HUNKY SWUNG FAST, grabbing at a large cleaver, planting himself between Montana and Geneva. Then, as he recognized Montana, the hostility in his face was replaced by a grin of relief.
“Ha, is Montanny.” He beamed. “Hunky-dory. I theenk mebby you bad man from the town, I bust you wide open.”
“Good for you, Hunky,” Montana commended. The fear was fading from Geneva’s eyes, leaving her face white and strained. The Oriental make-up had been scrubbed away, and she had discarded the kimono-like robes in favor of ordinary dress.
Kate emerged from the shadows, her arms full of supplies. Some of these clattered on floor as well as table as she sighted Montana.
“Bill!” she ejaculated, and the word was rich and full, like the aroma from the opened door of the oven. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“I had to drop by to get a good meal,” Montana explained lightly. He looked down at Geneva. “You got away from them—”
A spot of color replaced the paleness of her cheeks, but it was Kate who explained.
“The poor girl’s been imprisoned like a slave in that heathen den of Chinese,” she exploded. “But today she slipped away and was running to escape, and as luck would have it, she reached here, where she’s safe. Hunk and me will see to that.”
It developed that Kate had known Geneva and George Wagner for some time, prior to the gold strike and its attendant troubles. Then they had lost touch with one another.
“I didn’t even guess they were still around, much less suspect the troubles they’ve been having,” Kate explained, then added somewhat sheepishly, “Nor did I guess, when we saw that play, that Lotus Flower was Geneva. She had kind of a familiar look, but I was sure enough fooled.”
Montana returned to his original question, and this time Geneva managed to answer.
“Lo Ling helped me get away when I told him I was afraid. I knew, when I thought about it, how foolish it was to stay there. Every promise they had made me had been broken. As for George—I know that he is dead. Probably they killed him right at the start. And I was so frightened—”
“That blasted Chink tried to make love to her,” Kate interjected.
“He isn’t a Chinese,” Geneva reminded her, “but a white man—”
“Makes it all the worse, that he should act that way,” Kate insisted. “Why’s he have to hide in such a get-up? He ought to be one or the other.”
“Do you know who he really is?” Montana asked, but Geneva shook her head.
“Only that he is white, but so skilled in his role that the others believe him to be a great lord of their own race.”
“I’m glad you got away and that you found Kate and Hunky,” Montana said. “But I don’t believe that George is dead.” He recounted his glimpse of a prisoner in the tunnel, and his hunch that the man was probably her brother. Geneva’s face paled and flushed in turn.
“Do you really think it could be him?” she breathed. “I’ve been so certain that he had been killed—” Sobs shook her. Kate placed a comforting arm around her shoulders.
“There, there, honey,” she soothed her. “If they had reason to keep him alive at the start, they still do. And George is pretty good at landin’ on his own two feet. He’d outsmart them if anybody could. Likely enough it was him Bill saw.”
“But that’s just it,” Geneva protested. “If he is alive, then I’ve made a dreadful mistake. Now that I’m gone, there’s no telling what they will do.”
Montana could hardly protest that her escape was unlikely to make any difference. She had accepted the role of hostage with mingled hope and fear. Now, knowing as much as she did—
“I’d go back, if that would help,” she said, and her eyes were anxious, dimmed by a haze of tears. Montana shook his head.
“Returning now would not help. You stay with Kate. I’m going back to town, and I’ll see if I can manage something.”
Anxiety now clouded both pair of eyes.
“We’ll both feel better about the poor man with you trying, Bill—but it’s a rattlesnake’s nest in that town! Why don’t you find Mike and round up the crew, then take the whole kit and caboodle apart? Once he understands, McNamara will agree—”
That was almost what Montana had had in mind, but Geneva’s escape altered an already delicate balance.
“That would sign George’s death warrant before we could get to him,” he pointed out. “We’d have a full scale war on our hands, which would hold us back too long. Have Mike bring his boys to town, and be ready for trouble—but don’t start anything. Give me time to look around first.”
“Sure,” Kate agreed ironically. “Just stick your head in the lion’s mouth and look to see what makes him hungry! Did it ever occur to you how those heathen would enjoy killing you? I don’t like the program.”
“Find Lo Ling,” Geneva urged, as Montana’s determination became apparent. “You can trust him.”
“I’ll do that,” Montana promised, and took his departure. Night had closed down, but the construction crew were just coming in, weary but triumphant. They had put the finishing touches to the grade, and tomorrow they would celebrate at Duarf, conscious of a job well done. Immersed in the task assigned them, watching their tangible progress, they had accepted repeated if vague assurances that a line of steel must soon follow. Visual proof had convinced even the most skeptical. After all, it was a railroad grade, and why would anyone build a grade except to run trains over it?
That had been a necessary and convincing part of the hoax, and those whom it was intended to delude had done the work and footed the hills. Once they awakened to the trickery practiced upon them, it would be too late.
With everyone converging upon the town, the morrow would be a wild day. That was exactly what the plotters had intended.
A matching excitement bubbled in his blood. To circumvent their planned climax would not be easy. A misstep could spell death for many, himself included, and ruin for most.
Jerry Loomis eyed him questioningly as he took his horse.
“Are you ready to hit the hay again, to be fresh for the big day in the morning?” he wondered. “In your place, I would be.”
“It’s an inviting thought, as seductive as the smile of a beautiful woman,” Montana conceded. “But I’ll do a bit of looking around first.”
The town was thronged; the celebration, which would reach its climax on the morrow, was already under way. Despite that, Montana was oppressed by a sense of loneliness such as he had seldom known. He’d hoped to find Jeb Bowen and his crew on hand, or at least Loomis and his men. But if they were there, they were lost in the crowd, well out of sight.
A long line had formed in front of the opera house; men were buying tickets for the final show of the series. Trusting to the multiplicity of newcomers to the town, Montana took his place. Tonight the theatre would be jammed. Someone would have to take Geneva’s part, but nothing would be allowed to interfere with the course of events until the real climax was reached. There could be no doubt that these plays, ostensibly intended for entertainment, had a vital part in the over-all program.
The curtain was almost ready to go up when he took his seat. As on the other occasions, Prentiss O’Leary was talking and smiling, among a group of friends, then slipping into a seat at the last possible moment.
There were no announcements concerning Lotus Flower, and the girl who assumed the role was sufficiently good to fool the average playgoer. The Mandarin did not appear in the first act. It occurred to Montana that he never came on stage until about the middle of the play.
Again, firecrackers were a part of the background effect. Following an intermission, the curtain went up again. Montana stiffened. O’Leary was no longer in his seat.
Unobtrusively, Montana slipped out, keeping to the shadows. If this was a good time for O’Leary to indulge in other activities, it might be for him, too.
The Mandarin was now on stage, though nothing dramatic was taking place. Montana found the long hallway, then the hidden door. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the heavy blackness and closed it behind him.
He might be taking a foolish risk; certainly it was dangerous. But if George Wagner was still alive, he was probably somewhere back there. And for him, as for a lot of others, it was now or never.
Pausing frequently to listen, he moved stealthily, alert for any warning of the senses. From far off came a muted sound, puzzling until he decided that it was applause from the audience.
Counting each step, he approached the end of the false passage, where that other hidden door opened into what had been Geneva’s dressing room. He had no hope of finding Wagner there, but somewhere back in there there should be something else … papers, legal documents, titles and bills of sale, and most of all, cash money. If he was right in his assessment, a fortune was waiting for transportation out of the country.
His reaching fingers encountered an object, and he stiffened with a mingling feeling of dread and dreadful familiarity. The passage was blocked. Conquering his repugnance, he felt more carefully, making eyes and ears of his hands. Then, aware of the risk of a light, but knowing that he must have one, he struck a sulphur match.
The small yellow glow revealed what he expected, though it was neither comforting nor reassuring. Here, as on that other occasion beneath the trestle, a man hung, suspended by a rope about his neck. Like the other man, he was dead.
In addition to the rope, this man had suffered a knife stab in the back. Blood made a dull stain on his clothing and on the floor below.
As the match burned out, it revealed the dead man’s face. It was Lo Ling.