CHAPTER XXV
AN EPIC BATTLE
The station house was extensive. It was a bunkhouse of lesserdimensions.
Jeff's eyes moved swiftly over the dim interior. The remoter cornersof the place were shadowed. But the light was sufficient to yield hima view of four squalid bunks on which the many-hued blankets weretumbled. The walls bore signs of personal effort at decoration. Therewere photographs over each bunk, tacked up and disfigured by flies.There were odd prints pasted on the rough log walls, the seams of whichwere more or less adequately filled with mud to keep the weather out.
There were two rough window openings, one in each side wall. The onlyentrance or exit was the door at the northern end, through which he hadapproached. At the other end, directly opposite this, an oil lamp wasshedding its feeble rays through a well-smoked chimney glass. It wasstanding on a small improvised table which divided two bunks set onwooden trestles. The whole interior was perhaps thirty feet in lengthand twelve feet wide, a roomy, unkempt shanty, which served its simplepurpose as a shelter for men unused to any of the comforts of life.
The object which caught and held Jeff's instant attention was thefigure of the man seated on the side of one of the bunks, beside thetable on which the lamp stood. It was the figure of Sikkem Bruce,bearing no trace whatever of any mortal injury, and with a look ofwide-eyed surprise upon his evil countenance.
Jeff moved up the room. He approached without haste. His eyes weresteady, and his expression one of tight-lipped determination. Therewas something coldly commanding in his attitude. His fair, bronzedfeatures, keen, set, displayed no weakening. His body seemed poisedready for everything that could possibly happen. The latent power andvigor of his movements were tremendous. He carried no weapons ofdefense in view, and his dress was a simple loose jacket over a cottonshirt, and, for nether garments, a pair of loose riding breeches whichterminated in soft leather top-boots.
Sikkem's eyes were on him the whole time. There was even some slightapprehension in them at the sight of that swift, voiceless approach.Jeff came to a halt before him, and it was the ranch hand who foundspeech most necessary.
"Say, I didn't guess you was gettin' around to-night, boss," he saidwith some show of ease.
"No?"
"I sure didn't."
Jeff's retort flashed out.
"Then what did you send that youngster in for with mouthful of durnedlies?"
Sikkem stared. But his look was unconvincing. Moments passed beforehis reply came, and in those moments the keen eyes of his employer werebusy. The man was still in the working kit of a cowpuncher. Even tothe chapps, and the prairie hat crushed down on his ugly bullet head.Then, too, his pair of guns were still strapped about his waist. Noneof these things escaped Jeff, any more than did the fellow's clumsyregard. He wondered how much truth--if any--lay behind that mask ofwicked eyes and brutish features.
"I'm waiting."
Jeff's demand came with a rasp. The man's delay in reply had conveyedall he wanted to know of the truth in him.
"Wot youngster? I tell you I didn't send no one in." There wastruculence in the denial. "Wot's the lies?"
The ranchman was no match for the keen mind of his employer. In bruteforce he might have been more than his equal. But even that wasdoubtful. While he was speaking Jeff moved. Up to that moment he hadbeen facing the foreman with his back turned toward the distant door.Now his movement placed him against the table with his back to theother empty bunk, and his focus took in not only the man before him,but the shadowy outline of the distant half-open door.
"It's the boy we took on the other day at--your recommendation. Yourrecommendation. Get me? Guess he came with the yarn you were shot todeath. You'd located the rustlers' camp. You needed to see me quick."Jeff's words came swiftly. Then after a pause he added: "You didn'tsend him along? Who did?"
As Jeff watched the man's deliberate shake of the head he became awareof a muffled sound, somewhere away beyond the door. It was faint, but,to him, unmistakable. He gave no sign.
"Where are the other boys?" he demanded.
"Out on cattle guard."
The movement beyond the door again penetrated the silence of the hut.Now it was that the ranchman made his mistake. Only for an instant didhe turn his head and eyes in the direction of the sound. But it wassufficient.
Jeff's voice rasped again.
"Stand up, darn you! Stand up!"
Sikkem's gaze came back abruptly, and on the instant his right handflew to his waist for his guns. But the muzzle of Jeff's revolver waswithin a foot of his head, and behind it his coldly shining eyes.
Sikkem's hand dropped from his waist. He stood up. The law of the gunwas powerfully ingrained upon his mind.
"Loose those guns at your waist--quick! Let 'em drop on the bunk!Quick, or I'll pump you full of lead!"
The deadliness of Jeff's command was irresistible. The power of thatleveled gun indisputable. The buckle was loosened, and the weaponsfell on the blankets behind the ranchman.
"Now push your hands up! Right up!"
The command was obeyed on the instant, but the look which accompaniedthe movement was as deadly as human passion could make it.
"Back away! Back to the far end! Sharp!"
Sikkem moved. But his movement was not rapid enough. Jeff urged him.
In the pause Jeff's straining ears caught again the sound of movement,and he wondered why development was not precipitated. Perhaps---- ButSikkem had nearly reached the distant wall, and, at that instant, awhistle shrilled through the building.
Jeff knew he was trapped. But, with a wonderful sense of detachment,mind and body worked almost electrically. His revolver spat out itsvicious report. For the fraction of a second he held the smoking lamppoised in his other hand. Then, like a shooting star, it flew throughthe adjacent window and fell extinguished amidst the crash of its ownglass. It was at the complete fall of darkness that the door slammedclosed, and half a dozen shots rang out through the building, followedby the "plonk" of the bullets embedding themselves in the solid logsimmediately behind where the rancher had been standing.
But Jeff was no longer there. There had been a simultaneous clatter offalling bunk boards. There was the rustling of straw. Then a sound ofscrambling, and, after that, a dead silence. The darkness was completeexcept for the faint silhouette of the windows against the dimstarlight beyond them.
Jeff had taken the big chance. What remained now must be met ascircumstance permitted. The blood in him was fired. The savagedelight of battle. He would sell the last breath in his body at thehighest price he could make his enemies pay. He had walked into a traplaid by the rustlers, headed, perhaps, by Sikkem Bruce, with his eyeswide open, and some almost insane yearning made him glad.
Now he crouched down against the wall beside the table. He had flungup a barrier of straw palliasse before him. It was not as a protectionagainst gun-fire, but to screen his movements should his opponentsproduce a light. Then, too, there was another thought in his mind.
The place became alive with sounds, voiceless, muffled sounds ofcautious movement. It was the movement of men who know that death islurking at every turn. Nor could they tell whence it was most likelyto come. It was a moment of tense and straining nerves wherein the witof one man had discounted the elaborate plan to murder of those whoseindifference to death only shrank from the contemplation of their own.
Jeff's eyes strained against the darkness. The windows stood out insilhouette. From these he had no fear. He knew, and he knew thatthese ruffians would know, the dangers attending themselves from anyattack upon him from such a direction. The advantage would be entirelyhis, since he had possessed himself of Sikkem's complete arsenal. Heknew it was for him to await the fire of these men, every shot of whichwould yield him a sure target.
A flash broke the blackness ahead of him. The bullet sank into thewoodwork just above his head with a vicious splash. But he refrainedfrom
reply. Another crack split the silence, and the wall to the leftof him flung back its response. Still he offered no reply.
His eyes were searching, searching. And a surge of excitement suddenlythrilled him.
Two shots came on the same instant. One slithered hotly in the fleshof his shoulder, but the other struck wide of him.
The wound gave him no concern. Every sense, every faculty wasconcentrated on one thought, on one object. A dim, fine-drawn butuneven line of shadowy light had grown out of the darkness to his nowaccustomed eyes. It was vague, so vague that it required the greatestconcentration to detect. But he recognized it for what it was, and asavage delight possessed him as he observed that there were breaks inits continuity. The line was waist high, and lateral, and heinterpreted it to suit himself.
He raised his gun and took steady aim at one of the breaks. His shotwas deliberate, careful, since the sight of his weapon, even the weaponitself, remained invisible in the dark. He fired, and dropped himselfprone behind his barrier.
A bitter curse followed by a groan of pain was the answer to his shot.Then, where that break in the shadowy line of light had been, now theline was unbroken.
A fierce glee permeated him. The curse, the moan had been music tohim. But it only required a second before he had the enemy's retort.
It came with a fusillade. And every shot seemed to find practicallythe same spot on the wall. He knew that the flash of his gun had beenthe target. He knew he had only escaped by a fraction of time.
His shoulder stung him. But his will, his savage yearning for thecontinuance of the fight, left him disregarding. There was more tocome, and he knew it. Nor did he care how much. The blood was hot inhis brain. No pain, nothing mattered. Again he searched along thatlateral line of light.
He was reaching out far beyond his retreat. He had stealthily crawledto the left of the table. Again his weapon was raised against anotherbreak in that telltale line of light, this time at a point where theangle of the building must be. A moment passed while he judged hisaim. It was by no means easy. Instinct was his only guide. Thatinstinct which belongs to the man accustomed to the constant use of arevolver.
His shot rang out. Again came a cry, inarticulate, fierce. Thenfollowed the sound of a falling body. Then he let loose a second shot.But even as it sped he had his answer. Four tongues of flame leapedout at him in the darkness, and four bullets smote viciously into thewood behind him.
His second shot had cost him a sharp penalty. The flesh of his forearmhad been ripped by one of those four bullets and he felt the trickle ofwarm blood over the unscored flesh.
He crouched behind his barrier. The joy of battle for the higheststakes for which a man can play was undiminished in him. The wounds hehad received left him all unconcerned. In the thrill of the moment hehad no time for them. The desire to kill was strong, and he knew hecould already count two victims.
But the general in him was foremost, even in the excitement of battle.The number of his opponents, their next move. These things concernedhim seriously.
He searched the line of light with eager eyes. He listened to thesound of movement. These things were all he had to rely on, and ontheir accurate reading depended his chances of victory or defeat, withits certainty of swift death.
In two places there ware still definite breaks in the line. He knew hehad accounted for two of the enemy. Originally a volley of six shotshad come at him. There were two unaccounted for. Where were these?They were not standing.
He looked for no depths of subtlety in the methods of these men. Heunderstood their ruffianism too well. Therefore the sound of movementthat reached him suggested the obvious result of their first failure.It was the presage of an attack at close quarters.
He listened intently. The sounds were of shuffling bodies, movinguncertainly, possibly fearful of contact with obstruction which mightbetray them. And he calculated they were approaching low down alongthe side walls, thus hoping to offer the least target possible. Ifthey reached him the chances would be all against him. They must notreach him. His decision was promptly taken.
He raised one of Sikkem's guns. It was heavy, and a sense of pleasurefilled him as he felt the enormous bore of the muzzle with one finger.Stealthily he raised himself to his full height behind his barrier. Heleveled his gun at a spot just below the right hand window, where thewall rose up out of the floor. There was no obstacle intervening.
A moment later the crack of the gun burst through the silence. Then,on the instant, he flung himself prone across the table. His answercame like lightning. Four shots. And three of them harmlessly toretheir way into the bowels of the woodwork. The fourth had come fromthe direction in which he had aimed.
A fierce spasm of pain through his chest blinded him mentally andphysically for the moment. But, by an almost superhuman effort, herecovered himself. He knew he was hit, and hit badly. Somethingseemed to have broken inside him, just under his left armpit.
He forced himself to an upright position and flung out his gun arm.His eyes were again on the line of light. A fury of recklessness wasurging him. There were the breaks, and he blazed at each in turn,carefully, deliberately. A moment later two shots came from the rightand left of him, and he dropped down behind his barrier, but not beforehe had heard the death-cries of fierce blasphemy at the far end of theroom.
He lay behind his shelter breathing hard and suffering an agony ofphysical pain. The sweat poured down his forehead. It seemed to himthat everything was somehow receding from him, even the sense of hisown danger. In these feelings he realized how near he was to defeat,and with all his will he set himself to conquer his weakness. A fewmoments passed. His pain eased. Then, with all the recklessness ofthe gambler, he prepared for his final throw.
He was certain he had accounted for four of the enemy. Four. Hecalculated there were still two remaining. He shifted his position,moving himself clear of his shelter. A hell of suffering was enduredin the process, and the sweat poured out afresh upon his forehead. Hegritted his teeth with superlative determination and flung back thedreadful faintness seeking to smother his powers.
He raised himself to a sitting posture. He sought support from thewall behind him. Then, with unbroken nerve, he raised both Sikkem'sguns, one in each hand. Without a tremor he held them, and his aimtook in the two points at which he felt the remaining foe wereadvancing upon him. Oh, for one moment of light wherein to assurehimself! But the thought passed as it came, followed by a wild, simplehope that one of his shots might find its billet.
He pressed the trigger in each hand. He fired rapidly. He fired untilboth guns were empty. Then he flung them to the ground with a clatter.For an instant he thrilled at the sound of a cry of pain, and thefierce accompanying blasphemy. Then he flung himself down and crawledto his retreat behind the palliasse, convinced that the cry was in thevoice of Sikkem Bruce.
His sufferings were well-nigh unendurable. His very breathing causedhim an exquisite pain. He even found himself wondering how much longerhe could endure.
But his work was not yet finished. If he must die he would diefighting.
Now, blending with fresh sounds of movement along the side walls,another sound added its threat to the quiet of the room. It came frombehind the straw palliasse. There was heavy breathing, almost gasping.There was a distinct gritting of teeth. But there was also a sound ofthe effort which caused these things in the wounded man. There was asharp ripping and tearing, the rustle of straw and--something else.The movements were hasty, desperately hasty. Movements which suggestedthe defender's realization of the narrow limits of time before hispowers would become completely exhausted.
These things lasted a matter of seconds only. Then the threat broke.The quiet was shocked into desperate action. There was the shout ofhuman voices. There was the rush and scramble of feet. Then, in themidst of the tumult, a great tongue of flame leaped up from the heartof the straw palliasse.
 
; Its fierce, ruddy light revealed the faces of two men leaping to theattack of the wounded defender. They were within a yard of their goal.But even as they were closing upon him they reeled back before the newterror whose dread was overwhelming even in face of their murderouslust.
The flame shot up toward the roof. Jeff staggered to his feet bearingin his arms the blazing bundle. Higher he raised it. Higher andhigher, till the devouring flame licked at the parched thatch of grassroof above. It caught in a second. The flames swept up along therough rafters till they reached the pitch of the roof. In a momentgreat billows of smoke were rolling out of the dry crevices.
Just for one instant, before the fog closed down upon the wholeinterior, Jeff beheld the result of his work. The men had fled towardthe closed door, and, on the ground, against the far wall, he had aglimpse of five bodies lying crumpled up where his guns had laid them.
Suddenly a great shout reached him from without.
"Ho, Jeff! Ho, boy!"
It was a deep-throated roar which drowned the hiss and crackle of theblazing straw.
Jeff's answer rang through the burning structure with all the power ofhis lungs.
"The door! Bust it! Quick, Bud! Bust it, an' stand clear!"
For answer there was a crash on the woodwork outside. He waited for nomore. With a wild rush through the blinding, choking fog of smoke hecharged down the room. With all his might he flung the blazingpalliasse from his scorched hands. He had no idea of the direction inwhich it went. His one desire now was to reach the door as it gaveunder the sledge-hammer attacks of the men outside.
He heard a crash and rending of woodwork. He could see nothing. Hewas incapable of further effort. The end had come all too soon. Hestaggered blindly, helplessly. His tottering limbs gave under him.Suffocation gripped him by the throat. He was conscious of the rush ofa figure toward him. The sound of his name shrieked in a woman'svoice. Then there were shots fired. He heard them. And it seemedthere were many of them, and the sound was blurred, and vague, anddistant from his ears. He fell. He knew he fell. For hours it seemedto him he continued to fall in an abyss of blackness that was whollyhorrifying. It was a blackness peopled with hideous invisible shadows.So impenetrable was the inky void that even sound had no place in it.