A cackling laugh that ended in a snarl.
“Yes, I saw him go!”
“So he got away all right? Thanks very much. He should be back by this time, with about thirty others.” Sanborn listened intently in an effort to ascertain whether or not his shot had gone home. Then—“They are only awaiting my signal.”
“Then why not signal, my dear Sanborn?”
A second later a shot rang out. Simultaneously a round hole, splintered at the edges, appeared in the upper panel of the door, and a bullet whistled past the detective and buried itself in the opposite wall. The hole in the panel was about two inches above Lambert’s head, and with protruding eyes the wretched man endeavored to shrink into the chair.
Bill and Sanborn dropped to all fours and were making for the window, when a second shot was fired. This time it came from outside the house and shattered the lower window sash. Both the detective and young Bolton went flat on the floor. Sanborn beckoned to Bill to move closer. As the lad wriggled over the carpet toward him, the older man spoke to him in a low whisper.
“Sorry I got you into this. When they rush the place, start firing. We may be able to fight our way out—one of us, anyway.”
“Maybe—but—too bad we’re a good four miles from town. If Osceola got away to telephone the police, it’s going to be a near thing before they get here. But all I want is to get one shot at old Fanely!”
As if in reply to his name, the high, wheezing voice spoke again from beyond the door. “You gentlemen in there,” and they heard a horrible chuckle, “will be interested to know that your friend Chief Osceola ran foul of my men, after all. He is now taking a well-earned rest in the lodge. Good night, my dear gentlemen. Pleasant dreams, and may you awake—in heaven!”
As if to place a period on this unanswered monologue, another shot splintered through the door panels.