Part 8

At the sound of Ross’s voice, Ward whirled and whipped out a gun. But he was too late, for Ross, with a steadiness and coldness belied by the savagery of his face and figure, had fired. A look of unutterable amazement overspread the face of Arthur Ward. He wavered on his feet for a moment, and then, when a spot of red began to widen on his shirt front, he toppled backward, lifeless.

Almost at the same instant a hatchet hurtled through the room and buried its blade deep in the wall beside Larson Beebe, missing his head by the merest fraction of an inch. Wong was going into action. Beebe slid forward from his seat and ducked to temporary safety behind the table.

Ward had not had time to aim, but he had instinctively pulled the trigger. The bullet caught Ross on the head and cut a long shallow furrow just above his left temple. The wound itself was not serious, but for a moment it blinded Ross. That moment was fatal, for as he roused himself from the shock he knew that he had forgotten Poole.

Instantly Ross whirled to face the other doorway, but was too late. The heavy bullet spun him half around. For an instant he fought to retain his balance. Then he pitched forward onto the floor.

Painfully, with almost a superhuman effort, Ross raised himself with one hand and deliberately shot Poole through the chest.

Then, mercifully, consciousness was blotted out.

_CHAPTER NINE_

VIRGINIA EXPLAINS

When Ross returned to consciousness it was to a blurred, feverish, pain-wracked world.

He did not know where he was or what had happened. He only knew that his head was bandaged and splitting with pain; that his shoulder was stiff and sore, incapable of being moved even the fraction of an inch, and that it pained with a dull, throbbing hurt; that his eyes burned and blurred; and that his entire body burned with ten thousand fires.

Of one thing more was Ross conscious. That was the girl. When she saw that Ross had temporarily come out of the fog she hurried to his side and answered the unasked question on his lips by holding a cup of cold water to them. She seemed to have been waiting for ages to do just that.

Ross drank gratefully, but when he would have questioned her she laid her finger across his lips and said;

“_Sh-h-h-ush!_ Not now. We’ll talk when you feel better. Just now you need sleep more than anything else.”

And Stanley Ross obeyed. In an instant he was asleep, a wild, feverish sleep that brought no rest.

There followed days of half consciousness, half nightmare; days when Ross neither knew nor cared what happened, when wild delirium alternated with painful reality.

He was far too ill to make any inquiries about anything that had happened. In fact, he was only conscious of the fact that whenever the fog lifted the girl always seemed to be present—a ministering angel who brought cooling draughts, and soothing applications for his head and shoulders.

Finally there came a day when Ross awoke to a sane world. The fever fog had departed from his brain. His head no longer throbbed and beat like a thousand devils. His shoulder was sore and stiff, but it no longer was filled with maddening pain. He was weak, very weak, but the world was once more interesting and he was acutely aware of a most prodigious appetite.

Ross was aware that he was in the room to which he had been conducted by Garfin on the night of the strange dinner. Beyond that, he was not interested. He was aware that the girl was still acting as his nurse.

At meal time the Chinese, Wong, came in with a tray. He was still too weak to care as to the whereabouts of the others, or what had happened on the night of the fight.

He did learn that the girl’s name was Virginia Carver, but that was all.

In less than a week he was sitting out on the long veranda every afternoon. With returning strength came returning curiosity. He wanted to know the story of this strange habitation in the desert and to learn just what had happened on the night Wong had aided him to escape.

Several times he broached the subject to the girl, but each time she put him off with the statement that he was not yet strong enough to talk. The excuse was obviously becoming threadbare, however, as his health improved.

One afternoon, while Ross was sitting on the veranda, the girl came out and took a seat opposite him. It was patent that the time for explanations had come.

“I suppose, Mr. Ross,” began Virginia Carver, “that you have been wondering just what this whole thing is about, and you certainly are entitled to an explanation. I don’t know how I am ever going to thank you for what you have done for me. You were very brave.”

“Well, suppose you forget about the thanks, Miss Carver,” said Ross, visibly embarrassed. “I _would_ like to know all about this queer affair, though. I thought Arabian Nights were ancient history, but I’m about ready to believe anything.”

“In order for you to understand I’ll have to take you back about seven years,” explained the girl. “At that time my uncle, Arthur Ward, was one of the biggest operators in Wall Street. All his life he has been a very peculiar man; eccentric; always doing queer things for which there seemed no explanation, and never taking any one into his confidence.

“In the Street he was known as a plunger. He made a great deal of money. Just how much I have no idea beyond the fact that he was always very generous with my mother, his sister. But at one time he must have been very wealthy indeed.

“Seven years ago it seems that he plunged too heavily and got caught. His fortune was practically wiped out. When everything was settled up he was still a wealthy man—that is, he was probably worth a half million dollars—but the great bulk of his fortune was gone.

“He fought fiercely to keep from going under. There were days and nights at a time when I don’t think he slept at all. He was like a wild man, but the combination against him was too great and he went under.

“At first we thought he was going to lose his mind. For weeks he acted very queer. Finally he seemed to get a hold on himself and he appeared rational.

“He settled up his business, and then suddenly disappeared. He left no word where he was going—just dropped out of sight. That was seven years ago, and for two years we heard nothing from him. Five years ago I got a letter from him asking me to visit him here. I came and found things just about as you see them now.

“He seemed perfectly rational and contented. Of course, he was queer and erratic, but he had always been that. He seemed to have forgotten Wall Street entirely and spent most of his time making a collection of the accoutrements of horse and man of the old-time West. I doubt if there is a finer collection in existence.

“He did a lot of entertaining, too, for his old friends, inviting them out for long visits. Here his eccentricity cropped out, for he insisted on going to great lengths to have everything just as it would be in New York. There must be fifteen dress suits in the house, and he always asked every one to dress for dinner. He imported wines and foods. Wong has been with him ever since he has been here and he is an excellent cook.

“I came out every year. He was always very kind to me and has made every effort to entertain me. I thought he acted a little more queer each year, and I often wondered if he was not a little unbalanced mentally.

“When I came out this year there was a great change. I saw at once that he was quite mad. He imagined that he was being persecuted by the Warings, and kept Poole and Garfin, New York gunmen, to protect him. The Warings were the people who engineered his defeat in Wall Street, and Uncle Arthur hated them intensely. He not only imagined they were persecuting him, but he also imagined that the younger Waring, whom I have never seen, was trying to marry me. This seemed to be an obsession with him.

“When I got here I found that Larson Beebe was Uncle Arthur’s guest. I had met Mr. Beebe in New York several times, and I detested him. I had good reason to. He—well, I have always despised him.

“Just what his hold or influence on Uncle Arthur was I haven’t the slightest idea, but I had hardly arrived before Uncle Arthur began to insist that I marry him.

“Of course, I refused, and it was then that Uncle Arthur’s insanity came to the surface. He had always been kindness itself, but now he suddenly became the very incarnation of cruelty. While there was no question but that he was entirely mad, yet in his madness his brain was as shrewd and cunning as ever.

“When I refused to marry Beebe he began to practice his cruelties on me in an effort to break my will. I was utterly at his mercy, for there was no way that I could escape. All I could do was submit.

“The culmination of his indignities was to chain me to the rocks where you found me. Whether he would have left me there till I was dead I hardly know, but I think not. His brain was so unbalanced that it would be hard to tell.

“I ran away that night because I knew he would kill you if he found you with me. Evidently he had Garfin watching me, or he would not have learned that you had released me. He was obsessed with the idea that you were the younger Waring.

“The rest of the story you know. I dare not think of what would have happened to me if you had not come to my rescue, Mr. Ross.”

“But what really happened the night I escaped?” asked Ross.

“Well—you shot both Uncle Arthur and Poole,” she replied hesitatingly.

“Did I—did I—” he floundered helplessly.

“Yes,” she replied evenly. “Providence helped your aim that night. Wong buried them both. No, Mr. Ross,” she finished, as she noted the look on his face, “don’t feel that way about it. If you hadn’t killed them they would have killed you, and I would have suffered a fate worse than death. Under the circumstances I cannot feel sorry.”

“What happened to Beebe?” asked Ross, curious as to the fate of that dubious individual.

“That’s a mystery. He simply disappeared that night and we have not seen him since. Wong just barely missed him that night with a hatchet. I think he is deathly afraid of Wong. At any rate, he is gone. And now, Mr. Ross, I want to ask you a question: How did you manage to escape from your prison that night? Wong won’t tell me a thing. He just grins when I ask him, and I suspect I owe a great deal to Wong.”

“You surely do, Miss Carver,” answered Ross fervently. “That Chinaman is a wonder. In some way he got hold of my automatic and cartridge belt. He passed them to me through the window, and then, under some pretense, got Garfin to come and open the door. Then—well, Garfin won’t ever bother us again.”

_CHAPTER TEN_

A NEW DANGER

With the passing days, Ross found new strength and new interest. His head was already healed and his shoulder, beyond being stiff, no longer bothered him. While still somewhat weak, he was able to walk about as he pleased.

He found it very pleasant to pass the afternoons away on the long veranda. Here he was often joined by Virginia Carver, and the two spent hours together that were very pleasant. In fact, Ross suddenly became acutely aware that he was taking more than a passing interest in this girl.

Virginia Carver was exceedingly lovely. Moreover, she was of a type and personality that particularly appealed to Stanley Ross. While she was nursing him through his illness he had found her presence very pleasing. Now that he was nearly well, her companionship was becoming even more delightful, and he realized that, as far as he was concerned, friendship was ripening into something more definite. As he continued to improve he knew that the time was fast approaching when they would have to leave this desert oasis.

He found his mind continually recurring to Larson Beebe. How had he managed to disappear so completely that night? Where had he gone? What was he doing now? Ross could not dismiss the idea that they would hear from Beebe again, and that when they did it would mean trouble.

This conviction was the more firmly fixed in his mind by the actions of Virginia Carver. Ross felt sure that the girl was deeply worried over something; she seemed anxious and nervous; she appeared to be continually watching and listening for something. Intuition told Ross that the cause of her perturbation was Beebe.

Intuition again told him that perhaps Wong could throw some light on the situation. The next time that the Chinese appeared on the veranda Ross stopped him.

“Wong,” he said, “Miss Carver seems to be worried about something. Do you know what it is? Is it about Beebe? Do you know where he is?”

Wong’s face betrayed not a single glimmer of comprehension.

“No savvy,” he said.

“Yes, you do savvy, too. What’s wrong here? Where’s Beebe?”

Wong glanced hurriedly up and down the veranda as though he feared some one would overhear him. Then he jerked a meaning finger toward the mouth of the little canon.

“Him there,” he said in a low voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Him hide in canon. Kill all we go out.”

“We don’t have to go out that way.”

“No other way can go,” explained Wong.

“What! You mean to tell me that’s the only way out of this place? Why can’t we go out over the cliffs?”

“No can do,” replied the Chinese, and was gone before Ross could question him further.

So that was it! The canon was the only way out of the basin, and Beebe was hiding down there, waiting to pot them as they came out. Quite a neat little idea! So that was why Virginia Carver was carrying that worried look.

Ross went straight to the girl. He found her in the dining-room.

“Miss Carver,” he asked, “why didn’t you tell me that Beebe was down in that canon?”

“Well, I couldn’t see any use worrying you with that while you were so ill,” she replied, smiling. “And then, too, Mr. Ross, I think you are a little inclined to do impulsive things, and it seems to me you have ran risks enough on my account.”

Ross ignored this last.

“Then he really is there?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Ross, he is, and I am afraid that we are in rather a bad way. He has all the advantage.”

“But isn’t there any way out of this place except through that canon?”

“None at all. Uncle Arthur selected this place for that very reason. There was a trail up the cliff, but he dynamited that away. Unless we develop wings we’ll go out through that canon or not at all.”

Ross pondered for a moment. Finally he asked, “I wonder why he hasn’t tried to kill Wong and me at night?”

“There are at least two reasons, I think,” answered the girl. “The first is that Larson Beebe is a very cautious man. He will not risk a single hair of his head if it is not necessary. If he came up here he might get hurt. If he stays there he is perfectly safe and we haven’t a single chance of getting by.

“Another thing, I think he is deathly afraid of Wong. He came up in the night twice and stole provisions. Since then Wong has been watching. I don’t think he ever sleeps.”

“Well, we can outlast him anyway, Miss Carver.”

“But that’s just what we can’t do, Mr. Ross. Our provisions are very low.” The girl was gravely serious now. “Unless we can find some solution, I’m afraid he is going to starve us out very soon. It looks like we were trapped.”

_CHAPTER ELEVEN_

WONG HAS AN IDEA

Ross woke the next morning keenly aware of the seriousness of their predicament. As soon as breakfast was over he set out to examine the walls of the basin.

If he had any hope that there was a means of escape over the cliffs he was soon disillusioned. Nowhere was there a break in the walls. They were as perpendicular as a plumb-line and as smooth as basalt. Nothing but a fly could have scaled those cliffs.

The only way out led through the narrow twisting canon below. And there Larson Beebe lay in wait like a cat at a rat-hole. Ross realized that there was little or no chance for him or Wong to get through the canon alive. Beebe had all the advantage.

Ross returned to the house and sat down on the veranda. He ran over a dozen possible schemes for escape, and in the end he had to conclude that they were all impossible.

In fact, his only conclusion was that he would give what fortune he possessed to have Larson Beebe’s neck within the grasp of his two hands. That, however, seemed to be a remote possibility. If anything, the situation would be reversed.

Ross had about exhausted his whole range of impossible schemes when Wong appeared on the veranda. The Chinese wore an enigmatical smile on his usually inscrutable face. It was patent that he was well pleased with something.

“You come,” he addressed Ross. “Got something show.”

Ross rose and followed Wong, who led the way to one of the ’dobe outbuildings. Opening the door, he motioned Ross to enter.

The room was a work-shop of sorts, but what instantly attracted attention were two enormous kites leaning against the wall.

“You see?” inquired Wong.

“Yes, I see,” said Ross, “only I don’t. What’s the idea, Wong?”

“Mlisha Beebe kill everybody we go down canon. No can climb out. Wong make klite. Klite climb out.”

“Guess I’m pretty thick, Wong. I don’t get it yet.”

“When Wong little bloy China he fly many klites. Not forget how. Fly klite now. Klite lift lope top cliff. We climb lope. Go ’way.”

“By George, Wong, I believe you’ve got it,” cried Ross in admiration. “But will it work?”

“Can do” nodded Wong.

“But how will you fasten the rope at the top of the cliff, Wong?”

“Wong good klite flyer. Two klites lift big loop. Drop loop over tree top side cliff. Two ends hang dlown. Mlake slip knot. Pull one lope. All done.”

“Wong, you’re a wonder! I believe it’ll work. Worth trying anyway.”

“Can do. Try tomollow if wind come.”

Ross hurried away to find Virginia Carver.

“Miss Carver,” he hailed her joyously, “Wong has got a scheme to get us out of here, and I believe it will work. He has constructed two enormous kites down there in the workshop. He claims they will lift a rope, and he says he can drop it over one of those stunted pines at the top of the cliff. We climb the rope and leave friend Beebe down in the canon to hold the bag. Are you game?”

“Of course I am,” replied the girl, surprised that he should even question her gameness.

“I knew you would be. We’re going to try it tomorrow. You had better make two packs of food.”

“Two packs? Don’t I carry anything?” asked the girl.

“Miss Carver,” said Ross gravely, “it’s a long way to civilization, and it is going to be a big tax on your strength to make it without carrying anything.”

“I’ll make it,” said Virginia Carver, as she turned away.

The following morning Ross was eager for the experiment, but it was nearly noon before a breeze came up strong enough to lift the kites.

Virginia Carver came out, clad in flannel shirt, whipcord breeches and high laced boots. It was a costume well suited to the work ahead, but it accentuated the girl’s slimness, made her appear almost frail. There was no frailty there, though. Rather was she supple with the suppleness of a braided cable, and the girl had the grace of a fine Toledo blade. Once again Stanley Ross became acutely aware that Virginia Carver had become an exceedingly important interest in his life.

Wong had instructed Ross in his scheme for escape. Ross saw at once that he had not intended to lift a rope heavy enough to hold a human being. Instead Wong had unearthed from one of the storehouses a very stout light line.

The plan was to lift the bight of the line with the two kites and drop it over a stunted pine growing out at an angle near the top of the north cliff. A heavier rope could then be attached to one end of this and drawn up and over the tree, making it possible to climb out.

Ross saw instantly that the plan was all right if the kites could be manipulated. That was Wong’s job, and he seemed quite confident.

All three knew that they must work quickly. If Larson Beebe discovered their scheme there was no telling what desperate action he might attempt.

Wong and Ross quickly got the first big kite into action. It rose readily, but on attaining a height of fifty feet flopped drunkenly. It did not fall, however—merely dipped and darted. This did not appear to bother Wong at all. He simply gave the kite string to Virginia Carver to hold while he quickly flew the second kite with Ross’s help.

Wong and Ross each took command of a kite now. Slowly paying out cord, they allowed the kites to rise. When the kites had risen to a height of about seventy-five feet the cords attached to the bight of the line suddenly became taut and the line began to rise from the ground.

It was then that Ross saw that as a designer of kites Wong most emphatically knew his business, for the instant the weight of the line was borne by the kites in that instant they ceased their drunken plungings and flew steadily.

Ross’s heart leaped within him, for he knew now that Wong’s scheme would work and that they were going to circumvent Larson Beebe. Up, up, the kites rose. A hundred feet! Two hundred! Five! A thousand!

The two kites were about thirty feet apart, and when it was obvious that the line was higher than the cliff wall Wong and Ross began to walk slowly forward. Their objective was a single low pine growing at an outward angle near the top of the cliff. Aiming carefully at this, Wong and Ross brought the kites to a position where an end of the line dangled on each side of the tree and against the cliff. The bight of the line was slightly above the tree, and the kites were pulling it forward.

“Missee, you grab ropes,” shouted Wong.

Quickly divining what was wanted of her, Virginia Carver grasped the ends of the dangling lines.

“Let glo!” shouted Wong again.