But West did not wait. There was only one chance, and he took it—to carry the fighting to them. He had no doubt of the emptiness of his guns, and hurled one straight at Hobart's head, leaping forward with the other clutched in his hand straight at Mike, who had scarcely time to fling up one hand in defence. The thrown weapon missed its mark by a narrow inch, striking the wall behind, and falling clattering to the floor, but the other broke through the big saloon-keeper's guard, and sent him reeling to his knees, a gush of blood reddening his hair. Again and again West struck him, driving him prone to the floor before the other two dragged him away, wrestled the weapon from his hand, and closed with him in a desperate death grapple.
What followed he never could relate. He was mad with fury of the fight. A mere animal defending life with every means at hand, caring nothing for either wound or hurt so that he won out in the end. Mike was out of it, but the two grappling him fought like wild cats, rough barroom fighters, resorting to any tactics to disable their opponent. Yet it was this that saved him. Crazed as he was, madly as his brain whirled in the fierce struggle, his long training held supreme—he knew how to fight, remembered instinctively every trick and guard. Again and again his clinched fist reached its mark, and slowly he broke away from clutching hands, and regained his feet. It was a terrific struggle, but luck, as well as skill, was with him. The next he knew, out of the red ruck, was that he had Hobart by the throat, jammed against the wall, with fingers clinched in the throat. Then he saw the other coming, a dim, shapeless thing, that he kicked at viciously. The boot must have landed, for he was suddenly free to strike the purple face fronting him, and fling the helpless rocking body in a huddled mass on the floor.
By God, it was over with; he had won breathing space, a chance to see what was about him. Yet that was all. The fellow he had kicked was already up, doubled from the pain of the blow, but with mad eyes glaring at him. Hobart had struggled to his knees, cursing fiercely as he swept the blood out of his eyes. They would both be on him again in a minute, more desperate than ever, and the door was locked—there was no chance there. The window! Ay! there was the window. Death either way, yet a chance; and he was man enough to take it. He leaped on the chair, and clambered up; he heard Hobart swear, and felt the grip of a hand on his dangling leg; kicked himself free, and was on the ledge. He never looked below, or took time to poise for the leap. Heedless, desperate, scarcely realizing what he was doing, he flung his body out over the edge, and fell.
CHAPTER XVIII
UNDER COVER
The shed roof was below, and he struck it, fortunately feet first, but the sharp slant of the boards sent him hurtling forward over the edge into a miscellaneous pile of boxes beneath, his body finally resting on the hard ground. He lay there dazed, the breath knocked entirely out of him, bruised, and scarcely certain whether he was dead or alive. For the moment, he seemed to have lost all consciousness, unable to realize even what had occurred in that upper room, or to comprehend the necessity of immediate flight. All about him was intense darkness, and, after the crash of his fall, no sound broke the silence. He could see nothing, hear nothing to arouse his faculties; his flesh quivered with pain, although he felt sure no bones were fractured, for he could move both arms and limbs freely, while after the first shock, his mind returned to activity, dominated by the single conviction that he must get away from there before those men could get down stairs.
But how? He retained no strength, no ability to use his limbs sufficient to carry him away from the neighbourhood swiftly. He felt paralysed, numb, even his brain functioning strangely, the danger of his helpless condition its only incentive to action. He endeavoured to rise, rolling partially over in the effort which failed, but the movement, slight as it was, left one hand dangling over an excavation at his right. His fingers explored the edge of this opening cautiously, revealing a cellar-way, leading down into the basement. The opening was black, silent, mysterious, yet it was a hiding place. If he could manage to roll down those steps into those depths below, he might hide there unseen, until he regained strength, until the first effort at pursuit had been abandoned. Then there might be a chance for escape.
West grasped the idea clearly enough. Those fellows would be there swiftly. If they found him gone they would have no doubt but what he landed safely, and had made a get-away. They would search, of course, perhaps out into the alley, hoping he might have been injured, but it was hardly probable they would think to explore the cellar. Even if they did, he could surely creep into some dark corner where he might escape observation. Anyway, crippled as he was, this offered the one and only chance. He could not argue and debate; he must act.
He rolled over, and lowered himself down into the opening, locating the half-dozen broken and rotted steps with his feet. He made no attempt to stand, but simply slid down, finding a partially closed door at the bottom, the passage-way blocked by a litter, the exact nature of which could not be determined in the darkness. With some difficulty, and more than ever conscious of his weakness, and the pain of bruises, he managed to crawl over this pile of debris, and crouch down finally in the intense blackness within. He felt like a trapped rat, still gasping for breath, his body quivering from exertion.
Yet his retreat had been none too rapid. The silence above was broken by the creak of an opening door, the sound of excited voices, and a sudden gleam of light, finding entrance through the open cellar-way. West startled, crept back into a corner, every nerve alert at approaching peril. He recognized Hobart's voice, as the fellow plunged down the steps from the first floor out into the yard.