She sprang towards the saloon stairs.
"Do you hear that?" she cried in a ringing voice. "There are Indians
on board. Come! We must not stay here when our friends are fighting
for their lives."
Christobal knew that this active girl would readily outstrip him in a
race to the deck. She was already several feet distant, but he must
detain her, no matter what the cost; if she fell into the clutches of
the ghouls then over-running the Kansas, she might not be killed, but
only wounded, and her sufferings would be inconceivable ere the end
came.
"You are wrong," he shouted with convincing vehemence. "But, if you
wish to see for yourself, at least allow me to go first."
While he was speaking, he ran forward. She thought he meant what he
said, and waited for him. Then he caught her right arm firmly in his
left hand.
"Let us wait here a moment or two," he breathed.
"No, no; I am going now. You shall not hold me back. You don't
understand. The man I love is up there, perhaps surrounded by savages.
Let me go, I tell you! If he is dying I shall die by his side. Let me
go! Would you have me strike you?" She turned on him like an angry
goddess, and strove to wrest herself from his grip. At that instant
Tollemache and Frascuelo, the only survivors of the deadly struggle
forward, were driven back by a rush of Indians. They caught sight of
others leaping down the bridge companion.
"To the saloon, Courtenay!" roared Tollemache, clearing a path for
himself with an iron bar which he swung in both hands. Followed by
Frascuelo, he jumped inside the saloon gangway. Four savages followed,
two entering through the doorway behind him. One raised a hatchet-like
implement, and would have brained the Englishman had not Christobal
whipped out his revolver and shot him through the body, releasing the
girl's wrist in his flurry. The Indian pitched headlong down the
stairs, falling limply at Elsie's feet. She stooped over the
terrifying figure and seized the man's weapon. Her eyes shone with a
strange light. She felt her arms tingle. A wonderful power seemed to
flow through her body, like a gush of strong wine. She was assured
that she, unaided, could beat down all the puny, despicable creatures
who barred the path to her lover. She vaulted over the writhing form
of the Alaculof, and made to climb the stairs, but Christobal,
admirably cool, fired again and brought another Indian to his knees.
The second Indian's fall caused Frascuelo to trip; and the Chilean,
locked rib to rib with a somewhat sturdy opponent, rolled into the
saloon. Elsie drew back just in time, or the two men would have
knocked her down. Even as they were turning over on the steep steps
she saw Frascuelo's knife seek that favorite junction of neck and
collar-bone which Christobal had said was so well understood by those
of his ilk. At the foot of the stairs the Indian lay still, and
Frascuelo tried to rise. She helped him gladly. The awfulness of this
killing no longer appalled her. Each dead or disabled Indian was one
less obstacle between her and Courtenay. A third time the revolver
barked, but Christobal missed. It did not matter greatly, as
Tollemache had shortened his bar, using it twice as a miner delves at a
rock. But the doctor did not forget that he had only three cartridges
left, two of which were bespoke long before the fight began.