She strained in frenzy, jerking, twisting—but ever keeping the muzzles pointed upward.
Stunned anew by the concussion so near his head, Douglas did not hear her panted command. Nor did his numbed brain turn him of his own accord toward his shotgun. Though he had carried that weapon habitually of late, he was not a born gun-fighter; and now, in his foggy condition, he acted only by primitive instinct. But he was acting. He had regained his feet, seizing the upturned chair as he rose; and now he was lurching forward, poising the chair for a crushing down-blow.
With a louder snarl Snake heaved himself backward, dodging away from the oncoming menace and swinging up his gun with all his power, striving to break the girl’s hold. But she hung on. Lifted clear of the floor, still she hung on. And Douglas, his senses quickening every instant, pressed in faster and harder.
“Got you!” Marion gasped. “Right into the house—where you—kilt my pop——”
Smash!
Glass shattered. Through the side window licked a length of dull steel. Douglas almost collided with it. He halted. It was another gun-barrel. And it covered Snake and Marion.
“Marry!” crackled a harsh voice. “Git ’way! He’s mine!”
Behind the cocked hammers of the gun glimmered a white face: a drawn, haggard face dominated by hollow eyes in which gleamed cold ferocity.
“Git ’way! Git back! Leggo that ’ere gun! I’m a-shootin’!” came the ice-edged voice again. But the commands ended in a cough, followed by a choked moan of pain. The muzzles wavered. Then they steadied again.
That voice, that face, that gun, seemed to freeze Snake. Fear shot athwart his contorted visage. His arms turned limp. Marion, feet again on the floor, hands still desperately clutching the steel, flashed a glance at the window, another at Snake—and tore the gun from his relaxing fingers. An instant too late he snatched for it. It was gone from him, and its muzzles—one impotent, but the other deadly—were four feet away, yawning at his face.