“Make one move,” said Dick in a voice of deathly calm, “and I’ll blow your brains out.”
The renegade Indian snarled like a cornered beast. Frazer’s first spasm of fear was followed by a low cry of rage. His unsteady, sinister eyes squinted into Dick’s, then with a lightning motion his hand flashed toward his belt.
The room roared with the explosion. Frazer’s revolver clattered to the floor. He held up a bleeding hand, like one scarcely crediting the evidence of his senses.
“Next time,” Dick growled, “I won’t be so easy on you. Move back to the wall, Mekewai, if you make another move like that, I’ll shoot you where you stand. Stand back!”
Wincing with pain, the former factor hurriedly obeyed. The Indian followed him. As they did so, Dick’s gaze flashed to the open roll-top desk and on that instant his eyes popped.
There on the flat surface in front of him were two large leather pokes—prospector’s pokes, bulging with gold. At sight of them, his heart leaped. He was so startled and astonished at seeing them there, that for a period he was off guard. Perceiving the momentary laxing of vigilance, the Indian dove headlong, straight toward Dick, who, recovering his presence of mind, tried to slip to one side and fire at the same time. The revolver exploded harmlessly, the bullet crashing into the wall opposite. Hurled back through the door, Dick landed in a heap just inside the trading room, Mekewai on top of him. But even then, Dick had not lost the instinct of self-preservation. His opponent’s head was just above him and he struck out boldly with his clubbed weapon. Mekewai groaned, went limp and slipped to one side. Dick scrambled to his knees just in time to dive furiously for the speeding form of Frazer, who had bounded through the open office door.
It was a glancing tackle, yet it was almost sufficient to knock Frazer from the perpendicular. Crashing up against the wall, the fleeing man inadvertently dropped one of the pokes and was trying to reach it when Dick made a second lunge for him.
Almost cornered, Frazer leaped frantically straight over Dick’s head and darted for the door. A bullet whistled after him, missing him by a scant two inches.
Dick groped to his feet, stepped over the prostrate heap on the floor and stumbled back into the little office, where he picked up Frazer’s revolver. Then returning quickly, he got the poke Frazer had dropped, slipped both revolver and gold under the counter in the trading room and was just stooping down to examine the unconscious prisoner, when the door of the loft opened and Toma, his face flushed with excitement, staggered toward him.
“Dick,” he trembled, “What happen? You shoot this man—you——”