He stared into those uncertain depths, endeavouring to measure the distance, deceived by the shifting shadows, afraid of what lay hidden below. For the moment he forgot all that was behind him, his whole mind concentrated on the perils of so mad a leap into the dark. The awakening came suddenly, the chair jerked from beneath his feet, his body hurled backward. He fell, gripping at the window seat, so that he was flung against the support of a side wall, able to retain his feet, but not to wholly ward off a vicious blow, which left him staggering. Half blinded, West leaped forward to grapple with the assailant, but was too late. Hobart rushed back out of reach of his arms, and rapped sharply on the door panel. It opened instantly, and big Mike, closely followed by another man, pushed forward into the room. West was trapped, helpless; one man pitted against three. He backed slowly away, brushing tack the dishevelled hair from his eyes, watching them warily, every animal instinct on the alert.
Mike took one comprehensive glance at the scene, at the overturned chair, the half-open window, the trapped man crouching motionless against the further wall. The meaning of it all was plain, and his bar-room training gave quick insight as to the part he was to play. He spoke gruffly out into the dark of the hall behind him, an order to some one concealed there; then shut the door tightly, and faced West, his head lowered like a bull about to charge. West understood; he was locked in to fight it out--three against one. Hobart was nearest to him, his face swollen and red, his eyes ugly slits, with teeth snarling between thin lips. The fellow laughed sneeringly, as their glances met.
"Now we'll take care of you, Captain," he taunted. "Never mind his guns, Mike; there's not a load in either of them. Give the guy what he is looking for. Come on you terriers!"
But West did not wait. There was only one chance, and he took it--to carry the fighting to them. He had no doubt of the emptiness of his guns, and hurled one straight at Hobart's head, leaping forward with the other clutched in his hand straight at Mike, who had scarcely time to fling up one hand in defence. The thrown weapon missed its mark by a narrow inch, striking the wall behind, and falling clattering to the floor, but the other broke through the big saloon-keeper's guard, and sent him reeling to his knees, a gush of blood reddening his hair. Again and again West struck him, driving him prone to the floor before the other two dragged him away, wrestled the weapon from his hand, and closed with him in a desperate death grapple.