CHAPTER XXII
THE MAN-TRAP
Held to the ground by the fallen tree trunk, Dexter could make no move in self-defense. His own pistol was buttoned in its holster, strapped to the right side of his body. His right arm was broken, and it was impossible to reach far enough over the trunk with his left hand to touch the butt of his weapon. He waited, quiet and relaxed, his eyes clear and unwavering as he gazed into the bore of a blue steel barrel, pointed exactly at the center of his forehead.
There being no help for it, he could resign himself to fate, even to the indignity of death at a murderer's hands. After all, it did not matter much how, or by whom, the act was accomplished. He at least might dignify the last moment of life by meeting it unflinchingly. Singularly, the habits of an inquisitive mind persisted even now. He found himself wondering, almost with tranquillity, what this final adventure would be like. Would he have time to see the flash of fire and to feel the shock before the great darkness engulfed him? He would know in a second or two, and he waited with a shadow of a smile on his lips, watching with wide open eyes.
Crill's finger was tightening very slowly on the trigger, as though he was purposely prolonging a moment of cruel enjoyment. But as Dexter stared upward, observing the gradual muscular contraction of the plump hand that gripped the rifle, an expert knowledge of firearms told him that another pound of pressure must discharge the weapon. The last instant had come; but as he instinctively stopped breathing, he heard a shout behind him, a commotion of rushing feet, and a human figure flung itself upon the outlaw, and struck violently at his outstretched arm.
A shattering explosion echoed across the brookside, a bullet spattered bark along the tree trunk, and the rifle spun through the air and fell into the snow near Dexter's head. Gazing upward in astonishment, the corporal saw the dark-faced stranger standing between him and his intended murderer.
Utter silence held for two or three seconds after the reverberation of the report had died. Then, with a sudden snarling sound in his throat, Crill stooped to recover his gun, and swung back savagely to confront the man who had interfered.
"You—you—" he raged in a voice that nearly choked him. "I'll lay you alongside him, you—you—" He broke off for lack of breath, and glowered hot and menacing at the small man who dared to face him.
The newcomer measured the gross bulk before him, and quietly shook his head. "Every time I look at you, Crill, you come within a hair's breadth of dying," he remarked in a mild, drawling voice. "I can't stand you. If you didn't mean ready money to me, delivered on the hoof, I'd have put a bullet through you months ago. Stand aside!"
Without pausing to note the effect of his speech, he turned to look down at Dexter. But before he found anything to say, an interruption came in the form of the giant Doucet.