Exposed to the rifles of the besiegers were, however, two of their principal foes. The Indian dashed recklessly from post to post. Sooner or later he would pay for it. The continued impunity of the boss was more maddening. Above the rails Koppy could see the slight bulge on which so many shots had been wasted. Probably it was only Torrance's clothing. From the floor of the forest he seemed to be reasonably protected.

 

Koppy raised his eyes. With a smile he selected a thick-stemmed tree and, with the aid of willing and suddenly excited hands, lifted himself to the lower boughs. There, leaning against the trunk, a circle of projecting boughs about him, he laughed. Torrance lay in full view. Gloatingly Koppy slid his rifle along a convenient branch, took aim, and fired. The ring of metal told how close he was.

 

On his followers below he bent malignantly joyful eyes. It was only a question of time now.

 

The next bullet must have touched Torrance's shoulder, for he winced and edged closer to the near rail. Koppy cheered and recklessly waved his rifle.

 

A shot snapped from over the grade, and a piece of bark flicked stingingly into the Pole's face. The surprise of it almost tumbled him from his perch. And before he could cover himself completely with the trunk of the tree a second bullet whipped through the leaves so close to his eyes that he felt the wind of it.

 

Across the grade the Indian jerked in his rifle with an oath and ran to the shack.

 

"Dang rotten toy!" he sputtered, slamming the borrowed gun on the table. "Gi' me my own. I got two cartridges left. One'll do. Thar ain't no better place for it."

 

The crowd beneath Koppy's perch was growing fast. The Pole could hear their whispered exclamations, see the whites of their faces turned up to him for the report of each shot. In a wave of anger and misgiving he realised the rashness of adding another responsibility to those of leadership. Only too eagerly they were piling on his solitary shoulders the whole burden of the fight.

 

He must kill the boss! He must kill the boss!

 

It ran through his head like a threat--a dirge. His aim wavered. Bullet after bullet sped harmlessly about Torrance. A cold sweat broke out on the Pole. He leaned out to order others into the surrounding trees--but realised as he glowered into their upturned faces that this was no time for orders, but for action.

 

He reported a hit--boasted, shouted, forced himself to laugh exultantly.

 

Where would it all end?

 

He gripped his fists until the nails bit into his palms, and took a fresh hold of himself. With set teeth, steadier than he had ever been, he thrust the rifle out again along the branch.

 

At that instant Werner clambered up the grade--and close behind him Morani.

 

Koppy gasped. A flash of pride at the unexpected temerity of two of his lieutenants. But it faded swiftly before two driving fears. Torrance had risen to meet them; and Koppy knew the force of that great fist. But if his own men won! Koppy had a vision of vanished glory--of lost leadership. Morani and Werner had taken their lives in their hands to accomplish that which he was failing to do from the protection of a tree.

 

Snapping his teeth together, he put his eye coolly to the rear sight. If his own men were in the way--well, that was their lookout. He was aiming at Torrance.

 

A hush fell over the forest. From the foot of the tree the bohunks read crucial drama in Koppy's manner. . . .

 

With a bellow of rage Torrance was on his feet. A single blow he struck at Werner's mad eyes. The head before him snapped back, the bent legs crumpled. As if he had been shot, Werner's limp body slid backwards down the sand. For a moment it hung balanced over the edge, then bent slowly over and plunged out of sight.

 

Morani, alone now but forced to carry it through, struck swiftly. Torrance managed to take the point of the stiletto on his left arm. With his right he grabbed the Italian's arm and jerked sideways and down. A sickening snap, and Morani's dark face went a sickly cream. Without changing his hold, Torrance flung out sideways, as a petulant child discards a doll that has lost favour. Morani had never a chance. Lifted clear of the trestle, he pitched headlong into the chasm.

 

But in the effort Torrance's foot slipped. He tried to drop to save himself, but too late. Clawing at the ends of the sleepers, he fell over the way Morani had gone. The breath in a hundred throats held. Mahon closed his eyes.

 

But in the scramble the contractor's right leg fell between the sleepers, and as his body turned for the final plunge, his foot caught and held. The leg snapped, but it held. Torrance's head, swinging down outside the trestle, crashed into one of the supports. And there he hung, unconscious.

 

In the fleeting moments of the triple tragedy Koppy could not pull the trigger. But as the boss lay motionless in the open, an evil smile came to the Pole's face. Closing his left eye, he took firm hold of the stock of his rifle and set his finger to the trigger.

 

Something passed swiftly across the sights. He opened both eyes and raised his head. Tressa Torrance was climbing fearlessly out on the trestle supports to her father's assist............