CHAPTER SEVEN
I
‘THEY’RE Barrett’s men!’ I said, pushing Paula back into the tunnel. They can’t have seen you. I’m going out there to draw them off. The moment you think they’re out of the way, make a dash for it. Grab one of their trucks if you can. Get to a telephone and call Mifflin. Bring him out here in a hurry. Okay?’
In an emergency, Paula never argued. She squeezed my arm, nodded to show she understood, and I left her, running out into the sunlight again.
Below me, the men were coming up the zigzag path. They were moving as fast as they could, but the angle of climb was steep, and they hadn’t made much progress. They yelled at me, as I looked hastily above me, getting the line of country.
The path continued past the opening of the tunnel and led a few yards farther on, to the top of the quarry. I ran up the path, now in full sight.
I reached the head of the quarry. Before me stretched sand dunes, scrub and rising ground of the desert which lies at the back of Monte Verde Mine. To my left lay the San Diego Highway: my way of escape, but Paula’s way of escape too. If I went that way, she would come up behind the pursuing men. I had to draw them away from her. If I was to help her, I had to go to the right: into the heart of the vast track of sand and waste-ground which afforded plenty of cover.
I ran easily over the loose sand, zigzagging a little to keep the various bushes between me and the men behind.
After I had covered a couple of hundred yards or so, I paused to look back over my shoulder. They hadn’t reached the top of the quarry yet, and for a moment I wondered if they had found Paula. But I could hear them shouting, and judged they’d appear in a minute or so. I ducked behind a thick bush and waited.
Almost immediately the first head appeared above the edge of the quarry. Then four men appeared. They stopped and looked to right and left. Three other men joined them.
They were big, tough-looking birds: four of them in red-and-white striped sweat shirts, the kind worn by the fishermen who lounge along the waterfront of Coral Gables. The other three were city characters, in ill-fitting sports clothes, typical street-corner loafers.
One of them, a short, square-shouldered man, seemed to be in charge. He was giving directions. Four of the fishermen ran off to the left. The remaining men spread out in a halfcircle and began to move towards me.
Keeping behind the shelter of the bushes, I ran, bent double over the sand, to another line of scrub. Again I paused to look back. The line of men had stopped. They couldn’t make up their minds which way I had gone.
I decided if I wasn’t careful they might go back to the tunnel and catch Paula, so I moved out into the open.
A yell behind me told me I had been seen, and I broke into a run. The evening sun was setting fast now, and threw a red glow over the desert; but it was still hot, and running over the hot sand was hard work.
I kept glancing behind me. The four fishermen had joined in the chase. They were now strung out in a wide arc, driving me farther into the desert, and cutting me off from the Highway. But they weren’t making much progress. The heat seemed to be bothering them more than it did me. If I could keep the distance between us, until the sun dropped below the horizon, I stood a good chance of giving them the slip.
The idea seemed to have occurred to them, for there came a crack of a gun behind me and a slug zipped past my head.
I didn’t worry a great deal about being shot at so long as I kept moving. You had to be a pretty good shot with a revolver to hit a moving target, but I kept swerving every now and then to be on the safe side.
Again I glanced behind me. The figures were falling back now. They kept coming, but I had greatly increased the distance between them and me, and I slowed down, panting a little, and feeling as if I were in a steam- bath.
I was worrying about Paula. If someone had been left to guard the trucks, she might be caught. But there was nothing I could do but keep on. There was no hope of doubling back. The line of men was too spread out, cutting off all retreat to the Highway. They knew, so long as they could keep me penned up in this half-circle, sooner or later they would come up onme.
The set-up reminded me of the game of fox and geese. At the moment the line behind me was unbroken. In a little while I would have to turn and see if I could pierce it. But I couldn’t do that until it was dark.
I went on, no longer running, but moving at a jog-trot. The men behind me had also slowed down, and the distance between us remained the same.
Away to my right, I could see the first of the foothills. This worried me. Before long, they would make a barrier, and would allow the line of men to swing in on my left. If I didn’t look out I could be trapped.
I decided to make the attempt to break their line before I got into the foothill country.
Breaking into a run, I sprinted ahead, then began to wheel sharply to my left.
There was an immediate shout behind me.
Glancing round I saw three men pounding across the sand to cut me off. I increased my speed, but I had a lot more ground to cover. I was panting now, and every now and then I stumbled in the loose sand.
One of the fishermen, a big, powerful guy, could run. His long legs flew over the ground as he headed me off.
We raced for the gap between the first of the foothills. If I could beat him I would be out in the open country again. If he beat me, I’d be bottled up in a narrowing strip of desert where, sooner or later, I would be trapped.
I judged the distance and saw he was gaining on me. Gritting my teeth, I increased my speed. I pulled ahead. The other men, all running now, were hopelessly outpaced, but this one guy stuck to me. The gap loomed nearer. I could see him now: see the red, hard face, the sweat running down from under his cap, the fixed grin. He swerved towards me, came at me like a charging bull.
I tried to dodge, but he was ready for that. He closed in on me, his hands grabbing my coat.
I swung at him, but he ducked, his arms encircling me in a bear-like hug. We stumbled, wrestled and went down in the sand.
I slugged him on the side of his head, but it was only a half-arm blow and didn’t carry much steam. He raised himself off me and clubbed down at my upturned face with his fist. I just managed to get my face out of the way and belted him in the chest, a good, solid punch that sent him over on his back.
I scrambled to my feet in time to stop his rush with a jab to his face. His head went back, and I sailed in, punching with both hands. I caught him on the side of his jaw and his knees buckled. A long, looping right-hand punch sent him to the sand.
The way was open now, but my breath had gone, and I could scarcely move one leg after the other.
‘Hold it!’
The menace in the voice made me turn.
The short, square-shouldered character had come pounding up. In his right fist he held a .45, pointing at me.
I stopped.
‘Reach up and clasp some cloud!’
My hands went up. It was a relief just to stand there and get my breath. With any luck at all, Paula would be well out of the way by now.
The fisherman I had knocked down got to his feet. He came across to me, a sheepish grin on his face.
‘Frisk him, Mac,’ the broad-shouldered character said.
Mac ran his hands over me, found the .25 and tossed it to his companion.
