“Yep,” said Quade. “I’ve read of them doing this in the South Sea Islands and South Africa. They say they signal fifty and sixty miles. All I want to signal is about fifteen miles. There’s a little village out there and someone surely ought to know the Morse code. They ought to have a telegraph office there, at least.”
“But look,” said Danny. “If you get a bunch of lawmen up here aren’t Bonniwell and his gang going to turn on us first?”
“Look, Bonniwell’s going to want that money today so he can get away tonight. Even if he gets the money I hardly think he’ll care much about leaving anyone behind here to tell he’d been here. And if he doesn’t get the money he’ll kill us. So….” Quade went on signaling with his home-made heliograph.
Ten minutes went by and there was no answering signal. Quade sighed, “You’d think someone would have seen the flashes.”
“It’s only a little after six,” said Danny Dale. “Maybe they’re not up yet over at that tank-town.”
“That’s an idea. Well, I’ll try again.”
He rested ten minutes, then tried again. And suddenly he caught a flash of light from the distance.
“They’re answering!” Quade exclaimed excitedly. “Look, there’s another flash.”
“I saw it,” said Danny Dale. “It came from that little town.”
“Here goes the message then,” said Quade grimly. He operated the heliograph swiftly and surely, spelling out the message in the Morse code of long and short flashes. At length he finished and said, “Now, we’ll see if they answer.”
He leaned out of the window, Danny Dale beside him, breathing hard. It came then — a bright flash of directed light. Then others.
“Y-e-s,” Quade spelled out. “They got it!”
“What’d you tell them?”
“About Bonniwell and the boys. And after a while—”
There was a violent explosion outside the door. Quade, whirling, saw splinters sticking out from the panels.
“Bonni—” began Danny Dale and then a bullet smashed the lock. Danny Dale yelped, and dropped to wriggle under the bed. Quade paled but held his ground. The man outside smashed in the door with his foot. Then he stood in the doorway. It was Bonniwell, with a huge automatic in his fist and a snarl twisting his mouth.
“You sneaking double-crosser!” he said, his tone cold with intense fury.
Quade backed a couple of steps until he collided with a chair. His hands went behind his back and caught hold of it. “What do you mean, Bonniwell?” he asked thickly.
“That mirror stuff. You think I didn’t see the flashes. Yah, I ain’t that dumb. I know you was signaling and—” His face worked and then Quade brought the chair up and around in a violent swing. He anticipated Bonniwell by a fraction of a second, but of course he couldn’t beat a bullet.
The chair was off the floor, beginning its arc when a bullet smashed against Quade’s left shoulder like a giant fist and hurled him back against the wall. He ricocheted from it to the floor, landing on hands and knees. A thousand Niagaras were suddenly roaring in his ears, a red haze swirled before his eyes. Quade fought to retain his grip on things. He half lifted himself up on his hands and then one of the Niagaras burst over his head and he fell… down… down… into oblivion.
The roaring was the last thing he heard when he passed out. Water was the first thing he felt when he came to, dripping water, cool and soothing on his fevered brow.
Quade opened his eyes and looked up into the white face of Judy Vickers. He grinned. “I’m still here.”
“With a bullet in your left shoulder,” she replied, soberly. “And if Bonniwell discovers you’re not dead he’ll put another bullet in you.”
Quade sat up and fought giddiness for a moment. Gingerly he felt his left shoulder with his right hand. There was a thick bandage already wrapped around it. “You did this, Miss Vickers? Thanks. Where are the rest?”
“Bonniwell and his men are getting ready for a siege.”
Quade frowned. “I had hoped they’d light out instead. But out there he couldn’t possibly hope to last another day or two. The mountains are swarming with posses. He figures this is as good a place as any for the last fight. And he’s right, of course.”
“You’re very lucky, you know,” said Judy Vickers. “McClosky — wasn’t.”
Quade exclaimed. “Bonniwell killed him?”
She shook her head. “He says not, but this morning McClosky was found in the kitchen with his head smashed in with a stove poker.”
“Stove poker? Bonniwell or his men wouldn’t have bothered with that. I guess the same man who got Thompson finished McClosky. He knew something. I suspected it.”
“There was a hypodermic needle in his pocket.”
“Ah? That’s what made the rattlesnake punctures in Thompson. McClosky found the needle and knew who had thrown it away.”
“Miss Vickers!” called a voice from out in the hall. “Judy Vickers!”
“Here,” replied Judy.
Danny Dale bobbed into the room. He grinned when he saw Quade sitting up. “I knew it was just a shoulder wound, but I didn’t tell Lou. He would have slipped you a couple more.”
“That was mighty decent of you,” said Quade dryly. “How come you didn’t get one yourself? You were in here with me.”
“Oh, I talked him out of it,” said Danny Dale glibly.
“From under the bed?” Quade rose to his feet. “What’s going on downstairs?”
“Lou wants everybody down there. He’s plenty burned up about things and my hunch is that it’s going to be an interesting session.”
Judy Vickers looked at Quade, her forehead creased. “He’s been after Marty and Mr. Cummings all morning.”
Quade sighed. “I guess we’d better go though, or he’ll be coming up here.”
Everyone on the mountain-top, with the exception of Jake Somers, was gathered in the livingroom. Lou Bonniwell’s eyes flashed when Oliver Quade came in with Judy and Danny Dale. “My aim’s gettin’ lousy,” he said, “but I’ll talk the thing over with you again in a little while. Right now, his tone became brittle, “I want to find that roll!”
Frederick Cummings was jittery. Martin Faraday was trying to be calm, but not doing a good job of it. The women, even Mrs. Egan, were frightened.
“The cook,” said Bonniwell. “None of my boys finished him. So it was one of you birds. I figure McClosky knew something and one of you shut him up. Now which one was it?”
“Not me,” cried Frederick Cummings, trembling visibly.
Faraday looked scornfully at him. He remained quiet.
Bonniwell gestured in a frenzy. He looked suddenly like a dog gone mad. Quade could understand now why the man was such a cold-blooded killer.
“Monk, grab the girl and give her a working over. One of them will talk or else.”
Mrs. Vickers shrieked. The perspiration rolled off Cummings’ face, but he made no move. Faraday did. He stepped up beside Judy Vickers. “Keep your hands off her,” he said to Monk who was advancing, his long gorilla-like arms swinging at his sides.
Roly-poly Heinie Krausmeyer grinned vacantly and stepped up to Marty Faraday. The gun in his hand swished up and clouted Faraday along the right side of his face. Faraday yelped in pain and went down to his knees. Heinie struck him again, on the top of his head. Faraday fell flat to the floor and lay still.
“You fool!” snarled Bonniwell. “How can he talk now?” He looked at Cummings. “You white-livered coward,” he sneered. “You wouldn’t talk even if I cut off her nose.”
Judy Vickers dropped to her knees beside Marty Faraday. “Mother, get some water. He’s hurt, badly.”