One
or two of you are going to drop."
He surveyed them with a quick glance which seemed to linger on each
face.
"I don't know who'll go first. But now I'm going to walk straight for
that door, and I'm going out of it."
He moved slowly, deliberately toward the door, around the table. Still
they did not shoot.
"Bard!" commanded the voice which had spoken from nowhere before. "Stop
where you are. Are you fool enough to think that I'll let you go?"
"Are you William Drew?"
"I am, and you are----"
"The son of John Bard. Are you in this house?"
"I am; Bard, listen to me for thirty seconds----"
"Not for three. Sally, go out of this room and through that door."
There was a grim command in his voice. It started her moving against her
will. She paused and looked back with an imploring gesture.
"Go on," he repeated.
And she passed out of the door and stood there, a glimmering figure
against the night. Still there was not a shot fired, though all those
guns were trained on Bard.
"You've got me Drew," he called, "but I've got you, and your
hirelings--all of you, and I'm going to take you to hell with me--to
hell!"
He jerked his gun up and fired, not at a man, for the bullet struck the
thin chain which held the gasoline lamp suspended, struck it with a
clang, and it rushed down to the table.
Pages:
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255