Читать книгу Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 122

Quest awoke the next morning, stretched out his hand and glanced at the watch by the side of his bed. It was barely six o’clock. He turned over and dozed again, looked again at half-past six, and finally, at a few minutes to seven, rose and made a hasty toilet. Then, in the act of placing his watch in his waistcoat pocket, he gave a sudden start. By its side, half covered by the handkerchief which he had thrown upon the little table, stood a small black box! For a moment he was motionless. Then he stretched out his hand, removed the lid and drew out the usual neatly folded piece of paper:—

“Even time fights you. It loses that you may lose.

“The Hands.”

Quest for a moment was puzzled. Then he hurried into the next tent, where the Professor was sleeping peacefully.

“Say, Professor, what’s the time by your watch?” Quest asked, shaking him gently.

The Professor sat up and drew his chronometer from under his pillow.

“Seven o’clock,” he replied, “five minutes past, maybe.”

Quest nodded.

“That seems all right,” he declared. “I’ll explain later, Professor.”

He hurried out into French’s tent and found the Inspector just drawing on his shoes.

“French, what’s the time?” he demanded.

“Three minutes past seven, or thereabouts,” French replied, yawning. “I’m coming right along. We’ve lots of time. Three-quarters of an hour ought to do it, the boys say.”

Quest held out a strip of paper.

“This gave me a turn,” he said quietly. “I found it in a black box by the side of my bed.”

French gazed at it in a puzzled manner. They walked outside to the camp, where the cowboys were finishing their breakfast.

“Say, boss,” one of them called out, “you’re not making that eight-thirty train to New York?”

“Why not?” Quest asked quickly. “It’s only three quarters of an hour’s ride, is it?”

“Maybe not,” the other replied, “but as it’s eight now, your chances ain’t looking lively. Kind of overslept, haven’t you?”

Both men glanced once more at their watches. Then Quest thrust his back with a little oath.

“Our watches have been set back!” he exclaimed. “The Hands again!”

For a moment they looked at one another, dumbfounded. Then Quest moved towards the corral.

“Say, is there any quicker way to the depot?” he enquired of the cowboys.

They heard his question indifferently.

“Fifty dollars,” Quest continued, “to any one who can take me by a quicker route.”

One of them rose slowly to his feet.

“Waal,” he observed, “fifty dollars would come in kind of handy. Yes, I reckon I can cut off a mile or two for you.”

“Fifty dollars for you, then,” Quest replied, as they hurried towards the horses, “and an extra ten if we make the train.”

They galloped off into the distance. The cowboys finished their breakfast and went off to their work. Laura stole out from her tent and started off in rather a shame-faced manner for a ride. Presently Lenora opened her eyes. She, too, stretched out her hand for her watch. Suddenly she sat up in bed with a little exclamation. On the table by her side was a small black box. She took off the lid with trembling fingers, drew out a scrap of paper and read:—

“Fools! Tongues of flame will cross Quest’s path. He will never reach the depot alive.”

Lenora glanced at Laura’s empty bed. Then she staggered to the opening of the tent.

“Laura!” she cried.

There was no one there. The cowboys had all gone to their work, Laura had passed out of sight across the ridge in the distance. Lenora staggered to the cook wagon, where the Chinese cook was sitting cleaning plates.

“Listen!” she cried. “They are in danger, the three men who have gone off to the depot! If you’ll ride after them, I will give you a hundred dollars. Give them this,” she added, holding out the scrap of paper.

The Chinaman shook his head. He glanced at the slip of paper indifferently and went on with his work.

“No can ride, missee,” he said.

Lenora looked around helplessly. The camp was empty. She staggered across towards her own horse.

“Come and help me,” she ordered.

The Chinaman came unwillingly. They found her saddle but he only gazed at it in a stolid sort of fashion.

“No can fix,” he said. “Missee no can ride. Better go back bed.”

Lenora pushed him on one side. With a great effort she managed to reach her place in the saddle. Then she turned and, with her face to the depot, galloped away. The pain was excruciating. She could only keep herself in the saddle with an effort. Yet all the time that one sentence was ringing in her mind—“Tongues of flame!” She kept looking around anxiously. Suddenly the road dropped from a little decline. She was conscious of a wave of heat. In the distance she could see the smoke rolling across the open. She touched her horse with the quirt. The spot which she must pass to keep on the track to the depot was scarcely a hundred yards ahead, but already the fire seemed to be running like quicksilver across the ground licking up the dry greasewood with indeed a flaming tongue. She glanced once behind, warned by the heat. The fire was closing in upon her. A puff of smoke suddenly enveloped her. She coughed. Her head began to swim and a fit of giddiness assailed her. She rocked in her saddle and the pony came to a sudden standstill, faced by the mass of rolling smoke and flame.

“Sanford!” Lenora cried. “Save me!”

The pony reared. She slipped from the saddle and fell across the track.