The man’s actions indicated that he was no longer in the fray. He was writhing, as though in pain. But in that action lay his treachery.
Seeking to deceive his hidden foe, the big Chinaman huddled on the floor, and his left hand, out of sight from the doorway, obtained the knife that the right had dropped.
Cleve was crawling to his feet, his back turned toward the huge Chinaman. Up came that hidden left hand. Swinging into play, it drove the wicked blade straight for the center of Cleve’s back.
The action was deft and swift. Those firmly clenched fingers formed a fist that even a bullet might not loosen on the instant.
Quick though the assassin was, the hidden sharpshooter was swifter. His fourth shot sounded. The bullet, skimming a few inches away from Cleve’s back, reached its chosen mark — not the hand that held the knife, but the blade itself!
There was a sharp clack as the leaden missive clipped the blade. The knife was wrested from the hand that held it, as though plucked away by an invisible being.
Cleve Branch, staggering to his feet and drawing his revolver, found himself facing a trio of startled, bewildered Chinamen, whose death thrusts had been thwarted.
Who was this mysterious rescuer? Cleve did not know. He realized only that he had been saved from certain death; that he had found enemies where he had expected friends.
The attack had been frustrated by an unseen hand, and one lone comrade was ready to assist against a new onslaught.
THE menace of the first encounter had been its suddenness. Cleve had warning of the danger that was coming now — and he saw that he had much to fear.