Part 59 (2/2)

Suddenly some one shouted, ”There they are!” and pointed to the topmost gallery, which ran in front of the condemned cells. A rush began, but at the top of the winding stairs another grating barred the way. Through this, however, could be seen Salvatore di Marco, Giordano Bolla, and the elder Cressi. The three Sicilians had fled to this last stronghold, slammed the steel door behind them, and now crouched in the shelter of a brick column. Some one hammered at the lock, and the terrified prisoners started to their feet with an agonized appeal for mercy. As they exposed themselves to view a man fired through the bars. His aim was true; Di Marco flung his arms aloft and pitched forward on his face. Crazed by this, his two companions rushed madly back and forth; but they were securely penned in, and appeal was futile. Another shot boomed deafeningly in the close confines of the place, and Cressi plunged to his death; then Bolla followed, his b.l.o.o.d.y hands gripping the bars, his face upturned in a hideous grimace, and his eyes, which stared through at his slayers, glazing slowly.

Down the ringing stairs marched the grim-featured men who had set themselves this task, and among them Bernie Dreux strode, issuing orders. The weapon in his hand was hot, his shoulder was bruised, for he had long been unaccustomed to the use of firearms.

Then began a systematic search of the men's department of the prison; but no new victims were discovered, only the ordinary prisoners who were well-nigh speechless with fright.

”Where are the others?” went up the cry, and some one answered:

”On the women's side.”

The band pa.s.sed through to the adjoining portion of the double building, and, keys having been secured, the rapidity of their search increased. Into the twin courtyard they filed; then while some investigated the cookhouse others climbed to the topmost tier of cells. As the quest narrowed, six of the Sicilians, who had lain concealed in a compartment on the first floor, broke out in a desperate endeavor to escape, but they were caught between the opposing ranks, as in the jaws of a trap. The cell door clanged to behind them; they found themselves at bay in the open yard. Resistance was useless; they sank to their knees and set up a cry for mercy. They shrieked, they sobbed, they groveled; but their enemies were open to no appeal, untouched by any sense of compunction. They were men wholly dominated by a single fixed idea, as merciless as machines.

There followed a nightmare scene; a horrid, bellowing uproar of voices and detonations, of groans and prayers and curses. The armed men emptied their weapons blindly into that writhing tangle of forms, and as one finished he stepped back while another took his place. The prison rocked with the din of it; the wretches were shot to pieces, riddled, by that horizontal hail which mowed and mangled like an invisible scythe. Now a figure struggled to its feet only to become the target for a fusillade; again one twisted in his agony only to be filled with missiles fired from so short a range that his garments were torn to rags. The pavement became wet and slippery; in one brief moment that section of the yard became a shambles.

Then men went up and poked among the bodies with the hot muzzles of their rifles, turning the corpses over for identification; and as each stark face was recognized a name went echoing out through the dingy corridors to the mob beyond.

Larubio, the cobbler, had attempted a daring ruse. The firing had ceased when up out of that limp and sodden heap he rose, his gray hair matted, his garments streaming. They thrust their rifles against his chest and killed him quickly.

Nine men had died by now, and only two remained, Normando and Maruffi.

The former was found shortly, where he had squeezed himself into a dog-kennel which stood under the stairs; but the vigilantes, it seemed, had had enough of slaughter, so he was rushed into the street, where the crowd tore him to pieces as wolves rend a rabbit. Even his garments were ripped to rags and distributed as ghastly souvenirs.

Norvin Blake had been a witness to only a part of this brutality, but what he had seen had sickened him, and had increased his determination to find Gino Cressi. He shared not at all in the sanguinary exaltation which possessed his fellow-townsmen; instead he longed for the end and hoped he would be able to forget what he had seen. He would have fled but for his fear of what might happen to the Cressi boy. Corridor after corridor he searched, peering into cells, under cots, into corners and crannies, while through the cavernous old building the other hunters stormed. He was hard pressed to keep ahead of them, and when he finally found the lad they were dose at his heels.

They came upon him with the lad clinging to his knees, and a shout went up.

”Here's the Cressi kid. He gave the signal; let him have it!”

But Norvin turned upon them, saying:

”You can't kill this boy.”

”Step aside, Blake,” ordered a red-faced man, raising and c.o.c.king his weapon.

Norvin seized the rifle-barrel and turned it aside roughly. The two stared at each other with angry eyes.

”He's only a baby, don't you understand? Good G.o.d! You have children of your own.”

”I--I--” The fellow hesitated. ”So he is. d.a.m.nation! What has come over me?” He lowered his gun and turned against the others who were clamoring behind him. ”This is--awful,” he murmured, shakingly, when the crowd had pa.s.sed on. ”I've done all I intend to.” He flung his rifle from him with a gesture of repugnance, and went out of the cell.

Norvin continued to stand guard over his charge while the search for Maruffi went on, for he dared not trust these men who had gone mad.

Thus he did not learn that his arch enemy had been taken until he saw him rushed past in the hands of his captors. Caesar had fought as best he could against overwhelming odds, and continued to resist now in a blind fury; but a rope was about his neck, at the end of which were a dozen running men; a dozen gun-b.u.t.ts hustled him on his way to the open air. Blake closed the cell door upon Gino Cressi and followed, drawn by a magnetic force he could not resist.

The main gate of the prison opened before the rush of that tangled, growling handful of men, and they swept straight out into the turmoil that filled the streets. An instant later Maruffi was beset by five thousand maniacs; he was kicked, he was beaten, he was spat upon, he was overwhelmed by an avalanche of humanity. His progress to the gallows was a short but a terrible one, marked by a series of violent whirlpools which set through that river of people. The uproar was deafening; spectators screamed hoa.r.s.ely, but did not hear their voices.

From where Blake paused beside the gate he traced the Sicilian's progress plainly, marveling at the fellow's vitality, for it seemed impossible that any human being could withstand that onslaught. A coil of rope sailed upward, a negro perched in a tree pa.s.sed it over a limb, and the next instant the head and shoulders of the Capo-Mafia rose above the dense level of standing forms. He was writhing horribly, but, seizing the rope with his hands, he drew himself upward; his blackened face glared down upon his executioners. The grinning negro kicked at the dark head beneath him, once, twice, three times, so violently that he lost his balance and fell, whereupon a bellowing shout of laughter arose more terrible than any sound heretofore. Still the Sicilian clung to the rope which was strangling him. Then puffs of smoke curled up in the suns.h.i.+ne, and the crowd rolled back upon itself, leaving the gibbet ringed with armed men.

Maruffi's body was swayed and spun as if by invisible hands; his fingers slipped; he settled downward.

Blake turned and hid his face against the cold, damp walls, for he was very sick.

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