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Updated: June 24, 2025
The man straightened and shaded his eyes toward them. Tressa was struggling with her father. He must not shoot again. The man watched. Presently he slowly raised his rifle. The thud of the bullet in the shack not two feet from Torrance's shoulder preceded the sound of the explosion. The rifle did not drop.
But in the scramble the contractor's right leg fell between the sleepers, and as his body turned for the final plunge, his foot caught and held. The leg snapped, but it held. Torrance's head, swinging down outside the trestle, crashed into one of the supports. And there he hung, unconscious. In the fleeting moments of the triple tragedy Koppy could not pull the trigger.
He had an idea that the impression on the warring elements would be increased by separate attacks. From another angle, therefore, silently and recklessly he fought his way into the mob. He had no thought of defence merely slugged, trusting to the surprise and speed of his attack to protect him. Five convulsed faces had fallen before the fury of Torrance's assault before there was resistance.
At any risk, until he could go to them with clean hands, he would not let the Police know he was still alive. He knew their relentlessness in the chase; and he must be free in order to redeem himself. That very night, straight from eaves-dropping at the bohunks' meeting, he had crept back to Torrance's stable and found it locked.
Ahead of the bullet his eye reached the shack beside the trestle, and Torrance's quick turn pointed out its course. Conrad, who kept no rifle at his shack, had to be satisfied with watching, mechanically completing his toilet where he stood. Mauve suspenders jerked to his shoulders brush slashing across his hair one hand to test the poise of his tie Conrad was preparing for eventualities.
And at its heels, obedient as sheep, were Torrance's two horses. Six hundred yards of open trestle before the fill-in at the other side! Mahon held his breath. . . . "Mother o' Mike!" The horses had trotted out to safety, and Murphy was capering gleefully about. Mahon rushed to the corner of the shack and looked about. The Indian was nowhere in sight.
A wild and fleeting wish that civilisation were nearer, wherein to hide himself, struggled with a goading appreciation of the comforts in Torrance's shack; for Werner often of late was oppressed with the futility of his present sphere as malcontent. His aberrant reflections were interrupted by Torrance's rising impatience. "Here, Werner, what is it? Speak up!"
Look as if they're loaded. Rush stuff, I suppose, for the line further west. . . . I hope they don't try to take Torrance's trestle at that gait; it would be an awful plunge." He returned thoughtfully to the table. "First time I've seen a speeder along here, except Torrance's and the contractor's at Mile 190. . . . I don't understand it." Helen closed the door firmly.
Then the trestle faded completely from his mind. Tressa where was she? "Stay here," he ordered, rushing to the door. "I'll bring the Police." Like a toy he lifted the speeder about, and with a heave of powerful legs sent it away to a flying start. But Torrance's reaction had carried him too far just too far. Tressa was safe.
In a puzzled way she looked first toward the spot where the squaw had fired from. Then she ran for the trestle. When she reached it Torrance's body lay on the grade. Mahon, at the sound of her feet, swung about and held out his arms. "Darling," he murmured, "you saved us. You haven't lost your aim." But she shook her head. "I fired to frighten. Some one else "
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