The Furnace of Gold Part 57

A sickening apprehension a.s.sailed him, however, within the minute. One of his cylinders was missing. His trained ear caught at the change of the "tune," and he felt his speed decreasing. He glanced back briefly, where the dusty lump of steel, like a red-hot projectile, thundered in his wake.

He beheld a sudden fan-like flare of dust in the cloud Van was making.

He even faintly heard the far report, and a grim joy sprang in his being.

Van had blown out a tire. Striking the high places, crowding on the speed, holding to a straight-away course like a merciless fate, the horseman heard an air cus.h.i.+on go, felt the lurch and lameness of the car, and steadied it back upon its road. He did not retreat by so much as a hair the lever advancing his spark. He did not budge the gas control, but left it still wide open. If all of his tires should blow out together he would not halt his pace. He would drive that car to destruction, or to triumph in the race.

Searle's rejoicing endured but the briefest span. His motor had begun again to splutter, in mechanical death. Then, with a sudden memory, sweat broke out on Bostwick's face. His gasolene was gone! He had thoroughly intended refilling his tank, having barely had a sufficient supply to run him from the claim to camp; and this had been neglected.

His car b.u.mped slowly for a score of yards, then died by the side of the road. He leaped out madly, to a.s.sure himself the tank was really dry. He cursed, he raved. It seemed absurd for this big, hot creature to be dead. And meantime, like a whirlwind coming on, Van Buren was cras.h.i.+ng down upon him.

"By G.o.d!" he cried, "I'll fix you for this!" and a wild thought flashed to his mind--a thought of taking Van Buren's car and fleeing as before.

He leaped in the tonneau and caught up a heavy revolver, stored beneath the seat. He glanced at the cylinder. Four of the cartridges only were unused. He remained inside the "fort" of the car, with the weapon c.o.c.ked and lowered out of sight.

Charging down like a meteor, melting its very course, Van and the red car came by leaps and plunges. He was shutting off the power gradually, but still rus.h.i.+ng up with frightening speed, when Bostwick raised his gun and fired.

The bullet went wide, and Van came on. Bostwick steadied and fired again. There was no such thing as halting the demon in the car. But the target's size was rapidly increasing! Nevertheless, the third shot missed, like the others. Would the madman never halt?

Bostwick dropped a knee to the floor, steadied the barrel on the cus.h.i.+on, lined up the sights, and pulled the trigger.

With the roar of the weapon Van abruptly drooped. The bullet had pierced his shoulder. And he still came on. His face had suddenly paled; his lips had hardened in a manner new to his face. He halted the car, aware that his foe had exhausted his ammunition, since no more shots were fired.

His own big gun he drew deliberately. To sustain himself, through the shock of his wound, was draining the utmost of his nerve. He was hardly ten feet away from the man who stood there, a captive in his car.

"Well, Searle," he said, "you're a better shot than I thought--and a better driver. In fact you drive so almighty well I am going to let you drive me back to camp." He arose from his seat. He was bleeding.

His left arm was all but useless. "Come down," he added. "Come down and take my seat. And don't make the slightest error in etiquette, Searle, or I'll see if a forty-some-odd ball will bounce when it lands on your skull."

Bostwick had expected to be shot on the spot. No cornered rat could have been more abjectly afraid. His nerve had oozed away the more for the grimness of the man who stood before him--a man with such a wound as that who was still the master of his forces!

He was terribly white. His teeth fairly chattered in his head. He had played a desperate part--and lost. The race and this present _denouement_ had shattered the man completely. He came down to the ground and stood there, silently staring at Van.

Despite his show of strength Van stepped with difficulty to the back of his car and seated himself within.

"Up in the seat there, Searle," he repeated, "and drive back at moderate speed."

Bostwick's surrender was complete. He climbed to the driver's position, still silently, and started the car in an automatic way that knew no thought of resistance. At the rear of his head Van held the gun, and back towards Goldite they rolled.

Two miles out the sheriff, in a borrowed car, grimly seated at the driver's side, came bearing down upon them. The cars were halted long enough for the sheriff to take his place with Searle, and then they hastened on.

Christler had instantly seen that Van was wounded. He as quickly realized that to rush Van to town and medical attendance was the only possible plan.

He merely said, "You're hurt."

Van tried to smile. "Slightly punctured." He was rapidly losing strength.

Christler thought to divert him. He shouted above the purring of the car.

"Found Matt all right. I'm goin' to take him back to the State authorities in that convict suit that's hangin' 'round the store."

Van was instantly aroused. "No you don't Bill! No you don't! I've got use for those stripes myself. You'll buy Matt the best suit of clothes in town, and charge the bill to me."

If Bostwick heard, or understood, he did not make a sign. He was driving like a servant on the box, but he could not have stood on his feet.

They were nearing the town. A cavalcade of hors.e.m.e.n, drivers of buggies, and men on foot came excitedly trooping down the road to meet the short procession.

Despite his utmost efforts, Van was gone. Weak from the loss of blood and the shock, he could hold up his frame no longer.

"Bill," he said, as the sheriff turned around, "I guess I'm--all in--for a little. Cold storage _him_, till I get back on my feet."

He waved a loose gesture towards Bostwick, then sank unconscious on the floor.

CHAPTER XLV

THE LAST CIGARS

Trimmer, the lumberman, not to be stayed, had broken in upon McCoppet ruthlessly, with perceptions unerring concerning the troubles in the air, when Lawrence was arrested. The gambler consented to an interview with instinctive regard for his safety. That something significant was laid on Trimmer's mind he felt with a subtle sense of divination.

The lumberman, smoking furiously, came to his point with utmost directness.

"Opal," he said, "I'm goin' away, and I want ten thousand dollars. I want it now. You owe me some you ain't paid up, and now I'm raisin'

the ante."

"You're raising bunions," McCoppet a.s.sured him softly, throwing away his unsmoked cigar and putting a fresh one in his mouth. "I'll pay you what I agreed--when I get the ready cash."

"Think so, do you, Opal?" inquired the lumberman, eying his man in growing restlessness. "I think different, savvy? I'm onto you and your game with Lawrence--you payin' him twenty thousand bucks to fake the reservation. I want ten thousand right away, in the next ten minutes, or you'd better pack your trunk."

McCoppet, startled by the accusation, watched the savage manner in which the lumberman ate up the smoke of his weed. He could think of one way only in which a man of Trimmer's mentality could have come upon certain private facts.

"So," he said presently, "you crawled in under this place, this floor, and caught it through the cracks."

"Knot-hole," said Trimmer gesturing, "that one over there. And I tell you, Opal, I want that money now. Do you hear? I want it now!" He smashed his heavy fist upon the table, and off flew the ash of his cigar.

"What will you do if I refuse?" the gambler asked him coldly. "Wait!

Hold on! Don't forget, my friend, that Culver's murder is up to you, and I'll give you up in a minute."

The lumberman rose. Every moment that pa.s.sed increased the danger to them both.

"Look a-here, Opal," he said in a threatening voice of anger, "I ain't a-goin' to fool with you no longer. Hear me shout? Culver's up to you as much as me. You stole the 'Laughin' Water' claim. There's h.e.l.l a-sizzlin' down the street right now--down to Lawrence's. If you don't cough up ten thousand bucks pretty p.r.o.nto----"

"So, Larry--so, you've split on me already," the gambler interrupted, rising and narrowing his gaze upon the bloated face. "You've peddled it maybe, and now you come to me----"

"I ain't peddled nuthin'!" Trimmer cut in angrily. "I didn't tell no one but Barger, and he ain't no friend of Van Buren's. But Lawrence is caught. Pratt run out the line, and now it's me that stands between you and trouble, and I want the money to stand."

McCoppet was far less calm than he appeared. How much was already really known to the town was a matter wholly of conjecture. And Trimmer's haste to cash in thus and probably vanish excited his gravest suspicions. He eyed his friend narrowly.