_ CHAPTER XXX. KOPPY PAYS
Koppy, under the impetus of the conference, set his mind more firmly to the problem facing him. Under the present method of attack the outcome was a question of endurance. And in endurance the disposition of the besieged was an enormous factor to offset the hopelessness of rescue or escape. So long as they remained within the shack they could come to little harm, if food, water, and ammunition held out.
Exposed to the rifles of the besiegers were, however, two of their principal foes. The Indian dashed recklessly from post to post. Sooner or later he would pay for it. The continued impunity of the boss was more maddening. Above the rails Koppy could see the slight bulge on which so many shots had been wasted. Probably it was only Torrance's clothing. From the floor of the forest he seemed to be reasonably protected.
Koppy raised his eyes. With a smile he selected a thick-stemmed tree and, with the aid of willing and suddenly excited hands, lifted himself to the lower boughs. There, leaning against the trunk, a circle of projecting boughs about him, he laughed. Torrance lay in full view. Gloatingly Koppy slid his rifle along a convenient branch, took aim, and fired. The ring of metal told how close he was.
On his followers below he bent malignantly joyful eyes. It was only a question of time now.
The next bullet must have touched Torrance's shoulder, for he winced and edged closer to the near rail. Koppy cheered and recklessly waved his rifle.
A shot snapped from over the grade, and a piece of bark flicked stingingly into the Pole's face. The surprise of it almost tumbled him from his perch. And before he could cover himself completely with the trunk of the tree a second bullet whipped through the leaves so close to his eyes that he felt the wind of it.
Across the grade the Indian jerked in his rifle with an oath and ran to the shack.
"Dang rotten toy!" he sputtered, slamming the borrowed gun on the table. "Gi' me my own. I got two cartridges left. One'll do. Thar ain't no better place for it."
The crowd beneath Koppy's perch was growing fast. The Pole could hear their whispered exclamations, see the whites of their faces turned up to him for the report of each shot. In a wave of anger and misgiving he realised the rashness of adding another responsibility to those of leadership. Only too eagerly they were piling on his solitary shoulders the whole burden of the fight.
He must kill the boss! He must kill the boss!
It ran through his head like a threat--a dirge. His aim wavered. Bullet after bullet sped harmlessly about Torrance. A cold sweat broke out on the Pole. He leaned out to order others into the surrounding trees--but realised as he glowered into their upturned faces that this was no time for orders, but for action.
He reported a hit--boasted, shouted, forced himself to laugh exultantly.
Where would it all end?
He gripped his fists until the nails bit into his palms, and took a fresh hold of himself. With set teeth, steadier than he had ever been, he thrust the rifle out again along the branch.
At that instant Werner clambered up the grade--and close behind him Morani.
Koppy gasped. A flash of pride at the unexpected temerity of two of his lieutenants. But it faded swiftly before two driving fears. Torrance had risen to meet them; and Koppy knew the force of that great fist. But if his own men won! Koppy had a vision of vanished glory--of lost leadership. Morani and Werner had taken their lives in their hands to accomplish that which he was failing to do from the protection of a tree.
Snapping his teeth together, he put his eye coolly to the rear sight. If his own men were in the way--well, that was their lookout. He was aiming at Torrance.
A hush fell over the forest. From the foot of the tree the bohunks read crucial drama in Koppy's manner. . . .
With a bellow of rage Torrance was on his feet. A single blow he struck at Werner's mad eyes. The head before him snapped back, the bent legs crumpled. As if he had been shot, Werner's limp body slid backwards down the sand. For a moment it hung balanced over the edge, then bent slowly over and plunged out of sight.
Morani, alone now but forced to carry it through, struck swiftly. Torrance managed to take the point of the stiletto on his left arm. With his right he grabbed the Italian's arm and jerked sideways and down. A sickening snap, and Morani's dark face went a sickly cream. Without changing his hold, Torrance flung out sideways, as a petulant child discards a doll that has lost favour. Morani had never a chance. Lifted clear of the trestle, he pitched headlong into the chasm.
But in the effort Torrance's foot slipped. He tried to drop to save himself, but too late. Clawing at the ends of the sleepers, he fell over the way Morani had gone. The breath in a hundred throats held. Mahon closed his eyes.
But in the scramble the contractor's right leg fell between the sleepers, and as his body turned for the final plunge, his foot caught and held. The leg snapped, but it held. Torrance's head, swinging down outside the trestle, crashed into one of the supports. And there he hung, unconscious.
In the fleeting moments of the triple tragedy Koppy could not pull the trigger. But as the boss lay motionless in the open, an evil smile came to the Pole's face. Closing his left eye, he took firm hold of the stock of his rifle and set his finger to the trigger.
Something passed swiftly across the sights. He opened both eyes and raised his head. Tressa Torrance was climbing fearlessly out on the trestle supports to her father's assistance, calling for help.
Koppy gasped. A veil seemed to fall over his eyes. A drop of sweat fell to his rifle butt. When he could see once more he slowly drew back the gun, eyes staring. Slowly he turned to the expectant faces below him. They knew nothing of what had happened--was happening--out there on the trestle. But they felt in some vague way that he was failing them.
With deliberation Koppy shifted his rifle about, reversing it. Wonder began to dawn on the faces at the foot of the tree, but not a sound came from them. Coolly and firmly the butt slid out along the branch where the barrel had been.
He felt steadier now--no nerves--no fears. With unhurried care he caught the trigger over a twig and let it rest there. His head turned slowly about in a half circle, not toward the crowd below but out over the green forest and up into the brightening sky. Then he leaned out and peered at the shack. Moving back in the arc, his eyes rested on Tressa supporting her father's head, though a false step meant certain death.
And Ignace Koppowski smiled--a cleaner, more human smile than had crossed his face for many a year.
"Good girl!" he shouted. "I'll help. Listen."
With the smile still on his lips he jerked the barrel of the rifle toward him.
With the explosion came another from across the grade. And before the first echo two others from the forest behind.
Koppy's body crashed through the branches and fell among his gaping followers.
There was blood now, more than they wished. It spurted over them from their fallen leader. It welled from a shrieking companion who lay twisting on the ground beside their dead leader.
One incredulous moment--then, clutching and clawing, but silent as ever in their fears, they ran for the camp, the only haven they knew. The panic spread through the rest out among the trees. And a trail of weapons marked their course.
From a growth of shrub a woman in an Indian blanket peered toward the grade. She saw the Indian standing there furiously snapping his empty rifle after the fleeing bohunks. And with a smile she faded away.
Westward, along the grade, from the shadows Helen Mahon stepped, rifle in hand. In a puzzled way she looked first toward the spot where the squaw had fired from. Then she ran for the trestle.
When she reached it Torrance's body lay on the grade. Mahon, at the sound of her feet, swung about and held out his arms.
"Darling," he murmured, "you saved us. You haven't lost your aim."
But she shook her head. "I fired to frighten. Some one else--"
They carried the limp body within the shack and laid it tenderly on the couch. There was still life, and they worked with prayers on their lips. . . .
From outside broke two sharp whistles. Mahon, with a puzzled frown, looked from the front door. An awkward little broncho was trotting past the corner of the house toward the stable.
Williams came to him. "I'm afraid it's no use, sir," he whispered. "Nothing could stand up under that."
Mahon appealed to his wife. "Help us, Helen, it's got past us."
The sudden thunder of hoofs along the river side of the shack drew the two Policemen to the door. Three horses, the broncho in the lead, were climbing the grade. The broncho started out on the trestle, head bent, measuring each step, moving from sleeper to sleeper. And at its heels, obedient as sheep, were Torrance's two horses.
Six hundred yards of open trestle before the fill-in at the other side! Mahon held his breath. . . .
"Mother o' Mike!" The horses had trotted out to safety, and Murphy was capering gleefully about.
Mahon rushed to the corner of the shack and looked about. The Indian was nowhere in sight.
Helen, with wet cheeks, was bathing the white face of the contractor. Tressa, searching Helen's eyes for hope, saw it vanish in those tears. With a crooning cry she sank beside the couch and lifted her father's head in her arms.
"Daddy! Daddy, speak to me!"
But the face was the face of the dead.
Stooping, she gently brushed her father's lips with her own, as her mother had done in the days of long ago.
"'Jim!'" she whispered. "'Jim!'"
The eyelids quivered and parted, and the eyes beneath looked vaguely through.
"Mary!" he murmured. Then a sigh. "It hurts--so." One limp hand trembled to his bruised head. "All right, Mary!" Then in a stronger voice: "All right, Mary, I'll stay."
The film passed from before his sight.
"By hickory, Tressa, I thought I was dead--and Mary was taking me in hand. She can get along without me, she says, but you can't. But you needn't tell Adrian. Where's my pipe?"
Murphy was capering about the room, whooping and rubbing his eyes. The injured man fixed him with stern gaze.
"Murphy, what are you doing here, making a fool of yourself at this hour? Don't you know you're due at the gravel pit in less than two hours? That fill-in commences to-day--no matter what's happened."
But Murphy was already far up the grade, brandishing his shillalah and shouting at the top of his voice:
"'Uggins! 'Uggins! I'm coming." _