Turning on his heel, Ross passed out of the room.
CHAPTER SIX
A FORLORN HOPE
When Ross stepped out into the darkness his first thought was that he would make a dash for liberty. This hope died almost before it was born, though, for he felt the muzzle of a revolver pressed close to his ribs and Garfin’s rasping voice growled into his ear:
“Make just one move fer a break an’ I’ll plug ya. The boss says he’s goin’ to hang ya in the morning, but I’d like to save him tha trouble.”
Ross knew that Garfin was not indulging in idle words. The gunman would gladly kill him. Then, too, out in the shadows another form kept them close company. He knew this was Poole and that should he succeed in worsting Garfin his chance of escaping the second gunman’s bullets was very remote. No, the time was not yet.
The three trudged back to Ross’s one-room prison, and it was only a minute or two until the door had slammed on him, the bolt had fallen into place and the lock snapped its vicious message.
He was once more a prisoner.
Ross sought in the darkness for the crude chair and threw himself down into it. He knew that for the time being there was no chance of escape, so he gave himself up momentarily to a contemplation of his plight.
Who was this strange girl whom he had rescued, only to have her vanish into the night? Why had she not spoken tonight? Why had she given him no hint of action? Who was Beebe, that he would accept a betrothal which was obviously odious to the girl? And, lastly, who was Ward with his mad eyes?
Who was Waring, and what had he done to merit such malicious vengeance on the part of Ward?