CHAPTER XVII.

SLAP BANG AND AWAY AGAIN.

When Barry Brown saw that form before him with upraised sword in hand, he felt very much like selling out rather cheaply, although merely from force of defensive habit he pointed his pistol at the foe.

And then a laugh came to his ears, a low, chilling, sneering laugh, and from the brilliant glow proceeding from the inner room stepped the captain of the counterfeiters, Jerry Prime.

He was speaking to somebody behind him, or rather laughing scornfully at the party, and Barry Brown understood at once that he had not been seen by the leader of the outlaws.

But the man with the sword standing almost over him, the weapon gleaming in the brilliant light? Barry stole a glance of amused interest at the figure now, and then lowered his revolver.

“The devil!” quoth he, “that’s a thundering neat sell.”

He had been frightened by a well-made dummy, fixed up against the inside panel of the door, being made to hold that awful threatening sword in a most awe-inspiring manner.

Barry Brown sank back into the shadow just as Jerry Prime gave a final sneering laugh, and closed the door, striding past the detective in the darkness.

“By Jove, I thought the house was coming down,” gasped Brown; “that was a big whack a moment ago. Ha, they’re fighting above there, and I can’t take a hand in.”

But he had a hand in very soon, right where he was, for the door was flung open again, and three men bounded upon him in a manner that told very plainly that they had known of his being where he was before they made their united assault.

It appeared to be their object to take him alive, and therefore they did not draw weapons, but leaped upon him and seized him with their hands.

Oh, Jupiter! what a ripper that tall chap was.

He just stretched himself out in an energetic sort of manner, and he sent one flying right and the other left, while he put in a neat kick at the third.

The latter was wise.

He dodged the compliment, and then turned to grab the foot.

Brown was too quick for him, however, and he failed to get the number seven as he desired.

Then all saw in a moment that this was too tough a customer for them to play easy with at all, and they all sailed down upon him with drawn knives at the second charge.

And then it was that Barry Brown, his ears recognizing the voice of his beloved captain in the hallway above, sent forth that cry for aid.

When he heard Harry Hale’s answering shout he seemed inspired with new confidence and strength.

His coat was folded over his left arm, his right hand was armed with a long, deadly bowie, needle-like on the point and razor-like on either side.

With this terrible two-edged weapon he met their onslaught, and the first man went down with an ugly gash across his left breast.

“Curse you, you’ll die for that,” gritted one of the comrades of the fallen man, and he made a heavy blow with his blade at the brave fellow’s throat.

Barry Brown caught it on the coat that served him for a shield, and before the outlaw could strike again, a bullet, sent by Harry Hale, crashed through his brain, and stretched him lifeless by the side of his wounded comrade, whose fall he had sought to avenge.

Down the hallway dashed Hale and Gorse.

After them, pell-mell, rushed the men from the hallway above.

“Brown?”

“Here.”

“We must fight our way out.”

“We can do it.”

“Shoulder to shoulder then,” cried Harry Hale. “Strike down everything in your road.”

“And get to the man?” cried Gorse.

“Yes.”

“Strike it is then,” roared Charley, and his blade flashed in the radiant glow that streamed from the doorway. “Take that, you snoozer.”

And down went a wounded man as he spoke.

Headed by Jerry Prime, the outlaws poured into the hallway.

There were fully a dozen of them, but our three friends were desperate men and bold fighters, and they did not reckon the odds.

They were resolved to cut their way out to the Steam Man, and they meant to carry out the resolve.

Many of the counterfeiters were lying in the hallway above, and this fortunately reduced the number of those arrayed against our three friends.

Four to one!

At it they went.

Barry Brown was a terrible man in just such a rumpus.

He was possessed of magnificent muscle, was active, wiry, quick as a cat upon his feet, and seemingly as sharp-eyed, and moreover, he appeared to really love to strike his awful blows.

Captain Jerry Prime was not exactly a slouch when it came to a hand-to-hand conflict.

In fact, he was pretty much the same sort of screamer as Barry Brown, on a very much reduced scale, and these two screamers recognized the fact that they were well-matched antagonists.

With mutual howls of delight, they made for each other.

Prime made a quick clip at the head of his opponent with his pistol, but the detective caught it squarely on his arm, and made a counter blow with his bowie.

Crack went a pistol, and the bullet grazed the forehead of the captain, knocking him down just in time to escape the deadly thrust of Barry Brown’s knife.

All this time Harry Hale and Gorse had been contending fiercely with their many foes, sticking closely together, and trying to reach the stairway.

They were both wounded; although their injuries were but slight, they could not ward off every blow aimed at them by their furious enemies, and their chance of escape seemed small.

A tall, lank form leaped from the stairs into the midst of the combatants.

Jack, the stableman, had come to the rescue.

Armed with a heavy club, he laid around him with terrible effect.

“Strike hard, cap,” he called out to Harry Hale; “strike hard, and we’ll go out of this flying.”

“Hurrah!” cried Hale, and seemed to be crazed by the presence of his faithful spy. “Give me room.”

With such a desperate fighter as Barry Brown, and with such a weapon in their midst as the club, wielded by the tall stableman, the counterfeiters did not care to contend, and they slowly gave way after a third of their party had gone down wounded, dead, or dying under the lightning blows.

“Now,” rang out Harry Hale’s clear voice, “charge for the stairs.”

“Hurrah!” shouted his few followers, and away they went.

The outlaws had had quite enough of them, and they allowed them to leave without further opposition.

Up-stairs they rushed, and through the hallway to the door.

“Tumble in,” cried Gorse, jumping to the seat, and into the body tumbled the three men.

The man was wheeled, a good head of steam let on, and away they went over the plains.

The headlight was burning up brightly now, and the driver of the Steam Man could see quite a distance ahead as he dashed along.

Not a word was spoken until a mile or two had been fleetly passed over, and then Charley pulled in and allowed the man to come to a standstill on the open plain.

“There!” he ejaculated.

“What’s up?” anxiously inquired Hale.

“Stopping for repairs,” said Charley.

“The man out of order?”

“No, the boy,” said Gorse. “I am the one that wants repairing. I’ve got a neat little gash across my right arm, a tickler in my ribs, a bruise on the top of my head, a big bump on my forehead, and there’s some blood got inside my boots from some place or other, and so I say I guess I want repairing.”

“Count me in, too,” said Barry Brown, who was awfully gnashed.

“A little court-plaster and a box of salve might be of some service to me,” said Hale. “In fact, I guess we all need repairing but Jack.”

“I’m right side up and round as a Mexican dollar,” said the lanky stableman. “Trot out your medicine chest, and I’ll doctor the party.”

Charley procured the medicine-chest for him, and Jack immediately set to work upon his friends.

“By George, that was just about as lively a little affair as I can remember having been in,” said Hale. “The air seemed full of knives.”

“And cuss-words,” said Charley, as Jack put some salve on a wound in the boy’s leg.

“Well, this winds up your services in the capacity of stableman,” said Hale to his follower. “Jack, I must congratulate you on the success with which you’ve carried out your ideas. We now know, or rather you know and can soon tell us, every portion of the enemy’s camp, and are also fully satisfied that the counterfeiting is carried on down-stairs. Just as soon as I can collect my boys together we’ll raid on the gang, and either capture them or burn the building over their heads. Here, put some ointment in this cut on my shoulder.”

“Look,” said Barry Brown, pointing up towards the sky.

A few miles away, so it appeared to their eyes, a brilliant rocket, composed of some material far exceeding powder in intensity of light, was winding up gracefully in the air, making snake like motions as it shot towards the sky.

“Hurrah! eureka! bully!” roared Charley Gorse.

“What’s the matter?” cried Hale.

“That’s my Pomp,” said the delighted boy, who feared that his faithful servant was gone forever from him. “I make those little rockets myself, and you can carry them in your pocket. He sent that up as a signal to me. Will you go with me?”

“Willingly,” cried Hale.

“Then tumble in once more, and away we go,” cried Gorse, and with the well-patched men in the body of the wagon, he once more seized the reins, and with a smashing gait the Steam Man tore away on his course.