The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine

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      Chapter XII

       The Escape

       Table of Contents

      For the sixth time since the three-quarters, Phyllis looked at her watch by the light of a full moon, which shone through the window of her bedroom. The hands indicated five minutes to one.

      In her stocking feet she stole out of the room, downstairs, and along the porch to the heavy shadows cast by the cucumber vines that screened one end of it. Here she waited, heart in mouth and pulse beating like a trip hammer.

      Presently came the mournful hoot of an owl from the live oaks over in the pasture. Softly her clear, melodious voice flung back the signal. Again the minutes drummed eternally in silence.

      But when at last this was shattered, it was with a crash to wake the dead. The girl marvelled that one man could fire so rapidly, and so often. The night seemed to crackle with rifle and revolver shots. To judge from the sound, there might be a company engaged.

      The expected happened. The door of the cabin, in which lay the prisoner and Tom Dixon, was flung open. A dark form filled the doorway, and the moonlight gleamed on the shining barrel of a rifle. For an instant Tom stood so, trying to locate the source of the firing. He disappeared into the cabin, then reappeared. The door was closed and locked. Taking what cover he could find, Tom slipped over the fence, and into the mesquite on the other side of the road.

      Phyllis darted forward like a flame. Her trembling fingers fitted a key to the lock of the cabin. Opening the door, she slipped in and closed it behind her.

      "Where are you?" her young voice breathed.

      "Over here by the fireplace. What is it all about, Miss Sanderson?"

      She groped her way to him. "Never mind now. We've got to hurry. Are you tied?"

      "Yes—hands and feet."

      A beam of light through the window showed the flash of a knife. With a few hacks of the blade, she had freed him. He was about to rise when the door opened and a head was thrust in.

      "What's the row, Tom?"

      Weaver growled an answer. "He isn't here. Pulled out when the firing began. I wish you'd tell me what it is all about."

      But the head was already withdrawn, and its owner scudding toward the fray. Phyllis rose from the foot of the cot, where she had crouched.

      "Come!" she told the cattleman imperiously, and led the way from the cabin in a hurried flight for the porch shadows.

      They had scarcely reached these when another half-clad figure emerged from the house, rifle in hand, and plunged across the road into the cacti. He, too, headed for the scene of the now intermittent shooting.

      "Now!" cried Phyllis, and gave her hand to the man huddled beside her.

      She led him into the dark house, up the stairs, and into her room. He would have prolonged the sweet intimacy of that minute had it been in his power; but, once inside the chamber, she withdrew her fingers.

      "Stay here till I come back," she ordered. "I must show myself, so as not to arouse suspicion."

      "But tell me—what does it mean?" demanded Buck.

      "It means we're trying to save your life. Whatever happens, don't leave this room or let yourself be seen at the window. If you do, we're lost."

      With that she was gone, flying down the stairs to show herself as an apparition of terror to learn what was wrong.

      She heard the returning warriors as they reached the door of the log cabin. They had thrashed through the live-oak grove and found nothing, and were now hurrying back to the prison house, full of suspicions.

      "He's gone!" she heard Phil cry from within. Came then the sound of excited voices, and presently the shaft of light from a kerosene lamp. Feet trampled in the cabin. Phyllis heard the cot being kicked over. This moment she chose for her entrance.

      "What in the world is the matter?" she asked innocently, from the doorway.

      "He's got away—we've been tricked!" Tom told her furiously.

      "But—how?"

      "Never mind, Phyl. Go back to your room. There may be trouble yet. By God, there will be if we find him, or his friends!" her father swore.

      Another figure blocked the doorway. This time it was Keller, hatless and coatless, as if he had come quickly from a hurried waking. He, too, fired blandly the inevitable: "What's the trouble?"

      "Nothing—except that we are a bunch of first-class locoed fools," snapped Tom. "We've lost our prisoner—that's what's the matter."

      Larrabie came in and looked inquiringly from one to another. "I thought you kept him guarded."

      "We did, but they drew Tom off on a false trail," explained Phil.

      "I notice they worked the rest of us, too," retorted his father tartly.

      "I heard the shooting," Keller said innocently. His eyes drifted to a meeting with those of Phyllis. His telegraphed a question, and hers answered that the prisoner was safe so far.

      "A dead man could have heard it," suggested Phil, not without sarcasm. "Sounded like a battle—and when we got there not a soul could be found. Beats me how they got away so slick."

      Annoyance, disappointment, disgust were in the air. Keller remained to be properly sympathetic, while Phyllis slipped back to her room, as she had been told to do.

      She found Weaver sitting by the window looking out. He turned his head quickly when she entered.

      "Now, СКАЧАТЬ