Rayton: A Backwoods Mystery

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

The room was not elaborately furnished, but every piece was good of its kind. Mr. Banks worked busily, moving about stealthily on the toes of his great boots. He had shed his coat, by this time, and rid his right arm of the dangling length of rope. Atop the hinged slats of the bed he placed a substantial chest of drawers, thus reënforcing the barricade and squaring himself with the ingenious slats by one and the same move.

"It will take a bigger man than Wigmore to get in at me now," murmured the sportsman.

He was tremendously pleased with his job, but did not waste much time in admiring it. Now that he was secure from interruption for a while, at least, was the time to develop the possibilities of the window. He would try to attract the attention of some passer-by. If there did not happen to be any passer-by, which was frequently the case, in Samson's Mill Settlement, for hours at a time—then he would join the pieces of rope with which he had been bound, lengthen the result with a blanket, and lower himself into the free outside world. Old Wigmore might shoot at him through the panels of the door, but he was more than willing to take the risk of being hit by such blind shooting. Once outside, he felt that he would be safe. Not even the mad captain was mad enough to murder him in open sight of the road and fields. These reflections occupied his mind during the seconds in which he turned from his contemplation of the barricade. He made one step toward the window, and then——

"Halt!" exclaimed the voice of Captain Wigmore, shrill, clear and menacing. Banks halted, with a gasp, and turned his face toward the hateful sound. To his dismay, he beheld the devilish face of the old man leering horribly within seven feet of him, through a square and unsuspected aperture in the door. With a low cry of defiance and nervous fright, he tried to set his limbs in motion again. Would his feet never move? He seemed to pass through a whole minute of terrific but futile exertion. It was like a grotesque nightmare of childhood days—grotesque, but horrible. He saw the old man's hand appear beside the leering face. In the hand was that queerly shaped pistol. And still his feet clung to the floor as if they were lead! A dull, feeble, popping report came to his aching ears. And then something gripped his windpipe with huge, hard fingers; some one struck him to earth with a gigantic balloon; a blank wave curled about him, fell upon him, pounded the life from his battling lungs, and dragged him, limp and dead, to the unsounded depths.

Captain Wigmore had discharged his chemical pistol in the big sportsman's face. That is all. He had slipped the panel, cried halt, raised his hand, and pulled the trigger, all within two seconds of time.

When Mr. Banks recovered consciousness for the second time since crawling into Wigmore's house, he felt much worse than he had on the first occasion. He felt very, very sick at the very pit of his stomach. His poor head was in a terrible way. At one moment his brains seemed to be floating far above him, light and thin as smoke, and at the next they lay heavily, but loosely, in his sore skull, like a fragment of iron, sliding from side to side. He lay flat, and groaned. Half an hour passed before he ventured to sit up and open his eyes. Absolute darkness surrounded him. He felt about with his hands, and found that he was lying on a folded blanket. He inquired further, and discovered that his new lodging was nothing but a tiny closet, about seven feet deep, and four feet wide, with a steeply sloping roof. The roof was made of a series of sharp-cornered humps. He bumped his head against one of them—and that enlightened him. He was in a closet under a staircase. His fur coat had been left in the bedroom; but, fortunately, the closet was not very cold. After another and briefer rest upon the flat of his back, he decided to try a smoke. He thrust a hand slowly into one pocket, less slowly into another, then swiftly and desperately into pocket after pocket. All were empty! Not so much as a match had been left to him; not so much as a crumb of tobacco.

The rage which this discovery inspired in the breast of Mr. Banks was out of all proportion to the seriousness of his loss. The effect upon him was stupendous. Sandbagging, binding, and pistoling had all failed to lift him to such a height of resentment at this. Why, even he could not have explained. His big boots were left to him—and his voice, such as it was. He began to shout and stamp his feet on the floor. His voice limbered up, and grew in strength, until the dry-tongued cry became a gigantic bellow. The feet pounded up and down until they encountered the door; and then they began to swing back and forth. The door winced and shook at every blow. It was a strong door, however, hung on massive hinges, fastened with a big lock, and barred in three places with rods of iron. Wigmore had taken no chances with this door. He had fixed things this time so that his prisoner was put to stay. That was his idea, anyway.

At last, reeling and breathless from his exertions, Banks sank to the floor, and lay still and silent. For a little while his head span sickeningly, and his mind and senses lay torpid; but only for a little while. This outbreak had done him good—had revived him to the finger tips. He sat up presently and listened for the approach of his enemy. Surely all that bellowing and thumping would bring him.

"If he opens that door, pistol or no pistol, it'll be the end of him," remarked the New Yorker. And he meant it. He was ready for murder. He raised himself to his knees, ascertained the position of the door with his hand, and faced it, waiting in savage expectancy.

At last his straining ears caught a sound. It was a very faint sound, and it came from the left instead of from the door. It was repeated—a faint, furtive tapping, like the tapping of a flipped finger against plaster. He moved cautiously toward the sound. It came again. He put out his hand, and touched the rough lath and plaster of the wall. How frail the barrier felt! He stood up very cautiously. "It may be a mouse—and it may be Wigmore—but it is worth trying," he whispered. Then he swung his right foot backward slowly, and brought it forward with all the force that lay in that long and muscular shank. A sound of cracking plaster and splintered laths rewarded and encouraged him. He steadied himself, with one hand on the door and one on the slope of the staircase, and settled down to kicking. His boot was thick, his leg strong, and his heart in the job. Things cracked and smashed and splintered. At last he knelt and advanced an inquiring hand. The blackness was full of the dust of powdered plaster. He found a ragged-edged break in the wall, and thrust his hand into it.