It was Quade who got the water. He had to step over McClosky’s body which lay in the kitchen just inside the door.
Water did not help Faraday. He revived partially but he merely moaned and cried out incoherently. “Judy!” He called her name over and over.
“His skull’s fractured,” Quade said. “I don’t think he’ll do any talking today.”
Bonniwell turned toward Heinie. The roly-poly killer ducked out of the door.
“Get out your medicine chest,” Quade ordered Mrs. Egan. “Otherwise there’ll be one more dead man at Eagle’s Crag.”
Bonniwell made no objections. In fact he furthered Quade’s offer of treating Faraday. “Patch him up so he can talk by tonight. I’m sure he’s the guy.”
They moved Faraday to the couch and Quade treated the schoolteacher’s wounds. Judy Vickers hovered anxiously nearby, despite her mother’s sighing and muttering. Mrs. Egan’s medicine kit was a good one and Quade was able to help the injured man.
By that time Bonniwell and his men were searching outside for the hidden treasure. They ransacked the garage, the outbuildings and even moved boulders that lay here and there in the clearing.
Quade moved McClosky’s body out of the kitchen and Mrs. Egan cooked for everyone. Quade spent most of his time going back and forth, examining Faraday and soothing Judy Vickers. “He’ll be all right by this evening,” he assured her.
“And then those killers will start all over on him,” sobbed Judy. Quade couldn’t assure her about that. He knew that when the posse came he would himself be in vital danger.
It happened shortly after twelve o’clock. The mountain-top was still one moment; the next the quietness was shattered by a thundering roar. Jake Somers’ machine-gun. Bonniwell and the others immediately rushed to their car and began hauling out guns. They ran to join Jake who was standing up behind the boulder at the head of the road, still sending an occasional burst down the hillside.
Even before the first burst from Somers’ gun had ceased Oliver Quade was down from the veranda and walking toward Bonniwell’s car. He walked softly but with a determined step. He was a dozen feet from it when Bonniwell suddenly turned around and saw him.
“You!” he cried. “Your posse’s here, but you’re not going to welcome them.”
He had picked up a twin to Somers’ tommy gun from his car and he held it facing Quade, as he walked back toward him.
“Are you sure it’s a posse?” Quade asked quickly. “It might be some tourists?”
“Two cars full of them,” replied Bonniwell. “With rifles and tommy guns? Tourists, yeah!”
“But Jake fought them back!” cried Quade. “No harm done.”
“They went back around the turn, that’s all,” said Bonniwell. “You know what I promised you—”
“Wait!” cried Oliver Quade desperately. “I can tell you how to get away!”
The muzzle of Bonniwell’s gun did not waver. His eyes flashed though and Quade knew that he had struck a responsive note.
He said quickly, “Make a deal with them. You can’t take us all along as hostages, but you can tell ’em if they don’t let you go you’ll kill all of us up here. They couldn’t allow that.”
“What makes you think I’m not going to kill all of you anyway?” asked Bonniwell.
“Because you’ll die then yourself. My way you’ll have a chance. The posse came a long way. There won’t be any of them down below. Make them come up here and give you a head start. That’s all you’ll want, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that and the eighty grand. But they won’t miss a lousy, double-crossing book peddler!”
Quade knew that he had never been closer to death in all his life. “The money!” he cried. “I’ll find it for you!”
“Then it was you!” snapped Bonniwell.
“No, of course not. But I can find the money for you. I know I can. Give me twenty minutes — fifteen. Think of it, Bonniwell. A head start and eighty thousand dollars. What more can you want?”
“I’ll bite once more,” said Bonniwell. “But it’s the last time. I’ll make the deal with the posse and I’ll give you exactly fifteen minutes to find the money. If you don’t find it I’ll leave without it, but you won’t be alive then.”
“And if I do find it?”
“Then I’ll let you live.”
“Give me your word?” Quade asked eagerly.
Bonniwell hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “All right. I promise. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” He turned back to his pals and yelled down the mountain-side.
Oliver Quade turned toward the lodge and saw Judy Vickers running toward him.
“I heard!” she cried. “He’ll kill you if you can’t find the money.”
“I made the best of a bad deal,” said Quade. “But I’ve got to find that money.”
“But I’m sure you — it wasn’t you.!” exclaimed Judy Vickers. “Can you find it in fifteen — thirteen minutes?”
Quade looked at his watch. “It’s 11:12. I’ve got until 11:25. Please go back to the veranda. I’ve got to think — fast.”
Cummings was coming down from the veranda. Judy headed him back.
Quade looked around the two-acre plateau, the house, the garage and the outbuildings. He sighed and seated himself upon the ground. Eighty thousand dollars. Did it even exist? If it did, where was it?
Harold Thompson had been at Eagle’s Crag a week. He’d had ample opportunity of finding a good hiding place. The house? Bonniwell and his men had searched it thoroughly. Quade could forget it. They’d searched the other buildings, too.
The ground? Thompson could have come out one night and buried it in the ground. But if he had, Quade would never find it. Not in fifteen minutes. It would take six men many days to dig up every foot of the plateau.
Quade looked at the persons on the veranda. They were all there now — Mrs. Egan, Cummings, Judy, her mother and Danny Dale. Faraday was inside the house, injured and sleeping a drugged sleep.
One of those six was a double-killer and knew where the money was. One of them couldn’t talk, the others wouldn’t.
Quade shook his head. “Damn! Where would I hide eighty thousand dollars?”
Quade put himself in the place of Harold Thompson. Thompson was a fugitive from justice. He would be skittish. His two great concerns would be his own safety and the safety of the money. He wouldn’t take any chance of anyone stumbling on the money. He’d give considerable thought to a hiding place. He’d find a safe place, one where no one would think of looking. And people seldom looked in the most obvious place. Quade leaped to his feet. Quickly he approached the veranda.
“I think I know where it is!” he announced.
“Where?” everyone on the porch cried.
Quade looked at his watch. “I’ve got eight minutes left. I want everyone to remain here. When I come back, you’ll see the money.”
Quade passed into the house. He looked at Martin Faraday and saw that he was sleeping peacefully. Then Quade picked up the medicine kit. He carried it with him to the kitchen. He opened it up and looked over the bottles in it. He picked up one labeled ether. His eyes gleaming, he opened a cupboard door. Quickly he looked over the cans and bottles and packages in it. He took down one or two, also a china mixing bowl.
He began pouring things into the bowl and biting, acrid fumes stung his nostrils. He worked with difficulty because of his wounded, bandaged shoulder, but he persisted. And finally he poured a half gill or so of a yellowish liquid into a bottle and corked it. He slipped it into his pocket and went back through the house to the veranda.
The moment he stepped out of the house he saw Lou Bonniwell out in the clearing. The escaped convict was carrying a tommy gun.
“Quade!” the killer called.