“I beat the traitor and—and—I broke him with—my hands!”
CHAPTER XXII
THE PROMISE OF DREAMS
SOLDIERS seized the young man, who made no offer at resistance, and the room became a noisy riot. Crowds surged up from below, clamoring, questioning, till some one at the head of the stairs shouted down:
“They’ve got Roy Glenister. He’s killed McNamara,” at which a murmur arose that threatened to become a cheer.
Then one of the receiver’s faction called: “Let’s hang him. He killed ten of our men last night.” Helen winced, but Stillman, roused to a sort of malevolent courage, quieted the angry voices.
“Officer, hold these people back. I’ll attend to this man. The law’s in my hands and I’ll make him answer.”
McNamara reared himself groaning from the floor, his right arm swinging from the shoulder strangely loose and distorted, with palm twisted outward, while his battered face was hideous with pain and defeat. He growled broken maledictions at his enemy.
Roy, meanwhile, said nothing, for as the savage lust died in him he realized that the whirling faces before him were the faces of his enemies, that the Bronco Kid was still at large, and that his vengeance was but half completed. His knees were bending, his limbs were like leaden bars, his chest a furnace of coals. As he reeled down the lane of human forms, supported by his guards, he came abreast of the girl and her companion and paused, clearing his vision slowly.
“Ah, there you are!” he said, thickly, to the gambler, and began to wrestle with his captors, baring his teeth in a grimace of painful effort; but they held him as easily as though he were a child and drew him forward, his body sagging limply, his face turned back over his shoulder.
They had him near the door when Wheaton barred their way, crying: “Hold up a minute—it’s all right, Roy—”