The Essential Max Brand - 29 Westerns in One Edition. Max Brand
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No great intelligence was needed to understand the meaning of it. Fernand, having trapped his game, was now about to kill it. He could suffocate the two with smoke, blown into the tunnel, and make them rush blindly out. The moment they appeared, dazed and uncertain, the revolvers of half a dozen gunmen would be emptied into them.
“It’s like taking a trap full of rats,” said Ronicky bitterly, “and shaking them into a pail of water. Let’s go back and see what we can.”
They had only to turn the corner of the tunnel to be sure. Fernand had had the door of the tunnel slid noiselessly open, then, into the tunnel itself, smoking, slowly burning, pungent pieces of pine wood had been thrown, having been first soaked in oil, perhaps. The tunnel was rapidly filling with smoke, and through the white drifts of it they looked into the lighted cellar beyond. They would run out at last, gasping for breath and blinded by the smoke, to be shot down in a perfect light. So much was clear.
“Now back to the wall and try to find that door,” said Ronicky.
Jerry had already turned. In a moment they were back and tearing with their fingers at the sham wall, kicking loose fragments with their feet.
All the time, while they cleared a larger and larger space, they searched feverishly with the electric torch for some sign of a knob which would indicate a door, or some button or spring which might be used to open it. But there was nothing, and in the meantime the smoke was drifting back, in more and more unendurable clouds.
“I can’t stand much more,” declared Jerry at length.
“Keep low. The best air is there,” answered Ronicky.
A voice called from the mouth of the tunnel, and they could recognize the smooth tongue of Frederic Fernand. “Doone, I think I have you now. But trust yourselves to me, and all may still be well with you. Throw out your weapons, and then walk out yourselves, with your arms above your heads, and you may have a second chance. I don’t promise—I simply offer you a hope in the place of no hope at all. Is that a good bargain?”
“I’ll see you hung first,” answered Ronicky and turned again to his work at the wall.
But it seemed a quite hopeless task. The surface of the steel was still covered, after they had cleared it as much as they could, with a thin, clinging coat of plaster which might well conceal the button or device for opening the door. Every moment the task became infinitely harder.
Finally Jerry, his lungs nearly empty of oxygen, cast himself down on the floor and gasped. A horrible gagging sound betrayed his efforts for breath.
Ronicky knelt beside him. His own lungs were burning, and his head was thick and dizzy. “One more try, then we’ll turn and rush them and die fighting, Jerry.”
The other nodded and started to his feet. Together they made that last effort, fumbling with their hands across the rough surface, and suddenly —had they touched the spring, indeed?—a section of the surface before them swayed slowly in. Ronicky caught the half-senseless body of Jerry Smith and thrust him inside. He himself staggered after, and before him stood Ruth Tolliver!
While he lay panting on the floor, she closed the door through which they had come and then stood and silently watched them. Presently Smith sat up, and Ronicky Doone staggered to his feet, his head clearing rapidly.
He found himself in a small room, not more than eight feet square, with a ceiling so low that he could barely stand erect. As for the furnishings and the arrangement, it was more like the inside of a safe than anything else. There were, to be sure, three little stools, but nothing else that one would expect to find in an apartment. For the rest there was nothing but a series of steel drawers and strong chests, lining the walls of the room and leaving in the center very little room in which one might move about.
He had only a moment to see all of this. Ruth Tolliver, hooded in an evening cloak, but with the light gleaming in her coppery hair, was shaking him by the arm and leaning a white face close to him.
“Hurry!” she was saying. “There isn’t a minute to lose. You must start now, at once. They will find out—they will guess—and then —”
“John Mark?” he asked.
“Yes,” she exclaimed, realizing that she had said too much, and she pressed her hand over her mouth, looking at Ronicky Doone in a sort of horror.
Jerry Smith had come to his feet at last, but he remained in the background, staring with a befuddled mind at the lovely vision of the girl. Fear and excitement and pleasure had transformed her face, but she seemed trembling in an agony of desire to be gone. She seemed invincibly drawn to remain there longer still. Ronicky Doone stared at her, with a strange blending of pity and admiration. He knew that the danger was not over by any means, but he began to forget that.
“This way!” called the girl and led toward an opposite door, very low in the wall.
“Lady,” said Ronicky gently, “will you hold on one minute? They won’t start to go through the smoke for a while. They’ll think they’ve choked us, when we don’t come out on the rush, shooting. But they’ll wait quite a time to make sure. They don’t like my style so well that they’ll hurry me.” He smiled sourly at the thought. “And we got time to learn a lot of things that we’ll never find out, unless we know right now, pronto!”
He stepped before the girl, as he spoke. “How come you knew we were in there? How come you to get down here? How come you to risk everything you got to let us out through the treasure room of Mark’s gang?”
He had guessed as shrewdly as he could, and he saw, by her immediate wincing, that the shot had told.
“You strange, mad, wild Westerner!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean to tell me you want to stay here and talk? Even if you have a moment to spare you must use it. If you knew the men with whom you are dealing you would never dream of —”
In her pause he said, smiling: “Lady, it’s tolerable clear that you don’t know me. But the way I figure it is this: a gent may die any time, but, when he finds a minute for good living, he’d better make the most of it.”
He knew by her eyes that she half guessed his meaning, but she wished to be certain. “What do you intend by that?” she asked.
“It’s tolerable simple,” said Ronicky. “I’ve seen square things done in my life, but I’ve never yet seen a girl throw up all she had to do a good turn for a gent she’s seen only once. You follow me, lady? I pretty near guess the trouble you’re running into.”
“You guess what?” she asked.
“I guess that you’re one of John Mark’s best cards. You’re his chief gambler, lady, and he uses you on the big game.”
She had drawn back, one hand pressed against her breast, her mouth tight with the pain. “You have guessed all that about me?” she asked faintly. “That means you despise me!”
“What folks do don’t matter so much,” said Ronicky. “It’s the reasons they have for doing a thing that matters, I figure, and the way they do it. I dunno how John Mark hypnotized you and made a tool out of you, but I do know that you ain’t changed by what you’ve done.”
Ronicky Doone stepped to her quickly and took both her hands. He was not, ordinarily, particularly forward with girls. Now he acted as gracefully as if he had been the father of Ruth Tolliver. “Lady,” he said, “you’ve saved two lives tonight. That’s a tolerable lot to have piled up to anybody’s credit. Besides, inside you’re snow-white. We’ve got to go, but I’m coming back. Will you let me come back?”
“Never, never!” declared Ruth Tolliver. “You must never see me— you must never see Caroline Smith again. Any step you take in that direction is under peril of your life. Leave New York, Ronicky Doone. Leave it as quickly as you may, and never come back. Only pray that his arm isn’t long enough