He was in the midst of an Oriental nightmare. This room was dimly lighted by swaying Chinese lanterns. The three Chinamen, writhing on the floor, seemed grotesque in their odd garbs. Cleve had no dread of them now.
His eyes were staring about the dim room, peering at challenging yellow faces.
A singsong cry was passing back and forth. The name “Wu-Fan” was uttered in a weird, hostile tone. The pause seemed minutes long — yet it could not have been more than several seconds.
Strange eyes were peering from openings in the opposite wall. A chattered gabble was telling what had happened. Amidst the lull, Cleve raised his revolver as a threat, and began to back toward the door where he knew that safety lay.
The effect of his action was startling. It was the spark that kindled the fire of rage among the foeman. One purpose dominated the entire throng of Chinese: that their victim should not depart alive.
If Cleve had supposed that his enemies were armed only with long, wicked knives, he now learned his mistake. As though by given signal, a dozen revolvers flashed into view.
Cleve did not wait for the firing to start. He blazed away with his revolver, straight at the nearest group of opponents. One Chinaman fell. The others dropped behind the shelter of the tables.
Like rats, these Mongols had slipped out of sight, and opened fire from their ambuscades.
As he sought the protection of a table, Cleve fired at spots where his enemies had been. He aimed well, but his plan could never have succeeded.
He was one against many, and the odds were impossible. His one lone revolver might account for a few of the attackers; but doom was inevitable. Cleve could never make that short dash to the door and expect to arrive alive.