Part 7

Ross glanced over his shoulder to find Garfin lounging in the door by which he had entered, a malignant smile wrinkling his face. In an opposite doorway lounged another individual fully as ugly looking as Garfin. This was evidently Poole. Both had guns. It was obvious that for the present no break for liberty was possible.

For the most part, that dinner was a nightmare to Ross. Afterward he wondered how he had managed to get through it.

After the first effusion, the elderly man made no effort to include Ross in the conversation. Glad of this respite, Ross attempted to collect his wits and to form some estimate of his predicament and of the people with whom he had to deal.

The elderly man carried on a continuous animated conversation, mostly with the man whom he had designated as Beebe. Several times he addressed himself to Ross, but always in such a manner that it was obvious no answer was expected. A number of times he included the girl in his conversation, but the only time she made reply was to answer a question, and then it was merely to say, “No, Uncle Arthur.”

Once or twice Beebe addressed the elderly man as “Mr. Ward,” so Ross concluded that his name was Arthur Ward. The girl’s identity he was not able to learn, except that her first name was Virginia.

Beebe ignored Ross and by his attitude seemed to be currying favor with Ward. As for the girl, she remained silent, her eyes downcast, palpably holding herself aloof. Once or twice Ross caught a fleeting message from her eyes. It seemed to him that she was in utter terror, yet in perfect control of her nerves.

In those flashing telegrams from her eyes Ross was sure he caught a mute appeal for help. If this was a betrothal dinner Ross felt sure that the betrothal was without the consent of one of the parties concerned, and he was determined then and there not only to effect his own escape but to aid the girl as well.

The food was excellent and perfectly served by the Chinese, yet Ross could not have told a single item, and he thought the dinner never would end. The presence of Garfin and Poole was mute evidence that for the present he could do nothing. When the meal finally came to an end and Ward pushed back his chair, it brought a feeling of distinct relief to the young man. Now at least was the beginning of the end.

“Now, Mr. Waring,” said Ward suavely, “we will repair to my study, where I have a few things to say to you before we break up this very pleasant little party. I hardly think my niece will care to accompany us.”

They rose from the table, and Ross was ushered into an adjoining room which was even more striking in its way than either of the others he had been in that evening.

A brisk fire burned on a wide hearth from above which looked down a magnificent ram’s head. Other trophies of a similar nature adorned the other walls. Interspersed with these were guns, Indian weapons, horsehair lariats—in fact, every accoutrement and trophy of the old-time West. It was a rather remarkable collection, one which under different circumstances would have deeply interested Stanley Ross.

Instantly he knew where those curious antiquated shackles, which had bound the girl, had come from. Here were several similar pairs.

Ross was directed to a chair in front of the fire. Ward took another, facing him, while Beebe sat down on a wide bench on the far side of the fire. Ross waited expectantly.

Ward offered his guest a cigar. Selecting one for himself, he clipped its end very deliberately and lit it with aggravating leisure. Finally he leaned back in his chair and gazed steadily at Ross with his mad eyes. A tiny smile, cynical and cruel, crooked around his thin-lipped mouth.

“I could have had you killed at once, Mr. Waring,” he said deliberately, his voice soft and well-modulated, yet biting, burning, “but I did not choose to do that. Instead, I wanted to bring you here this evening so that you could fully realize just what a serious thing it is, and how useless it is to buck Arthur Ward. And then, too, I wanted my niece to know that I am to be obeyed absolutely.”

“I suppose, Mr. Ward,” asked Ross, “that it would be quite useless to tell you that my name is not Waring at all; that I do not even know any one of that name, or that I have never seen your niece, until last evening?”

“Quite useless, I can assure you, Mr. Waring. I am absolutely certain of your identity. I do not make mistakes.

“Mr. Waring, I never forget an injury. I remember forever, and my one bad trait is the fact that I always have revenge. I would have got you in the end, Waring, anyway, but your fool stunt of following my niece here saved me a lot of trouble. Waring, you should have known that of all people on earth you would have the least chance of marrying my niece.

“Tonight you can have the extreme pleasure of reflecting that you will hardly be dead before Virginia will be the wife of Beebe.”

“And suppose she refuses?” asked Ross.

“We are a hundred miles from anywhere, Waring. Things could happen that would make Virginia glad to marry Beebe—or any one.

“One more thing, Waring, and then we will terminate this interview,” Ward went on dispassionately. “I want you to know that this is only the beginning. I shall not be satisfied until I have exterminated your entire family. It may take me years, but I shall certainly have the pleasure of killing your brother and your father. It does not pay to do injury to Arthur Ward.

“You will have tonight to reflect on what might have been. In the morning I shall hang you.

“That is all I have to say, and since it will be quite useless for you to say anything you may as well return to your room. Mr. Garfin and Mr. Poole will see that you have safe conduct.”

Ross knew that for the present he would have to submit. Resistance would be useless just now. He was one against four. The odds were too great. He could only wait, hoping that the night would bring opportunity.

However, before he went he could not resist a last display of bravado—bravado which he did not by any means feel.

Rising from his seat, Ross bowed low to Ward.

“Good-night, Mr. Ward. Thank you for a most excellent dinner and a most entertaining evening. And let me assure you that you will _not_ hang me in the morning.”

Turning on his heel, Ross passed out of the room.

_CHAPTER SIX_

A FORLORN HOPE

When Ross stepped out into the darkness his first thought was that he would make a dash for liberty. This hope died almost before it was born, though, for he felt the muzzle of a revolver pressed close to his ribs and Garfin’s rasping voice growled into his ear:

“Make just one move fer a break an’ I’ll plug ya. The boss says he’s goin’ to hang ya in the morning, but I’d like to save him tha trouble.”

Ross knew that Garfin was not indulging in idle words. The gunman would gladly kill him. Then, too, out in the shadows another form kept them close company. He knew this was Poole and that should he succeed in worsting Garfin his chance of escaping the second gunman’s bullets was very remote. No, the time was not yet.

The three trudged back to Ross’s one-room prison, and it was only a minute or two until the door had slammed on him, the bolt had fallen into place and the lock snapped its vicious message.

He was once more a prisoner.

Ross sought in the darkness for the crude chair and threw himself down into it. He knew that for the time being there was no chance of escape, so he gave himself up momentarily to a contemplation of his plight.

Who was this strange girl whom he had rescued, only to have her vanish into the night? Why had she not spoken tonight? Why had she given him no hint of action? Who was Beebe, that he would accept a betrothal which was obviously odious to the girl? And, lastly, who was Ward with his mad eyes?

Who was Waring, and what had he done to merit such malicious vengeance on the part of Ward?

These and many other questions Ross asked himself, but he had no satisfactory answer to any one of them. Only a jumble of baffling mystery presented itself. His brain seethed with impossible solutions, but he had to admit that actually he was completely at sea.

Only a few facts stood out which could be accepted as a basis on which to work.

He, Ross, had been taken for another man, Waring by name. Ward evidently hated Waring intensely and was determined to put him to death for a wrong, either fancied or real. There could be no doubt, too, that Ward was, in a degree, insane.

What part Beebe was playing Ross could not determine, beyond the facts that he was in favor with Ward and that he wanted the girl and would take her on whatever terms he could get her.

The girl was obviously in great peril. It could be seen that she hated Beebe, but at the same time was powerless to resist any order of her uncle. Ross could readily see that she was in a position where death might well be preferable to what she was facing.

And, undeniably, there was the fact that he, Ross, was sure to meet death in the morning unless he could devise some way out of his dilemma.

The night was far gone when he had finished considering these things. It was then that a plan of action first suggested itself to him. As it matured in his mind he realized that it was a forlorn hope; but his circumstances were so utterly desperate that there seemed nothing to do but give it a trial. He knew that its success would depend entirely on the element of surprise.

Having once settled in his mind what he should do, Ross threw himself down on the crude table and was soon sound asleep.

It was hardly daylight when he awoke, but he did not allow himself to drop back to sleep again. He was going to be ready.

It was fully three hours later that he heard approaching footsteps. Slipping quietly across the room, Ross flattened himself against the wall beside the door and waited.

The footsteps drew nearer and nearer. A key grated in the lock. It clicked. The bolt was raised. Slowly the door swung on its hinges.

Like a flash, Ross slipped from his hiding-place and darted through the doorway. The only human within sight was Garfin. Like a mad thunderbolt Ross bore down upon him.

Taken by surprise, Garfin barely had time to fire before Ross was upon him. Too startled to take definite aim, his bullet went wild. With a force that was terrific Ross struck him with the full impact of his body. The two went down in a tangled heap. Garfin’s gun was knocked from his grasp and went spinning a dozen feet away.

Garfin was not without courage of a kind, but all his life he had depended on a gun to enforce his arguments. Physical combat had not been one of his long suits, and now he found himself no match for his younger antagonist.

Stan Ross was far from a weakling physically. Long months afoot in the desert had made him as hard as nails. Not so long ago he had been known as a football player of some note. Now he used that knowledge of rough-and-tumble combat to the fullest extent.

Taking Garfin by surprise, Ross had the initial advantage, and when the two went down he was on top. Striking, kicking, using the crushing force of his body, he went at the gunman in a demoniacal storm. For an instant it looked as though he would beat his enemy into insensibility before he could offer any material resistance.

But Garfin was fighting for his life and he knew it. He was not to be vanquished so easily. In a moment the two men were threshing and rolling on the ground in a fierce struggle.

Youth, however, was not to be denied. Those sledge-hammer blows were having a telling effect. Garfin was weakening. Gradually Ross was wearing him down.

Ross sought the throat of his enemy. Garfin’s breath came in gasps. His eyes were bulging. Gradually Ross brought his knee up until it pressed into Garfin’s stomach. A final effort would end the struggle. Slowly Garfin’s head bent backward. Then—

A crashing, blinding blow caught Ross on his head. For a brief instant a million fires flamed before his eyes. Then utter blackness.

He slumped forward across the body of his antagonist.

_CHAPTER SEVEN_

WONG INTERVENES

When Ross returned to consciousness it was with a sense of bewilderment. His head seemed alive with shooting pains: his eyes burned intensely; his body was sore and stiff.

Gradually he fought the fog from his brain and opened his eyes. He was dimly aware that he was back in his prison room, stretched out on the table. Painfully he sat up.

And then he saw that he was not alone. There was another person in the room. As his eyes pierced the semi-gloom he was aware that the man before him was Arthur Ward.

Instantly his brain cleared, and he swung himself around to face his jailor.

Ward was standing in the center of the room, his feet wide apart, his hands behind his back. A sardonic smile disfigured his face.

“Well,” he inquired, “so you decided not to die?”

“Yes, I decided not to die,” said Ross. “I might remind you, too, that it is no longer morning and I have not been hung.”

“No, and you’re not going to be, either. I have prepared a much more pleasant death for you.”

“Thanks!”

“Don’t waste your thanks,” replied Ward. “Before you’re through you’ll be far from thanking me. You see, Waring, your little outbreak this morning set me to thinking. If you had taken things quietly I would have hung you, and it would all be over now. But you had to try to escape and that set me to thinking that hanging was too pleasant for you. It would be over too quickly. There would be no time for reflection. So I devised something really fitting for your case.”

While Ward was speaking the man Poole had entered, carrying a wooden box which he deposited gingerly in one corner and then quickly withdrew. He seemed afraid.

“Yes, Waring,” Ward went on, “I’ve planned a death for you that I like much better than hanging. And, damn your rotten soul to eternity,” he snarled, “you’ll know what real torture is before you go out!”

With a sudden movement, he whirled, kicked the lid from the box, darted through the doorway, and had crashed the door shut before Ross fairly realized what he was doing.

Half bewildered, it was a moment before he could attach any meaning to Ward’s action. Then it dawned on him that there was a deep significance to the box which Poole had brought in. Some sinister portent lay in that box of wood.

Fascinated, Ross sat watching the box, realizing that it held his fate, scarce knowing what to expect, and certainly not expecting what developed.

For a long minute nothing happened. Ross grew nervous with the strain. Then a faint buzzing came from the box. Silence. Again came that strange sound. And again. A slithering rustle as of stiff silk rubbed together.

And then Ross’s scalp prickled with horror and his blood fairly froze in his veins, for over the edge of the box appeared a hideous, swaying head! There came a second! A third! And then a fourth!

_They were huge diamond-back rattlesnakes!_

As Ross recognized the big diamond-backs he knew instantly that he was trapped. To step down onto the floor meant death, a horrible, grewsome death. To remain on the table—

Instinctively, he drew his feet up onto the table as the big reptiles left the box, one by one. He counted eight in all.

Ross gave himself up to black despair. Down there on the floor awaited a fate too hideous for words....

* * * * *

It must have been fully two hours later, and dusk was already settling down and darkening the room, when Ross heard footsteps.

They approached his prison. For a moment his heart leaped within him at the possibility of rescue. But the door did not open. Instead, he heard the taunting voice of Ward from outside:

“Oh, you’re safe enough so far, Waring. They can’t get you as long as you stay on that table. I planned that. Wasn’t it kind of me to be so thoughtful? But there won’t be any food and there won’t be any water, and all the time you’ll be going through hell. I planned that, too. And then there’ll come a time when you can’t stand it any longer. You’ll either fall from the table from weakness, or you’ll go mad and step down onto the floor. They’ll always be waiting, Waring. And then they’ll get you, damn you!” The voice, rising to a shrill crescendo of passion, ended in a burst of wild maniacal laughter.

Receding footsteps told him that Ward had gone away.

As the gloom deepened into utter darkness it seemed to Ross that he would go mad. His brain seethed with wild impulses. A hundred times he pictured himself lying there on the floor, a bloated, blackened thing. A hundred times he went through death. Only that hope which “springs eternal” kept him from stepping down onto the floor and making an end of it.

Gradually Ross quieted. He finally settled back against the wall in a state of apathy, little knowing or little caring when the end would come.

An hour passed.

Suddenly Ross became aware of an unusual sound. From somewhere in back of him came a low “_Hist!_” so low as hardly to be heard. Stealthily, he raised himself to the height of the barred window and peered into the darkness.

Dimly he could make out a head outlined against the sky. A low, whispered voice spoke:

“_You take!_”

Unmistakably it was the voice of Wong. There was a grating sound as of something being passed between the bars.

Ross reached out his hand and it closed over cold steel.

An automatic!

“_You take!_” again came the whispered voice.

This time Ross found his hand closing over a cartridge belt.

“Me bring Ga’fin. _You shoot!_”

Like a ghost, the form at the window was gone without a sound.

With the feel of that cold steel in his hand Ross’s spirits rose like a tide. All his waning confidence returned. He was instantly his own man again, confident, cool, without fear.

Quickly he buckled the belt around his waist. With sure fingers, he made certain that the gun was loaded. Slipping off the safety, he knelt on the table, facing the door, and waited.

Ross did not know whether he would ever leave that room alive, but he did know that the first men to open the door would die.

_CHAPTER EIGHT_

“YOU’LL SETTLE WITH ME”

Arthur Ward stood with his back to the big living-room fire, his feet wide apart, hands crossed behind his back, head lowered, eyes peering from beneath shaggy brows. It was a characteristic attitude and one which peculiarly expressed the man’s calculated cruelty.

Beebe was seated on the wide fireplace bench, his feet stretched far in front of him. He was slowly smoking, his whole sprawling attitude one of indolent approval. Things were shaping themselves quite to the liking of Larson Beebe.

The girl, Virginia, was seated in a chair somewhat in front of her uncle. The wild look of her eyes and her agitated face told that she was going through an ordeal that was breaking her bit by bit.

“But, Uncle Arthur,” she burst out, “surely you can’t mean to do this terrible thing. Why, I don’t love Mr. Beebe at all. I scarcely know him, and I don’t want to marry anyone.”

“My dear niece,” replied Ward evenly, “love has no part in my scheme of things. Hate rules the world, and hate is my creed. Love makes people soft and indolent. Hate is the great inspirator. Hate makes the world go ’round.

“Sentiment has no place whatever in this marriage. It is entirely a marriage of convenience. Your personal inclinations have no weight whatever. I wish you to marry Beebe; therefore you will do it.”

The girl’s color had heightened as she listened to her uncle’s ultimatum. As he finished, a grim expression of defiance settled on his face.

“Well, I won’t!” she answered crisply.

“As you will, Virginia, but if you do not consent to marry Beebe within twenty-four hours I shall leave you here alone with him. I imagine after a couple of weeks of that you’ll be quite willing to marry him.”

“Oh, you beast!” For an instant, as Ward’s full meaning became clear to her, it looked as though the girl would faint.

Then, like a wild beast at bay, she turned on Beebe in a burst of blazing fury.

“And you, Larson Beebe, what have you to say? Are you going to be a party to this? Are you as much a beast as my uncle?”

Beebe regarded her tolerantly for a moment out of his piggish eyes before he spoke. A catlike smile of satisfaction curved his lips. He answered slowly, indolently:

“Virginia, I am wild about you. I want you, and I am going to have you. As long as you refuse to love me I’m not at all particular how I get you. One way suits me as well as another.”

The girl turned back to her uncle. Her hands went out in an imploring gesture. For an instant she seemed about to plead. Then she evidently thought better of it.

“I suppose you understand, Uncle Arthur,” she asked in a low cold voice, “that I will kill myself before I will let this happen?”

“My dear Virginia, you do not seem to understand the situation at all. You are absolutely in my power. You cannot kill yourself because I will not permit it. I will not give you the chance. You will do exactly as I say.”

“_Not yet, Ward! First, you’ll settle with me!_”

Stanley Ross stood in the doorway. But it was not the Stanley Ross, urbane, bored, carefree, who, a few days before, had whimsically sought adventure up an unknown canon trail. He had found adventure now, and it had used him roughly. His face and hands were grimy. His clothes were dirty and torn. One sleeve had been almost rent from his shoulder. His hair was riotously disheveled and clotted with blood. Down one side of his face extended a great splash of dirty dried blood.

In his right hand was an ugly-looking automatic, and in his face and eyes was a look of savage fury.