Murder Marsh

CHAPTER XIII. FROM HOUSE TO HILL

DOROTHY BRENT was nervous. She had not gone to sleep after she had retired. Lying in bed, the girl had been listening for sounds from below. Beneath her pillow, Dorothy had a .22 automatic. It was a weapon that the girl had brought here with her; but until this night, Dorothy had left it packed. She had been afraid to trust herself with a gun.

Positive that she heard sounds from below, Dorothy tiptoed to the hall. She listened. She heard stealthy footsteps. The girl knew that it might be Twindell, down by the fire place. That, however, would not matter. Her own window faced toward the causeway. Dorothy determined to follow a plan that Nicholas Rokesbury had suggested just before leaving her in the driveway.

Coming back into her room, the girl took a flashlight from the bureau. Stopping by the window, she blinked the little torch. Staring across the solid ground, Dorothy saw figures moving toward the embankment of the causeway. Her signal had been seen. Rokesbury would be coming with his men.

Dorothy gained confidence. Then she felt sheepish. She knew that she would be chagrined if she had given a false alarm. The girl waited for a few minutes; then went softly out into the hall. Again she listened for sounds from below. She thought she heard the front door open and close. Then came stealthy whispers.

Knowing that aid was coming, Dorothy tiptoed down the steps. Her light footfalls made no noise. She reached the bottom and peered toward the fire place. Two men were standing there, in consultation. One was Twindell; the other was the bearded squatter from the hill. Their faces were plain in the firelight.

“This afternoon…” The girl caught snatches of Twindell’s whisper… “the room with the tapestries… I was watching… nothing…”

An incoherent whisper from the bearded man. The fellow seemed savage as he shook his head. Brawny fists clenched and unclenched.

“Better to wait…”

This was Twindell’s whisper. The bearded man responded with a nod. He turned toward the outer door.

With Twindell close beside him, the fellow was ready to make his departure. Dorothy grew tense.

Where was Rokesbury? Had he and his men failed to understand the signal from the window? Perhaps they were outside, waiting for new word, watching the door for some one to come out. Dorothy had a sudden fear that if the bearded man encountered them, he would double back into the house. The girl suddenly remembered that this squatter, though marked as a murderer, had fled twice before when she had given the alarm. Acting upon bold impulse, the girl reached to the wall and pressed the lower light switch.

SIDE brackets flashed. Twindell and the bearded man swung startled toward the stairs. Dorothy raised the little automatic. In a tense voice, she ordered the men to stand where they were. A sound made the girl turn suddenly; a gasp came to her lips as she saw another figure in the hall.

It was Nicholas Rokesbury. The engineer was coming from darkness beside the stairway. Dorothy realized that he had gained entrance into the house; that he had secretly managed to come to her aid, leaving his men outside. Rokesbury was armed with a revolver. Like Dorothy, he was covering the men before him.

A hoarse cry from Twindell. With a terrific bound, the old servant threw himself directly into Rokesbury’s path. The leap was an amazing one. Twindell struck Rokesbury’s arm just as the engineer fired. The shot went wide. Then, with the same fury that he had shown in his fight with The Shadow, Twindell dashed Rokesbury back into the passage beside the stairs.

The bearded man seemed hesitating; he was about to travel toward the door when Dorothy spoke again.

Stepping forward with the automatic, the girl cried out:

“Stand where you are!”

The bearded man obeyed. Twindell and Rokesbury were grappling fiercely in the darkness past the stairs. Involuntarily, the girl turned to see if she could aid the engineer. When she again looked toward the bearded man, he was coming forward with a terrific lunge.

Dorothy fired. Her nervous shot went wide. Then the squatter caught her arm as she fired a second bullet. Dorothy screamed and struck at the man’s face. Wrenching the girl about, the Dalwar knocked the automatic from her hand and stopped her struggles with a powerful arm that caught her body like a steel trap. While Twindell and Rokesbury struggled on, the bearded man made for the door, carrying the girl with him.

The squatter yanked the door open. He pulled a big revolver from his hip. He plunged out into the darkness; then came the sudden glare of flashlights. Rokesbury’s men were here; they, too, were armed with revolvers.

“Get him!” came a hoarse cry. “Get him!”

“Don’t shoot!” was another shout. “He’s got the girl! Look out!”

One glare blocked the path toward the marsh. Savagely, the bearded man fired toward the flashlight. The torch dropped to the ground. A groan came from the man who had held it. The squatter sprang in that direction; then, holding Dorothy’s slim body as a shield, he turned and moved sidewise in swift, crablike fashion.

As he fled, the fellow began to pump new shots toward the lights that covered him. Another man went down; then a third dropped his light. Others began to fire wild shots. The bearded man delivered a snarling laugh; he knew that they had fired wild, for fear of hitting Dorothy. Pumping the last bullets from his gun, the squatter flung the weapon far. He stifled Dorothy’s screams with a powerful fist as he swung and leaped beyond the bushes that fringed the darkened swamp.

THE bearded man was gone from view. The passing beam of the airway beacon shone too high to show him. As Rokesbury’s men came out from cover, they found their flashlights too feeble to trace the hidden path that the abductor had taken. Dorothy’s screams had ended.

Men stood dumbfounded; then the light came on above the door of the mansion. Nicholas Rokesbury, the collar of his khaki shirt torn from his neck, came plunging into view.

“Where is the girl?” he cried.

“The guy got away with her,” growled one of the men. “We were afraid to shoot. Thought we might hit her.”

One of Rokesbury’s men lay silent on the ground. Another was groaning. A third had risen and was clutching his arm. Rokesbury waved to the others.

“Get those fellows inside,” he ordered. “Look after them. See to that old servant. I had to plug the fellow. He put up a tough fight.”

The engineer sprang to the brink of the marsh. He stopped short as he flashed a light. He could trace no path in the boggy mire. The course that the bearded man had taken seemed impassable. Rokesbury turned. An exclamation came from his lips.

Wildemar Brent was at the door of the house. Half dressed, the naturalist was swinging his electric lantern. He seemed to be wondering what all the commotion was about.

“Hurry, Brent!” cried Rokesbury. “Do you know the path through the bog? The way to the hill?”

Brent nodded as he stepped from the door.

“There’s no time to lose,” stated Rokesbury. “One of the squatters came down here. A big fellow with a beard. He’s taken Dorothy. Lead the way, Brent. We’re following.”

A wild expression showed upon Brent’s face. The naturalist was gasping at the news of his niece’s abduction. He lost no time. Hurrying to where Rokesbury stood, he pressed a bush aside and revealed the beginning of a twisted path. With his lantern throwing a vivid glare along the ground, Brent picked his way into the marsh.

Rokesbury waved to his men. They scrambled after him, all but two who were carrying their wounded companions into the mansion. Others had come from around the house; there was a full half dozen at Rokesbury’s heels.

Brent was moving swiftly, finding his path with keen precision. Close behind their guide, the members of the rescue party moved with Rokesbury. Grimly, the armed band was making its way toward the hill.