“Now, Mr. Waring,” said Ward suavely, “we will repair to my study, where I have a few things to say to you before we break up this very pleasant little party. I hardly think my niece will care to accompany us.”
They rose from the table, and Ross was ushered into an adjoining room which was even more striking in its way than either of the others he had been in that evening.
A brisk fire burned on a wide hearth from above which looked down a magnificent ram’s head. Other trophies of a similar nature adorned the other walls. Interspersed with these were guns, Indian weapons, horsehair lariats—in fact, every accoutrement and trophy of the old-time West. It was a rather remarkable collection, one which under different circumstances would have deeply interested Stanley Ross.
Instantly he knew where those curious antiquated shackles, which had bound the girl, had come from. Here were several similar pairs.
Ross was directed to a chair in front of the fire. Ward took another, facing him, while Beebe sat down on a wide bench on the far side of the fire. Ross waited expectantly.
Ward offered his guest a cigar. Selecting one for himself, he clipped its end very deliberately and lit it with aggravating leisure. Finally he leaned back in his chair and gazed steadily at Ross with his mad eyes. A tiny smile, cynical and cruel, crooked around his thin-lipped mouth.
“I could have had you killed at once, Mr. Waring,” he said deliberately, his voice soft and well-modulated, yet biting, burning, “but I did not choose to do that. Instead, I wanted to bring you here this evening so that you could fully realize just what a serious thing it is, and how useless it is to buck Arthur Ward. And then, too, I wanted my niece to know that I am to be obeyed absolutely.”
“I suppose, Mr. Ward,” asked Ross, “that it would be quite useless to tell you that my name is not Waring at all; that I do not even know any one of that name, or that I have never seen your niece, until last evening?”
“Quite useless, I can assure you, Mr. Waring. I am absolutely certain of your identity. I do not make mistakes.
“Mr. Waring, I never forget an injury. I remember forever, and my one bad trait is the fact that I always have revenge. I would have got you in the end, Waring, anyway, but your fool stunt of following my niece here saved me a lot of trouble. Waring, you should have known that of all people on earth you would have the least chance of marrying my niece.
“Tonight you can have the extreme pleasure of reflecting that you will hardly be dead before Virginia will be the wife of Beebe.”
“And suppose she refuses?” asked Ross.
“We are a hundred miles from anywhere, Waring. Things could happen that would make Virginia glad to marry Beebe—or any one.
“One more thing, Waring, and then we will terminate this interview,” Ward went on dispassionately. “I want you to know that this is only the beginning. I shall not be satisfied until I have exterminated your entire family. It may take me years, but I shall certainly have the pleasure of killing your brother and your father. It does not pay to do injury to Arthur Ward.
“You will have tonight to reflect on what might have been. In the morning I shall hang you.
“That is all I have to say, and since it will be quite useless for you to say anything you may as well return to your room. Mr. Garfin and Mr. Poole will see that you have safe conduct.”
Ross knew that for the present he would have to submit. Resistance would be useless just now. He was one against four. The odds were too great. He could only wait, hoping that the night would bring opportunity.
However, before he went he could not resist a last display of bravado—bravado which he did not by any means feel.
Rising from his seat, Ross bowed low to Ward.
“Good-night, Mr. Ward. Thank you for a most excellent dinner and a most entertaining evening. And let me assure you that you will _not_ hang me in the morning.”
Turning on his heel, Ross passed out of the room.
_CHAPTER SIX_
A FORLORN HOPE
When Ross stepped out into the darkness his first thought was that he would make a dash for liberty. This hope died almost before it was born, though, for he felt the muzzle of a revolver pressed close to his ribs and Garfin’s rasping voice growled into his ear:
“Make just one move fer a break an’ I’ll plug ya. The boss says he’s goin’ to hang ya in the morning, but I’d like to save him tha trouble.”
Ross knew that Garfin was not indulging in idle words. The gunman would gladly kill him. Then, too, out in the shadows another form kept them close company. He knew this was Poole and that should he succeed in worsting Garfin his chance of escaping the second gunman’s bullets was very remote. No, the time was not yet.
The three trudged back to Ross’s one-room prison, and it was only a minute or two until the door had slammed on him, the bolt had fallen into place and the lock snapped its vicious message.
He was once more a prisoner.
Ross sought in the darkness for the crude chair and threw himself down into it. He knew that for the time being there was no chance of escape, so he gave himself up momentarily to a contemplation of his plight.
Who was this strange girl whom he had rescued, only to have her vanish into the night? Why had she not spoken tonight? Why had she given him no hint of action? Who was Beebe, that he would accept a betrothal which was obviously odious to the girl? And, lastly, who was Ward with his mad eyes?
Who was Waring, and what had he done to merit such malicious vengeance on the part of Ward?
These and many other questions Ross asked himself, but he had no satisfactory answer to any one of them. Only a jumble of baffling mystery presented itself. His brain seethed with impossible solutions, but he had to admit that actually he was completely at sea.
Only a few facts stood out which could be accepted as a basis on which to work.
He, Ross, had been taken for another man, Waring by name. Ward evidently hated Waring intensely and was determined to put him to death for a wrong, either fancied or real. There could be no doubt, too, that Ward was, in a degree, insane.
What part Beebe was playing Ross could not determine, beyond the facts that he was in favor with Ward and that he wanted the girl and would take her on whatever terms he could get her.
The girl was obviously in great peril. It could be seen that she hated Beebe, but at the same time was powerless to resist any order of her uncle. Ross could readily see that she was in a position where death might well be preferable to what she was facing.
And, undeniably, there was the fact that he, Ross, was sure to meet death in the morning unless he could devise some way out of his dilemma.
The night was far gone when he had finished considering these things. It was then that a plan of action first suggested itself to him. As it matured in his mind he realized that it was a forlorn hope; but his circumstances were so utterly desperate that there seemed nothing to do but give it a trial. He knew that its success would depend entirely on the element of surprise.
Having once settled in his mind what he should do, Ross threw himself down on the crude table and was soon sound asleep.
It was hardly daylight when he awoke, but he did not allow himself to drop back to sleep again. He was going to be ready.
It was fully three hours later that he heard approaching footsteps. Slipping quietly across the room, Ross flattened himself against the wall beside the door and waited.
The footsteps drew nearer and nearer. A key grated in the lock. It clicked. The bolt was raised. Slowly the door swung on its hinges.
Like a flash, Ross slipped from his hiding-place and darted through the doorway. The only human within sight was Garfin. Like a mad thunderbolt Ross bore down upon him.
Taken by surprise, Garfin barely had time to fire before Ross was upon him. Too startled to take definite aim, his bullet went wild. With a force that was terrific Ross struck him with the full impact of his body. The two went down in a tangled heap. Garfin’s gun was knocked from his grasp and went spinning a dozen feet away.
Garfin was not without courage of a kind, but all his life he had depended on a gun to enforce his arguments. Physical combat had not been one of his long suits, and now he found himself no match for his younger antagonist.
Stan Ross was far from a weakling physically. Long months afoot in the desert had made him as hard as nails. Not so long ago he had been known as a football player of some note. Now he used that knowledge of rough-and-tumble combat to the fullest extent.
Taking Garfin by surprise, Ross had the initial advantage, and when the two went down he was on top. Striking, kicking, using the crushing force of his body, he went at the gunman in a demoniacal storm. For an instant it looked as though he would beat his enemy into insensibility before he could offer any material resistance.
But Garfin was fighting for his life and he knew it. He was not to be vanquished so easily. In a moment the two men were threshing and rolling on the ground in a fierce struggle.