Very slowly he crept forward, always with one eye to his retreat. Why did
nobody answer the barking of the dogs? Was he being watched all the time?
But how could he be, since he was completely cloaked in darkness?
So at last he came to the nearest cabin, crept to the window, and looked
in. A man lay on a bed. His hands and feet were securely tied and a second
rope wound round so as to bind him to the bunk.
Flatray tapped softly on a pane. Instantly the head of the bound man
slewed round.
"Friend?"
The prisoner asked it ever so gently, but the sheriff heard.
"Yes."
"The top part of the window is open. You can crawl over, I reckon."
Jack climbed on the sill and from it through the window. Almost before he
reached the floor his knife was out and he was slashing at the ropes.
"Better put the light out, pardner," suggested the man he was freeing,
and the officer noticed that there was no tremor in the cool, steady
voice.
"That's right. We'd make a fine mark through the window."
And the light went out.
"I'm Bucky O'Connor. Who are you?"
"Jack Flatray."
They spoke together in whispers. Though both were keyed to the highest
pitch of excitement they were as steady as eight-day clocks. O'Connor
stretched his limbs, flexing them this way and that, so that he might have
perfect control of them. He worked especially over the forearm and fingers
of his right arm.
Flatray handed him a revolver.
"Whenever you're ready, Lieutenant."
"All right. It's the cabin next to this."
They climbed out of the window noiselessly and crept to the next hut. The
door was locked, the window closed.
"We've got to smash the window. Nothing else for it," Flatray whispered.
"Looks like it. That means we'll have to shoot our way out."
With the butt of his rifle the sheriff shattered the woodwork of the
window, driving the whole frame into the room.
"What is it?" a frightened voice demanded.
"Friends, Mr. West. Just a minute."
It took them scarce longer than that to free him and to get him into the
open. A Mexican woman came screaming out of an adjoining cabin.
The young men caught each an arm of the capitalist and hurried him
forward.
"Hell'll be popping in a minute," Flatray explained.
But they reached the shelter of the underbrush without a shot having been
fired. Nor had a single man appeared to dispute their escape.