Sargent stared up at him, bewildered. The package slipped out of his hand to the floor. As he struggled to his feet, he found himself trembling violently with the sudden realization of what Phelps meant to do. He stood perfectly still for a second, attempting to decide upon his own course. There was only a moment or two in which to act, and every second Phelps was watching him intently. His power of the courtroom was nothing now—the force of words was gone. His lips were tight drawn; even the mere act of speaking was an impossibility.
The pistol lying on the table shone with a metallic glint. Suddenly he knew that he must get it away from Phelps at any cost. Gathering all his forces, he made a dash toward it. When his fingers had closed upon it, he felt Phelps' iron grip upon his arms.
"Give it up! You fool!" cried the outlaw. "D'you think I'm goin' to change my mind because you do!"
They struggled across the dark room, Sargent edging toward the door, an inch at a time. When he had almost reached it, dragging, writhing, twisting himself in Phelps' grip, he felt his strength suddenly leave him.
"Wait—Phelps—wait," he gasped. "I did not mean—this—I meant—"
"Let go—let go—and stop—your—talking! Let go, I say! You won't? Well—take that!"
Sargent felt himself spinning through the darkness. As his head struck the heavy bar of the window he heard a crashing sound, as if the walls of the jail were falling together, then a brilliant flash—afterwards, dead, black silence.
A few minutes later, he opened his eyes. There was a bright light in the cell, and several men were moving about excitedly. The whole place was filled with the stifling odour of powder. On the floor, a foot away from him, lay the stiffening body of Jacob Phelps.
CHAPTER VIII
THE CAPTAIN'S JOKE