Truxton King: A Story of Graustark Part 50

"'Gad, he _is_ a soldier," cried Truxton, who had wasted a half dozen shots in the effort to bring him down. "h.e.l.lo! There's my friend Brutus.

He's no coward, either. Here's a try for you, Brutus."

He dropped to his knee and took deliberate aim at the frenzied henchman.

The discovery that there were three bullets in Brutus's breast when he was picked up long afterward did not affect the young man's contention that his was the one that had found the heart.

The fall of Brutus urged the Iron Count to greater fury. His horse had been shot from under him. He was on his feet, a gaunt demon, his back to the enemy, calling to his men to follow him as he moved toward the stubborn row of green and red. Bullets hissed about his ears, but he gave no heed to them. More than one man in the opposing force watched him as if fascinated. He seemed to be absolutely bullet-proof. There were times when he stumbled and almost fell over the bodies of his own men lying in the path.

By this time his entire force was inside the grounds. Colonel Quinnox was quick to see the spreading movement on the extreme right and left.

Marlanx's captains were trained warriors. They were bent on flanking the enemy. The commander of the Guard gave the command to fall back slowly toward the Castle.

Firing at every step, they crossed the parade ground and then made a quick dash for the shelter of the long balconies. They held this position for nearly an hour, resisting each succeeding charge of the now devilish foe. Time and again the foremost of the attacking party reached the terrace, only to wither under the deadly fire from behind the bal.u.s.trades. Marlanx, down in the parade ground, was fairly pus.h.i.+ng his men into the jaws of death. There was no question as to the courage of the men he commanded. These were not the ruffians from all over the world. They were the reckless, devil-may-care mountaineers and robbers from the hills of Graustark itself.

Truxton King's chance to pay his debt to Vos Engo came after one of the fiercest, most determined charges. The young Count, who had transferred his charges from the old tower to the strong north wing of the Castle, had been fighting desperately in the front rank for some time. His weakness seemed to have disappeared entirely. As the foe fell back in the face of the desperate resistance, Vos Engo sprang down the steps and rushed after them, calling others to join him in the attempt to complete the rout. Near the edge of the terrace he stopped. His leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground. Truxton saw him fall.

He leaped over the low bal.u.s.trade, dropping his hot rifle, and dashed across the terrace to his rival's a.s.sistance. A hundred men shot at him.

Vos Engo was trying to get to his feet, his hand upon his thigh; he was groaning with pain.

"It's my turn," shouted the American. "I'll square it up if I can. Then we're even!"

He seized the wounded man in his strong arms, threw him over his shoulder and staggered toward the steps.

"Release me, d.a.m.n you!" shrieked Vos Engo, striking his rescuer in the face with his fist.

"I'm saving you for another day," said King as he dropped behind the bal.u.s.trade, with his burden safe. A wild cheer went up from the lips of the defenders, scornful howls from the enemy.

"I pray G.o.d it may be deferred until I am capable of defending myself,"

groaned Vos Engo, glaring at the other with implacable hatred in his eyes.

"You might pray for my preservation, too, while you're at it," said Truxton, as he crept away to regain his rifle.

There were other witnesses to Truxton's rash act. In a lofty window of the north wing crouched a white-faced girl and a grim old man. The latter held a rifle in his tense though feeble hands. They had been there for ten minutes or longer, watching the battle from their eerie place of security. Now and then the old man would sight his rifle and fire. A groan of anger and dismay escaped his lips after each attempt to send his bullet to the spot intended. The girl who crouched beside him was there to designate a certain figure in the ever-changing ma.s.s of humanity on the b.l.o.o.d.y parade ground. Her clear eyes sought for and found Marlanx; her unwavering finger pointed him out to the old marksman.

She saw Vos Engo fall. Then a tall, well-known figure sprang into view, das.h.i.+ng toward her wounded lover. Her heart stopped beating. The blood rushed to her eyes. Everything before her turned red--a horrid, blurring red. With her hands to her temples, she leaned far over the window ledge and screamed--screamed words that would have filled Truxton King with an endless joy could he have heard them above the rattle of the rifles.

"A brave act!" exclaimed the old man at her side. "Who is he?"

But she did not hear him. She had fallen back and was gasping supplication, her eyes set upon the old man's face with a stare that meant nothing.

The corner of the building had shut out the picture; it was impossible for her to know that the man and his burden had reached the balcony in safety. Even now, they might be lying on the terrace, riddled by bullets. The concentrated aim of the enemy had not escaped her horrified gaze. The cheering did not reach her ears.

The old man roused her from the stupor of dread. He called her name several times in high, strident tones. Dully she responded. Standing bolt upright in the window she sought out the figure of Marlanx, and pointed rigidly.

"Ah," groaned the old man, "they will not be driven back this time! They will not be denied. It is the last charge! G.o.d, how they come! Our men will be annihilated in--Where is he? Now! Ah, I see! Yes, that is he!

He is near enough now. I cannot miss him!"

Marlanx was leading his men up to the terrace. A howling avalanche of humanity, half obscured by smoke, streamed up the slope.

At the top of the terrace, the Iron Count suddenly stopped. His long body stiffened and then crumpled like a reed. A score of heavy feet trampled on the fallen leader, but he did not feel the impact.

A bullet from the north wing had crashed into his brain.

"At last!" shrieked the old man at the window. "Come, Miss Tullis; my work is done."

"He is dead, your Grace?" in low, awed tones.

"Yes, my dear," said the Duke of Perse, a smile of relief on his face.

"Come, let me escort you to the Prince. You have been most courageous.

Graustark shall not forget it. Nor shall I ever cease thanking you for the service you have rendered to me. I have succeeded in freeing my unhappy daughter from the vile beast to whom I sold her youth and beauty and purity. Come! You must not look upon that carnage!"

Together they left the little room. As they stepped into the narrow hall beyond they realised that the defenders had been driven inside the walls of the Castle. The crash of firearms filled the halls far below; a deafening, steady roar came up to them.

"It is all over," said the Duke of Perse, hobbling across the hall and throwing open the door to a room opposite.

A group of terrified women were huddled in the far corner of the s.p.a.cious room. In front of them was the little Prince, a look of terror in his eyes, but with the tiny sword clutched in his hand--a pathetic figure of courage and dread combined. The Duke of Perse held open the door for Loraine Tullis, but she did not enter. When he turned to call, she was half way down the top flight of stairs, racing through the powder smoke toward the landing below.

At every step she was screaming in the very agony of gladness:

"Stand firm! Hold them! Help is coming! Help is coming!"

A last look through the window at the end of the hail had revealed to her the most glorious of visions.

Red and green troops were pouring through the dismantled gateway, their horses surging over the ugly ground-rifts and debris as if possessed of the fabled wings.

She had seen the rear line in the storming forces hesitate and then turn to meet the whirlwind charge of the cavalrymen. Her brother was out there and all was well. She was crying the joyous news from the head of the grand stairway when Truxton King caught sight of her.

Smoke writhed about her slim, inspiriting figure. Her face shone through the drab fog like an undimmed star of purest light. He bounded up the steps toward her, drawn as by magnet against which there was no such thing as resistance.

He was powder-stained and grimy; there was blood on his face and s.h.i.+rt front.

"You are shot," she cried, clutching the post at the bend in the stairs.

"Truxton! Truxton!"

"Not even scratched," he shouted, as he reached her side. "It's not my--" He stopped short, even as he held out his arms to clasp her to his breast. "It's some one else's blood," he finished resolutely. She swayed toward him and he caught her in his arms.

"I love you--oh, I love you, Truxton!" she cried over and over again. He was faint with joy. His kisses spoke the adoration he would have cried out to her if emotion had not clogged his throat.

"Eric?" she whispered at last, drawing back in his arms and looking up into his eyes with a great pity in her own. "Is he--is he dead, Truxton?"

"No," he said gently. "Badly hurt, but--"

"He will not die? Thank G.o.d, Truxton. He is a brave--oh, a very brave man." Then she remembered her mission into this whirlpool of danger.

"Go! Don't lose a moment, darling! Tell Colonel Quinnox that Jack has come! The dragoons are--"

He did not hear the end of her cry. A quick, fierce kiss and he was gone, bounding down the stairs with great shouts of encouragement.

Leaderless, between the deadly fires, the mercenaries gave up the fight after a brief stand at the terrace. Six hundred hors.e.m.e.n ploughed through them, driving them to the very walls of the Castle. Here they broke and scattered, throwing down their arms and shouting for mercy. It was all over inside of twenty minutes.

The Prince reigned again.