Simon West.
Jack Flatray here, and about to be murdered! The thing was incredible. And
yet--and yet---- Was it so impossible, after all? Some one had broken into
the Cache and released the prisoners. Who more likely than Jack to have
done this? And later they had captured him and condemned him for what he
had done.
Melissy reconstructed the scene in a flash. The Indian squaw was West. He
had been rigged up in that paraphernalia to deceive any chance mountaineer
who might drop into the valley by accident.
No doubt, when he first saw Melissy, the railroad magnate had been passing
his time in making notes about his plans for the system he controlled. But
when he had caught sight of her, he had written the note, under the very
eyes of the guard, had torn the envelope as if it were of no importance,
and tossed the pieces away. He had taken the thousandth chance that his
note might fall into the hands of the person to whom it was directed.
All this she understood without giving it conscious thought. For her whole
mind was filled with the horror of what she had learned. Jack Flatray, the
man she loved, was to be killed. He was to be shot down in an hour.
With the thought, she was at her door--only to find that it had been
quietly locked while she lay on the bed. No doubt they had meant to keep
her a close prisoner until the thing they were about to do was finished.
She beat upon it, called to Rosario to let her out, wrung her hands in her
desperation. Then she remembered the window. It was a cheap and flimsy
case, and had been jammed so that her strength was not sufficient to raise
it.
Her eye searched the room for a weapon, and found an Indian tom-tom club.
With this she smashed the panes and beat down the wooden cross bars of the
sash. Agile as a forest fawn, she slipped through the opening she had made
and ran toward the far cabin.
A group of men surrounded the door; and, as she drew near, it opened to
show three central figures. MacQueen was one, Rosario Chaves a second; but
the most conspicuous was a bareheaded young man, with his hands tied
behind him. He was going to his death, but a glance was enough to show
that he went unconquered and unconquerable. His step did not drag. There
was a faint, grave smile on his lips; and in his eye was the dynamic spark
that proclaimed him still master of his fate. The woolen shirt had been
unbuttoned and pulled back to make way for the rope that lay loosely about
his neck, so that she could not miss the well-muscled slope of his fine
shoulders, or the gallant set of the small head upon the brown throat.