“Oh, I wouldn't! In the first place they probably wouldn't hear, for they are camped down in the corral. I suspected you might be something of a tigress, and preferred to fight it out with you alone. Then, even if they did hear, there would be no interference—I've got those fellows trained too well for that. Come on, Christie; you're helpless here.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are.”
He took a step toward her, his hands flung out. With one quick movement she sprang aside and extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into instant darkness. A few red coals glowed dully in the fireplace, but all else was dense blackness. Keith heard the movements of Hawley, as he felt his way uncertainly along the table, swearing as he failed to find the girl. Then, like a shadow, he glided through the partly open door into the room.
Chapter XI. The Fight in the Dark
Had the room been filled with men Keith could have restrained himself no longer. Whatever her past might be, this woman appealed to him strangely; he could not believe evil of her; he would have died if need be in her defence. But as it was, the ugly boast of Hawley gave confidence in the final outcome of this struggle in the dark, even a possibility of escape for them all. The gambler, assured of being confronted merely by a frail and not over-scrupulous woman, had ventured there alone; had stationed his men beyond sound; had doubtless instructed them to ignore any noise of struggle which they might overhear within. It was these very arrangements for evil which now afforded opportunity, and Keith crept forward, alert and ready, his teeth clenched, his hands bare for contest. Even although he surprised his antagonist, it was going to be a fight for life; he knew “Black Bart,” broad-shouldered, quick as a cat, accustomed to every form of physical exercise, desperate and tricky, using either knife or gun recklessly. Yet it was now or never for all of them, and the plainsman felt no mercy, experienced no reluctance. He reached the table, and straightened up, silent, expectant. For an instant there was no further sound; no evidence of movement in the room. Hawley, puzzled by the silence, was listening intently in an endeavor to thus locate the girl through some rustling, some slight motion. A knife, knocked from the table, perhaps, as she slipped softly past, fell clattering to the floor, and the gambler leaped instantly forward. Keith's grip closed like iron on his groping arm, while he shot one fist out toward where the man's head should be. The blow glanced, yet drove the fellow backward, stumbling against the table, and Keith closed in, grappling for the throat. The other, startled by the unexpected attack, and scarcely realizing even yet the nature of his antagonist, struggled blindly to escape the fingers clawing at him, and flung one hand down to the knife in his belt. Warned by the movement, the assailant drove his head into the gambler's chest, sending him crashing to the floor, falling himself heavily upon the prostrate body. Hawley gave utterance to one cry, half throttled in his throat, and then the two grappled fiercely, so interlocked together as to make weapons useless. Whoever the assailant might be, the gambler was fully aware by now that he was being crushed in the grasp of a fighting man, and exerted every wrestler's trick, every ounce of strength, to break free. Twice he struggled to his knees, only to be crowded backward by relentless power; once he hurled Keith sideways, but the plainsman's muscles stiffened into steel, and he gradually regained his position. Neither dared release a grip in order to strike a blow: neither had sufficient breath left with which to utter a sound. They were fighting for life, silently, desperately, like wild beasts, with no thought but to injure the other. The gambler's teeth sank into Keith's arm, and the latter in return jammed the man's head back onto the puncheon floor viciously. Perspiration streamed from their bodies, their fingers clutching, their limbs wrapped together, their muscles strained to the utmost. Keith had forgotten the girl, the negro, everything, dominated by the one passion to conquer. He was swept by a storm of hatred, a desire to kill. In their fierce struggle the two had rolled close to the fireplace, and in the dull glow of the dying embers, he could perceive a faint outline of the man's face. The sight added flame to his mad passion, yet he could do nothing except to cling to him, jabbing his fingers into the straining throat.
The negro ended the affair in his own way, clawing blindly at the combatants in the darkness, and finally, determining which was the enemy, he struck the gambler with the stock of his gun, laying him out unconscious. Keith, grasping the table, hauled himself to his feet, gasping for breath, certain only that Hawley was no longer struggling. For an instant all was blank, a mist of black vapor; then a realization of their situation came back in sudden flood of remembrance. Even yet he could see nothing, but felt the motionless figure at his feet.
“Quick,” he urged, the instant he could make himself speak. “The fellow is only stunned; we must tie and gag him. Is that you, Neb? Where is the girl?”
“I am here, Captain Keith,” and he heard the soft rustle of her dress across the room. “What is it I may do?”