Pulling my flask from my pocket, I look a long drink, and the neat spirit gradually warmed me. Then I sat down in the semi-darkness to think.
Suddenly an inspiration came to me. Taking out my medicine-case I quickly charged a syringe with whisky. This frail thing, in case of attack, was my only weapon, with the exception of the cracked bottle holding the candle.
As I crouched there in the attic there came crowding into my memory stories of lonely travellers lost on these plains who had left not even a button to tell how or where they had gone. There had been talk during the last month of at least three men, settlers near the Fort, who had mysteriously vanished, leaving not the faintest clue to their whereabouts. At first their disappearance had been put down to raiding parties of Utes, but careful scouting by some of the best men disproved this theory.
Why should these thoughts come to me now? I asked myself, uneasily. Could that villainous-looking giant below have had anything to do with the disappearances? Lying prone, I peered cautiously through the trap, striving to see what was going on below. Indistinctly I saw the big man fill his tin cup three times and drain it off, muttering the while. Then, struck by a sudden inspiration, I went back to the bed, pulled off my coats, and heaped them up in a bundle on the bed to resemble as much as possible a sleeping form. Next I took off my boots and hat and placed them also in such a position, partly covered with the blankets, as to suggest the idea that, worn out with fatigue, I had thrown myself down to sleep fully clothed. Then I blew out the light and, keeping the bottle in my hand, crept again to the opening by the ladder head.
What I saw made my blood, which was chilly already, go colder yet.
The big man was taking off his overcoat. He threw it to the floor, and from his waist detached a belt from which dangled a heavy revolver and a long bowie-knife. The latter he drew from its sheath, running his thumb caressingly along the edge; then he laid it on the table.
Crossing the room he returned with an iron bar about three feet long. I heard it ring as he dumped it down on the table near the knife.
Then, tossing off more whisky—this time from the demi-john—he snatched up the bar and lantern and unsteadily approached the ladder. So my half-formed suspicions were correct; he meant to murder me!
With my heart beating like a sledge-hammer, I silently crouched behind the bed.
Never, if I live to be a hundred, shall I forget the next few minutes. He emerged through the opening, tiptoed to the bed, swung up the bar, and with a dull thwack brought it down just where my head might have lain. Again and yet again he thrashed and beat the tumbled clothes. Then, as he paused, from my place of concealment I squirted the whisky from the syringe straight into his eyes. Dropping the bar, he staggered and rubbed at his eyes, swearing horribly. As he reeled, half blinded, I sprang up and brought the bottle down with all my strength on his head, at the same time giving him a sideways push that sent him crashing through the opening to the floor below.