Hurricane by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

through sandstone.

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Trapped
     
    T HE Saint was on his feet, his chair falling away from him. Men were shouting to one another through the castle. Enrico’s calls were urgent but unintelligible.
    The Saint whipped a Colt .45 out of his jacket and sprinted after Enrico. Men came tumbling through the great hall, calling to one another, the light glancing from their bare backs.
    A cyclone had been started with Spar’s room as its vortex. Everyone followed the Saint, yelling, looking to their weapons. They reminded Spar of sharks whisking off to devour a bloody prey.
    The sharks might go, but the wolf was still there. In an instant the great hall was empty. The Saint’s voice was heard above all others. Spar wasted no time whatever.
    Leaping down the steps, Spar rushed across the rough stone, his hammering feet lost in the discord of others’ making. He gripped the chains and bars of the big door, hurled them down. He slammed the entrance open and was fanned by a breath of moist air. For an instant he stared across the courtyard, down the path toward the beach. It would be so easy to go, to get away from the Saint.
    But that was what they expected him to do. Spar turned back and vaulted up the steps three at a time until he was again at Peg Mannering’s door. He hammered on it with the rifle butt.
    “It’s Spar! Open up for God’s sake!”
    Because of the bedlam on the lower floor he could hear no movement in the room. He stood drowned in his own apprehensive sweat, expecting momentary discovery.
    They were coming back now, back toward the great hall. And they came running, with the Saint in the lead. Spar looked at the impassive, double-barred panel which stood between him and momentary safety. This was the first place they’d come. And he could not live long enough to get Peg Mannering out if they found him against that door.
    Why hadn’t he killed the Saint when he had the chance? It was too late now.
    He heard the creak of a rusty hinge. A white face appeared in the crack. He pushed hurriedly through and slammed and bolted the door behind him.
    Peg Mannering stood with her back against the wall, staring at him. To one who had been reared far from the sight and thought of violence, Spar presented a terrifying picture. His hair was rumpled, hanging in his eyes. His knuckles dripped blood. His shirt was torn open at the throat. And his silver gray eyes held the luminous light of the killer.
    “Keep quiet,” ordered Spar. “They are looking for me. Do not open up for them on any pretext.”
    He tucked the rifle under his arm and went to the window. Peg Mannering moved like a sleepwalker. She blew out the candle and then went back to the wall. The only light was that of the dark sky. Spar stood in the arched window, looking down upon the courtyard.
    Hammering at the door made him start. Folston’s voice cried, “Spar! If you’re in there, come out! Peg! Open up before he kills you! He’s gone mad! He doesn’t understand this joke of mine. It’s only a joke, Peg. Open up!”
    “He isn’t here,” said Peg Mannering in a firm voice.
    The hammering stopped. Silence reigned for a moment. Then the door creaked under the pressure of strong shoulders. But the builder of that castle had thought of such things and the door was constructed of flinty ironwood.
    After some moments, the pressure ceased and footsteps were heard going down the stairs. Then Spar, looking from the window, saw men dash across the courtyard in full cry, waving torches over their unkempt heads.
    The Saint paused for an instant and shouted: “Fan out to the right and left. Find him! He’s somewhere about. He won’t make the Venture because of the guard on the cliffs.”
    “So there’s a guard on the cliff,” muttered Spar. “Thank you, Saint, perhaps I’ll strangle you after all.”
    The quiet intensity of his voice made Peg wince. But she moved closer to him, rested her hand on his shoulder, and looked down at the