A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.
It is time to take the reader back to the lonely cabin in the swamp.
Brick’s daring defiance of his captors fairly petrified them with astonishment and consternation. There was an ill-concealed twinkle of admiration in Raikes’ eyes. Bogle’s expression indicated only savage anger.
“You won’t write a line, eh?” snarled Bogle, with suppressed fury.
“No, I won’t,” repeated Brick. His voice was a trifle hoarse, but resolute. “I know what you’re after, but you shan’t succeed. You’ve robbed me of enough money as it is. I won’t help you to get any more out of my father——”
The words were cut suddenly short, for Bogle had fastened on the lad’s throat with the ferocity of a bloodhound. He shook him to and fro, dragged him half across the room, and then pitched him roughly on the bed.
Brick staggered to his feet. His face was purple, and he gasped painfully for breath. He glanced around him, but every avenue of escape was barred.
“Have you had enough?” demanded Bogle. “Are you ready to write now?”
“No,” came hoarsely from Brick’s lips.
The brutal treatment had only made him more dogged and determined.
With a savage exclamation, Bogle sprang forward. But before he could reach the lad, Raikes slipped between the two.
“Hold on, Joe,” he pleaded. “You’re going about it the wrong way. Violence won’t do any good. Try persuasion.”
“Persuasion be hanged,” growled Bogle. “I’ll bring the obstinate young fool to terms mighty quick. Stand aside, Silas.”
But Raikes did not move. He held his ground, and kept his angry companion at arm’s length.
“Better take my advice, lad,” he said, turning to Brick. “I’m peaceably inclined, and I don’t want to see you hurt. You’ve got to come to terms some time, and why not now? It’s not likely that we would let you slip through our fingers after going to all this trouble. We’re playing for high stakes, and we intend to win. It’s not much we ask of you. And as for your father—why, ten thousand dollars is only a drop in the bucket to him. He will gladly pay double that amount to save your life.”
“To save my life?” questioned Brick; and the pallor on his face deepened a little.
“That’s just it,” resumed Raikes in a coldly stern voice. “If you refuse to write the letters, you will never leave this cabin alive.”
“A bullet through your head, and a grave in the swamp,” added Bogle. “That’s what you may expect.”
“You would murder me?” cried Brick.
“Yes; if our plans failed,” was Raikes’ calm reply. “It would be necessary for our own safety. But you don’t intend to drive us to that, I know. Come; be sensible. There are the writing materials on the table. Put the matter through without delay, and you will get your freedom in two or three weeks.”
Brick’s face was deathly pale, but there was a resolute gleam in his eyes.
“You won’t dare to kill me,” he replied. “You would surely hang for it. My friends will hunt every place for me, and they will get the loggers to help them. If you let me go, I’ll promise not to say anything about the affair. And you may keep all that money.”
Raikes laughed contemptuously.
“You are a bigger fool than I took you for,” he said. “This cabin is as safe from detection as though it was in the center of Africa. We’re not worried about your friends. Once more, are you going to write those letters?”
Brick was deceived by the pacific tone and words. He concluded that his threat had made a wholesome impression.
“No, I’m not,” he replied, with an obstinate shake of the head.
“But you will,” thundered Bogle. “I’ll show you who is master.”
He pushed Raikes aside and knocked Brick to the floor by a heavy blow. Swearing violently, he lifted him by the hair, and dragged him over to the table. He forced him down on the bench, and pointed to the pen and ink.
“Now will you write?” he cried. “I’ll give you one minute to obey.”
Brick yelled loudly for help. He kicked and fought with all his might. In the scuffle the bench was overturned, and both landed on the floor. Brick jerked loose from his enemy, and rolled a few feet to one side. He sprang up, enraged and desperate. Bogle, too, was on his feet. Murder flashed from his eyes as he rushed at the lad.
Brick met the attack by a heavy blow of his fist. The ruffian staggered. He uttered a snarling cry. He lifted one hand to stanch the blood that flowed from his nose. Brick took advantage of this brief respite. He dodged cleverly by Raikes, who tried to stop him, and gained the farthest corner of the room. A rifle rested on two hooks above his head.
Just as he got possession of the weapon, Bogle dashed at him with a cry of fury. The ruffian was half insane. He snatched the weapon, and lifted it with both hands for a blow that would surely have split Brick’s skull open.
But just in the nick of time Raikes gained the spot and seized his comrade by the collar. He jerked him back so forcibly and quickly that the heavy stock of the rifle missed the lad by a hair’s breadth, and crashed to the floor.
“Do you want to ruin everything?” he demanded, hotly. “I saved you from murder.”
“You won’t prevent it this time,” cried Bogle.
He tore loose from Raikes, and pulled the hammer of the rifle back. He took hasty aim at Brick, who gave himself up for dead. Then Raikes snatched the barrel of the weapon, and knocked it upward. The two men struggled for its possession, swaying backward and forward. Raikes was comparatively cool. Bogle was insane with passion. The latter slipped and came to his knees, dragging Raikes after him.
“Let go!” he cried, with a violent oath.
“No,” refused Raikes. “You shan’t murder the lad. You don’t know what you are doing, Joe.”
Snap! Bang! The weapon had gone off. Raikes’ nerveless fingers let go of the barrel. Without a cry, he toppled over on his side. When the smoke cleared, a few seconds later, his white face stared up at the roof, and from his forehead trickled a little stream of blood.
Brick looked on, mute with horror. The sad disaster instantly sobered Bogle. He dropped the rifle, and staggered to his feet. Then he bent over his companion, and rubbed the white, still face.
“Silas! Silas!” he called, hoarsely.
There was no movement or reply. Bogle groaned aloud, and covered his face with his hands.
It was then that the thought of escape flashed into Brick’s mind. The odds were against him, but anything was preferable to staying here at the ruffian’s mercy.
Snatching up the rifle, he sped across the floor. He reached the door, and flung it open. A hoarse cry rang in his ears as he leaped across the threshold. He ran on without even a backward glance.
“Stop! Stop, or I’ll kill you!”
Bogle’s voice was husky with anger. His heavy steps came clattering in pursuit.
Brick was now across the clearing. He plunged into the tangled thickets of the swamp. He strained every muscle to escape. His heart beat high with hope.
For five minutes he twisted and dodged in every direction, planning thus to throw his enemy off the track. The fresh snow offered little resistance, and the older crust underneath easily bore his weight. Finally he stopped to listen. To his dismay, he heard a snapping and threshing of dry bushes not far behind him.
“What a fool I am!” he muttered. “I forget that every step I take can be traced. It’s a question of speed now—nothing else will save me.”
So he dashed on at a striding gait, paying scant heed to brambles or thickets or obstructing rocks. The rifle swung lightly in one hand. He almost forgot that he had it.
Nearer and nearer came Bogle, noisily threshing the undergrowth. In vain Brick made desperate spurts. In vain he twisted to right and left. He knew that he must soon be overtaken. He shuddered to think of what would happen then. He need hope for no mercy. Strength began to fail him. There was a throbbing pain between his eyes.
Suddenly he came to a fallen tree, with a thick copse of bushes behind it. He tried to mount the obstacle, but slipped back. Before he could make a second attempt, Bogle was at his heels.
“I’ve got you!” he cried. “Your time has come.”
Brick wheeled around like a panther at bay. He cocked the rifle, and pointed it at the ruffian.
“Stop!” he shouted. “I’ll shoot you if you come closer.”
“The gun’s empty, you fool!” exclaimed Bogle, with a mocking laugh.
He came on, fearlessly.
Brick thought the scoundrel was lying. In desperation he pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a dull snap.
But Brick was determined to make the most of his freedom. He eluded Bogle’s grasp and sprang over the tree, still holding the useless rifle. He plunged through the copse of bushes, and saw before him a strip of level, open ground, on which rested a thin covering of slushy snow. He went across in a dozen leaps, though more than once he sank above his ankles in what felt like soft mud. As he reached the bushes on the other side, he heard a shrill yell of terror behind him.