herself out of the window she would suffer injury. But she meant to do it. She got her feet set firmly on the floor, and was about to run toward the window, when Slade leaped at her, seeing the reckless design in her eyes.

She had been moving when Slade leaped, and she evaded the arm he extended and slipped away from him. She heard Slade curse. She was almost at the window when he rushed at her again; and to keep him from grasping her she dodged, bringing up against the farther wall, while Slade, losing his balance, plunged against the window, cras.h.i.+ng against the gla.s.s and sending a thousand broken fragments tinkling on the floor of the room and into the darkness outside.

She was alert to the advantage that had suddenly come to her, and she ran lightly to the door and tried to lift the bar. She got one end of it from a socket, but the other stuck. She pulled frantically at it. It finally came loose, with a suddenness that threw her off balance, and she reeled against the bed, almost falling.

She saw Slade coming toward her, a b.e.s.t.i.a.l rage in his eyes, and she threw herself again at the door, grasping it and throwing it wide open.

She tried to throw herself out of the opening, to the stairs that led straight downward into the barroom. But the movement was halted at its inception by Slade's arms, which went around her with the rigidity of iron hoops, quickly constricting. She got a glimpse of the room below--saw the bar and the men near it--all facing her way, watching her. Then Slade drew her back and closed the door.

He did not bar the door, for she was fighting him, now--fighting him with a strength and fury that bothered him for an instant. His strength, however, was greater than hers, and at last her arms were crushed against her sides with a pressure that almost shut off her breath.

Slade's face was close to hers, his lips loose; and his eyes were looking into hers with an expression that terrified her.

She screamed--once--twice--with the full power of her lungs. And then Slade savagely brought a big hand over her mouth and held it there. She fought to escape the clutch, kicking, squirming--trying to bite the hand. But to no avail. The terrible pressure on her mouth was suffocating her, and the room went dark as she continued to fight. She thought Slade had extinguished the light, and she was conscious of a dull curiosity over how he had done it. And then sound seem to cease.

She felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. She was conscious only of that terrible pressure over her mouth and nose. And finally she ceased to feel even that.

CHAPTER XL

PRIMITIVE INSTINCTS

Shorty and a dozen Circle L men--among them Blackburn and the three others who had been wounded in the fight with the rustlers on the plains the previous spring--had been waiting long in a gully at a distance of a mile or more from the Hamlin cabin. Shortly after dark they had filed into the gully, having come directly from the Circle L.

Hours before, they had got off their horses to stretch their legs, and to wait. And now they had grown impatient. It was cold--even in the gulley where the low moaning, biting wind did not reach them--and they knew they could have no fire.

”h.e.l.l!” exclaimed one man, intolerantly; ”I reckon she's a whizzer!”

”Looks a heap like it,” agreed Shorty. ”Seems, if Hamlin couldn't get him headed this way--like he said he would--he ought to let us know.”

”You reckon Hamlin's runnin' straight, now?” inquired Blackburn.

”Straight as a die!” declared Shorty. ”If you'd been trailin' him like me an' the boys has, you'd know it. Trouble is, that Singleton is holdin' off. A dozen times we've been close enough to ketch Singleton with the goods--if he'd do the brandin'. But he don't, an' Hamlin has to do it--with Singleton watchin'. We've framed up on him a dozen times.

But he lets Hamlin run the iron on 'em. Hamlin eased that bunch into the gully just ahead, especial for tonight. I helped him drive 'em. An'

Hamlin said that tonight he'd refuse to run the iron on 'em--makin'

Singleton do it. An' then we'd ketch him doin' it. But I reckon Hamlin's slipped up somewheres.”