Chapter XXIX: Turning the Tables

Carleton Lynne seated himself at the desk, drew some sheets of paper toward him, and began to write.

He did not once turn his head to look behind him, although he could, from time to time, hear Red Mike, as the desperado shifted his position, or his legs; and once he heard him strike a match, and presently smelled the odor of tobacco. The fellow had rolled himself a cigarette, evidently; had laid aside the gun long enough to do that.

This, of itself, was promising. The man was relaxing his vigilance possibly.

Lynne wrote on in silence.

He scarcely thought of what he was writing, his thoughts being busy with the exigencies of the moment; and yet he wrote succinctly for all of that, for he was well aware of the fact that he had an educated man to deal with, and one who was more than ordinarily shrewd in his way.

Nevertheless Lynne had no intention of making the promise that had been demanded of him; he was seeking only time to think up a way out of the dilemma in which he was involved.

He wrote slowly--very slowly indeed, killing all the time he could; and after a time the continued uneasy stirring of Red Mike in the chair behind him told him that the man was fast becoming impatient.

“Say, what are you up to, anyway, Lynne?” was the impatient demand that came, after a time. “Do you suppose that I want to spend the balance of the night here?”

Lynne shrugged his shoulders and wrote on, without reply.

“How long is that bloody document going to be?” was the next demand.

No reply.

“What is it all about, anyhow?”

“I’m nearly through now, Red,” was the reply, this time. “Just a moment more.”

There was another interval of silence, and then Lynne laid aside the pen, picked up the paper upon which he had been writing, and pretended to read over what he had written with great care; and all the time Red Mike watched him with close attention.

Presently Lynne dropped the hand that held the paper at his side, and raised his eyes to the man who confronted him, for he had turned in his chair when he began to read over the contents of the paper.

“Well,” said Mike, “is it ready?”

“Yes. Shall I read it to you, or do you prefer to read it for yourself?”

“I reckon, maybe, if I’ve got to sign it, I’d better read it myself; eh?”

“As you please.”

“Suppose I won’t sign it after I have read it?”

“Then you won’t get any promise from me; that’s all.”

“Not even with this?” he raised the gun threateningly.

“No, not even with that; not with a dozen of them,” was the decided reply.

“All right. Let’s see it. We’ll talk over the particulars afterward.”

Lynne bent forward and passed the paper to him; but as Red Mike took it in his hand, he did not remove his eyes from the face of Lynne; and, after a moment, he exclaimed:

“Say, Lynne, you’d better get back into that bed. You look--well, you look all in. You’re a heap sicker than I thought you were.”

“The exertion--of getting up--and writing--this--was a little--too much--for me--I suppose,” replied Lynne, staggering to his feet and groping out with his hands as one does who is walking in the dark and is fearful of colliding with some obstacle.

He reeled a little where he stood, and then essayed to move toward the bed, while Mike, bending toward him, watched every move as if he did not know whether to assist the sick man or not.

Lynne took a tottering step toward the bed; then another one; he raised his right hand to his forehead and pressed it there; he staggered again; and then, just as Red Mike started to rise from his chair, probably to lend assistance, Lynne pitched forward full upon him, overturning chair and man together at the same instant, and they went to the floor together, for despite the sickness that Lynne had undergone he was still a heavy man.

The reader has suspected, of course, that Lynne was counterfeiting this attack of faintness; that he was dissembling. Red Mike did not suspect it, however; it was too well done--and it was the only method that Lynne had been able to think of by which there was the slightest possibility of his gaining the upper hand.

So, when he did fall forward, he fell with a dead weight; and he took care to cast that weight all upon the side of the other man where the automatic gun was still grasped in the right hand; and as he fell, he made use of a pin that he had picked up from the desk where he had been writing. It was, in fact, the pin that had really suggested the act he was endeavoring now to carry out.

He held it between the thumb and finger of the hand he had pressed against his forehead, and, as he fell forward, he threw that hand out so that it came into sharp contact with Red Mike’s right hand, which held the gun.

If you had been a witness to the scene, you would have said that Lynne’s chin and hand fell somewhere upon Red Mike’s firearm, at the same instant--and you would have been astonished at the consequence of it.

The sharp prick of a pin, ungently prodded, will sometimes produce great results, for the pain from it is unexpected, and is always acute.

That this one was prodded downward into the wrist of Red Mike by no gentle thrust may well be believed, and the man uttered a sharp exclamation of pain, while his fingers unclasped themselves from around the butt of the gun so that it fell to the floor even before the men did so.

Lynne knew perfectly well that he could do nothing with the gun by seeking to make use of it at once.

In his weakened condition, at that close range, while he was still practically within the grasp of Red Mike, the latter would have no difficulty in taking the weapon from him; in repossessing himself of it.

Therefore Lynne carried out his first intention--the first plan he had made when he found the pin on the desk; he rolled on his back, upon the weapon, so that he covered it with his body, and, throwing out his arms at right angles with his body, simulated complete unconsciousness as best he could.

And that best that he could do seemed to be sufficient for the limited experience of Red Mike in such matters.

Cursing none too mildly, but yet in a tone that was subdued for the occasion, and nursing his right wrist with his left hand, he struggled to his feet again and looked down upon the fallen man, for the moment, evidently, forgetful of the gun.

“Dead?” he asked himself, aloud; then he bent forward and pressed his left hand over the region of Lynne’s heart.

He could plainly feel the beat of it, and he straightened up again--and it was then that he missed possession of the weapon and cast about him with his eyes in search of it.

Lynne was lying perfectly still on his back with his arms stretched out at right angles with his body, to all appearance unconscious.

“It’s under him, I suppose,” Lynne heard him mutter, and Mike stooped over as if with the intention of recovering it; and still Lynne had the courage and the strength of purpose to wait, for he knew how utterly impossible it would be for him to cope with Red Mike, under present conditions.

It was the one thing that he had feared in the carrying out of his plans; that Red Mike would insist upon regaining possession of the weapon at once, and it seemed as if such was about to be the case.

If so, Lynne knew that he would have to wait until there was an opportunity to attempt some other expedient.

But a diversion occurred.

The paper upon which Lynne had been writing, and which he had given into the left hand of Red Mike just before the instant of falling in the well-stimulated faint, was now on the floor, half a dozen feet away.

It caught the eye of Red Mike, even as he bent forward to recover the weapon, and he half straightened up again, muttering aloud as he did so:

“I might as well read that over before he comes around.”

Still he hesitated, however; then he turned and picked up the sheet of paper, and began to read.

In order that you who read may understand the ingenuity of Carleton Lynne, and may realize how thoroughly he understood the character of the man with whom he had to deal, we will quote the opening paragraph of that document, for it was really that which spared his life and which saved the two million dollars that had been demanded of him.

“I, Mike McManus, known as Red Mike, late of the Klondike, former thief, road agent, and murderer”--Red Mike read that far, and stopped, looking across the top of the paper at the apparently insensible form upon the floor, and scowling darkly.

Then he lowered the paper a trifle and shook his fist at the prostrate man.

“I’ll even up with you, all right, all right, when I get those two millions in my jeans, mister man,” he growled. “But I may as well read all the slush he’s got written down here while he’s unconscious;” and he read on again.

“Gambler, confidence man, and crook, agree herein over my signature that upon the condition that I receive two million dollars in cash from the hand of Carleton Lynne, to be paid to me at a time and place hereafter to be agreed upon, I will fulfill each and every condition and stipulation herein set forth by said Lynne as conditions precedent to the said payment of said sum as aforesaid, binding myself----”

Red Mike paused long enough to glance over the paper at Lynne, on the floor. Then he stooped and picked up the fallen chair, righted it, and seated himself upon it.

With yet another glance toward Lynne to assure himself that unconsciousness still prevailed, he raised the paper again, and continued the reading; and while he did so Lynne half opened his eyes, and sighed.

Mike looked up quickly.

“Coming around, eh?” he said, with a laugh.

There was no reply, only Lynne’s eyes continued to stare rather vacantly at Mike.

“Say, did you hear me?”

A faint nod was the only reply, and the eyes closed again. Mike shrugged his shoulders and resumed the reading of the paper; he was reading the conditions now, and they proved to be of interest.

Lynne moved his right arm, placed that hand to his head, and then dropped it back upon the floor again, in its former position. Mike looked up, saw the act, and continued to read.

Lynne repeated the performance; then he did it a third time; then a fourth; then a fifth, and at the fifth time Mike paid no attention to him.

Each time that Lynne’s hand fell back to the floor, it came down a trifle closer to his body, and when it fell the sixth time it shot beneath him and grasped the butt of the gun.

Mike saw the act this time and started forward; but he was not quick enough.

The gun was leveled at him before he could grasp the hand that held it, and the calm voice of Carleton Lynne said:

“Put up your hands, Mike, and do it now! I’ve got strength enough to send a couple of these eight bullets into you before you can reach me. Sit down again on that chair, and we’ll discuss the details, Michael.”