The Courage of Captain Plum Part 17

Nathaniel did not speak, and after a moment's silence Neil continued.

"The jury is a.s.sembling. We will know our fate very soon."

He rose to his feet, his words quivering with nervous excitement, and Nathaniel heard him kicking about in the straw. In another breath his voice hissed through the gloom in a sharp, startled command:

"Good G.o.d, Nat, come here!"

Something in the strange fierceness of Neil's words startled Nathaniel, like the thrilling twinges of an electric shock. He darted across the cell and found Marion's brother with his shoulder against the door.

"It's open!" he whispered. "The door--is--open!"

The hinges creaked under his weight. A current of air struck them in the face. Another instant and they stood in the corridor, listening, crus.h.i.+ng back the breath in their lungs, not daring to speak. Only the drip of water came to their ears. Gently Neil drew his companion back into the cell.

"There's a chance--one chance in ten thousand!" he whispered. "At the end of this corridor there is a door--the jailer's door. If that's not locked, we can make a run for it! I'd rather die fighting--than here!"

He slipped out again, pressing Nathaniel back.

"Wait for me!"

Nathaniel heard him stealing slowly through the blackness. A minute later he returned.

"Locked!" he exclaimed.

In the opposite direction a ray of light caught Nathaniel's eye.

"Where does that light come from?" he asked.

"Through a hole about as big as your two hands. It was made for a stove pipe. If we were up there we could see into the jury room."

They moved quietly down the corridor until they stood under the aperture, which was four or five feet above their heads. Through it they could hear the sound of voices but could not distinguish the words that were being spoken.

"The jury," explained Neil. "They're in a devil of a hurry! I wonder why?"

Nathaniel could feel his companion shrug himself in the darkness.

"Lord--for my revolver!" he whispered excitedly. "One shot through that hole would be worth a thousand notes to the girls!" He caught Marion's brother by the arm as a voice louder than the others came to them.

"Strang!"

"Yes--the--king!" affirmed Neil laying an expostulating hand on him.

"Hus.h.!.+"

"I would like to see--"

Even in these last hours of failure and defeat the fire of adventure flamed up in Nathaniel's blood. He felt his nerves leaping again to action, his arms grew tense with new ambition--almost he forgot that death had him cornered and was already preparing to strike him down.

Another thought replaced all fear of this. A few feet beyond that log wall were gathered the men whose bloodthirsty deeds had written for them one of the reddest pages in history--men who had burned their souls out in the destruction of human lives, whose pa.s.sions and loves and hatreds carried with them life and death; men who had bathed themselves in blood and lived in blood until the people of the mainland called them "the leeches."

"The Mormon jury!" Nathaniel spoke the words scarcely above his breath.

"I'd like to take a look through that hole, Neil," he added.

"Easy enough--if you keep quiet. Here!" He doubled himself against the wall. "Climb up on my shoulders."

No sooner had Nathaniel's face come to a level with the hole than a soft cry of astonishment escaped him. Neil whispered hoa.r.s.ely but he did not reply. He was looking into a room twice as large as the dungeon cell and lighted by narrow windows whose lower panes were on a level with the ground outside. At the farther end of the room, in full view, was a platform raised several feet from the main floor. On this platform were seated ten men, immovable as statues, every face gazing straight ahead.

Directly in front of them, on the lower floor, stood the Mormon king, and at his side, partly held in the embrace of one of his arms was Winnsome!

Strang's voice came to him in a low, solemn monotone, its rumbling depth drowning the words he was speaking, and as Nathaniel saw him lift his arm from about the girl's shoulders and place his great hand upon her head he dug his own fingers fiercely into the rotting logs and an imprecation burned in his breath. He did not need to hear what the king was saying. It was a pantomime in which every gesture was understandable. But even Neil, huddled against the wall, heard the last words of the prophet as they thundered forth in sudden pa.s.sion.

"Winnsome Croche demands the death of her father's murderer!"

Nathaniel felt his companion's shoulders sinking under his weight and he leaped quickly to the floor.

"Winnsome is there!" he panted desperately. "Do you want to see her?"

Neil hesitated.

"No. Your boots gouge my shoulder. Take them off."

The scene had changed when Nathaniel took his position again. The jury had left its platform and was filing through a small door. Winnsome and the king were along.

The girl had turned from him. She was deathly pale and yet she was wondrously beautiful, so beautiful that Nathaniel's breath came in quick dread as the king approached her. He could see the triumph in his eyes, a terrible eagerness in his face. He seized Winnsome's hand and spoke to her in a soft, low voice, so low that it came to Nathaniel only in a murmur. Then, in a moment, he began stroking the s.h.i.+mmering glory of her hair, caressing the silken curls between his fingers until the blood seemed as if it must burst, like hot sweat from Nathaniel's face.

Suddenly Winnsome drew back from him, the pallor gone from her face, her eyes blazing like angry stars. She had retreated but a step when the prophet sprang to her and caught her in his arms, straining her to him until the scream on her lips was choked to a gasping cry. In answer to that cry a yell of rage hurled itself from Nathaniel's throat.

"Stop, you h.e.l.l-hound!" he cried threateningly. "Stop!"

He shrieked the words again and again, maddened beyond control, and the Mormon king, whose self-possession was more that of devil than man, still held the struggling girl in his arms as he turned his head toward the voice and saw Nathaniel's long arm and knotted fist threatening him through the hole in the wall. Then Neil's name in a piercing scream resounded through the dungeon corridor and in response to it the man under Nathaniel straightened himself so quickly that his companion fell back to the floor.

"Great G.o.d! what is the matter, Nat? Quick! let me up!"

Nathaniel staggered to his feet, the breath half gone out of his body, and in another instant Neil was at the opening. The great room into which he looked was empty.

"What was it?" he cried, leaping down. "What were they doing with Winnsome?"

"It was the king," said Nathaniel, struggling to master himself. "The king put his arms around Winnsome and--she struck him!"

"That was all?"

"He kissed her as she fought--and I yelled."

"She struck him!" Neil cried. "G.o.d bless little Winnsome, Nat! and--G.o.d bless her!"

Neil's breath came fast as he caught the other's hand.

"I'd give my life if I could help you--and Marion!"

"We'll give them together," said Nathaniel coolly, turning down the corridor. "Here's our chance. They'll come through that door to relock us in our cell. Shall we die fighting?"

He was groping about in the mud of the floor for some object.