"Put it up," said Curly, with the anger of his disappointment.
They waited and listened; the switchman's voice was heard no more; he must have gone away.
"He'll blow us to the railroad coppers. Now's our only chance!"
They went to the door, leaped out, bent their heads and ran. And instantly, with the howl of the hunter, the men in the lumber-yard, not knowing Archie or Curly or what they had done, or whether they had done anything, left their work and ran after them, raising the old hue and cry of English justice. Even the engines in the yards joined by sounding sharp, angry blasts on their whistles, and behind the little group that was rapidly becoming a mob, raced the switchman with two of the railroad's detectives.
As swiftly as they could, in their stiffness and their hunger and their cold, Archie and Curly ran down the long yards, over cinders and uneven ties. They ran for a quarter of a mile and the yard narrowed, the tracks began to converge, to unite, marking the beginning of the main line. On either side rose the clayey banks, ahead there was a narrow cut with an elevated crossing; near this was a switchman's shanty. Just then something sang over their heads, a musical humming sound. They knew the sound a bullet makes and dodged into the switchman's shanty, slammed the door behind them, locked it and, a moment later, were at bay with the mob. The crowd surged up to the very door, flung itself against the shanty. Then Curly called:
"Stand back!"
The cry of the crowd was given in a lower, angrier tone; again it hurled itself against the door, and the little shanty, painted in the yellow and white of the railroad, rocked. Another shot pierced the shanty, splintering the boards above their heads. Then Archie stepped to the little window, thrust out his revolver. There was an angry cry outside, then stillness; the crowd gave way, withdrew, and kept its distance.
"Don't push the rod!" Curly commanded. "What in hell ails you?"
"Oh, sin not leery! I'll plug 'em for keeps!"
Curly looked into Archie's white face.
"Are the bulls tailing on?" he asked.
"They're coming strong! Listen!"
"We'd better cave!" urged Curly.
"Like hell!" Archie replied. "They don't drop me without a muss now.
If you want to flunk--"
Curly's face flamed and his little eyes pierced Archie.
"Look out, young fellow!" he said, taking a sudden step toward him.
Archie looked at him with a sneer. Then Curly stopped.
"Look here, Dutch," he said. "Don't be a fool. We're--"
"I've told you what I'll do," said Archie, all the dogged stubbornness of his nature aroused. Then Curly seemed to lose interest. Outside they could hear the crowd again.
Half an hour passed. They heard the clang of a gong in the near-by street.
"The pie wagon," said Curly.
Archie was quiet. There was a cheer, then a voice, deep, commanding and official:
"Surrender in the name of the law!"
Curly looked a question at Archie.
"What ails you to-day?" asked Archie. "Lost your nerve?"
"I haven't lost my nut."
"We'll give you three minutes," said the voice, "then if you don't come out, holding up your hands, we'll fire."
For what seemed a long time there was utter quiet, then bullets tore through the pine boards of the little shanty and Archie sprang to the window and fired. Curly was squatting on the floor. Archie fired again, and again, and yet again.
"I've only got one left," he said, turning from the window.
"All right, then we'll cave."
Curly got up, went to the door, flung it open and held up his hands.
The mob cheered.
But Archie stayed. The officer called again, Curly called, the crowd called; then the shooting began again. Presently Archie appeared in the doorway and looked about with a white, defiant face. And there, before him, a rod away, stood Kouka, revolver in hand. He saw Archie, his brow wrinkled, and he smiled darkly.
[Illustration: Archie looked about with a white, defiant face]
"You might as well--" he began.
Archie looked at him an instant, slowly raised his revolver above his head, lowered it in deliberate aim, fired, and Kouka fell to his knees, toppled forward with a groan and collapsed in a heap on the ground, dead.
The crowd was stricken still. Archie stood looking at Kouka, his eyes burning, his face white, his smoking revolver lowered in his hand. A smile came to his pale, tense lips. Then the crowd closed in on him; the policemen, angry and ferocious, caught and pinioned him, began to club him. The crowd pressed closer, growing savage, shaking fists at him, trying to strike him. Suddenly some one began to call for a rope.
Then the policemen, so eager a moment before to wreak their own vengeance on him, were now concerned for his safety. A sergeant gave a command; they dragged Archie toward the patrol wagon. The crowd surged that way, and Archie, bareheaded, his yellow hair disordered, his eyes flashing, his white brow stained with blood, stared about on the policemen and on the crowd with a look of hatred. Then he glanced back to where some men were bending over Kouka, and he smiled again.
"Well, I croaked him all right," he said.
A patrolman struck him with a club; and he staggered as the blow fell with a sharp crash on his head.
"Get on there!" said the sergeant, cursing him. He was thrown into the patrol wagon beside Curly, and he sat there, white, with the blood trickling in two streams from his forehead, his eyes flashing, and the strange smile on his lips whenever he looked back where Kouka lay. The patrol wagon dashed away.
VI
Marriott was sensible of a hostile atmosphere the moment he entered the police station. The desk sergeant glanced at him with disapproval, kept him waiting, finally consulted an inspector, blew savagely into a speaking tube, and said:
"Here's a young lawyer to see Koerner."
The contemptuous description, the tone, the attitude, all expressed the hatred the police had for Archie, a hatred that Marriott realized would extend itself to him for taking sides with Archie. The turnkey, a thin German with cheek-bones that seemed about to perforate his sallow skin, a black mustache, and two black, glossy curls plastered on his low forehead, likewise scowled and showed reluctance.
"How many damned lawyers," he said, taking a corn-cob pipe from his mouth, "is that feller going to have, anyway?"
"Why," asked Marriott in a sudden hope that ignored the man's insolence, "have there been others?"
"Humph!" said the turnkey, jangling his heavy keys. "Only about a dozen."