Skyprobe by Philip McCutchan Page A

night. He saw Beatty over by the steps with a gun in her hand. Horn gave a curious laugh and said, “You have to die, mac. This place is closing down, just in case of trouble. That being so, we’d rather make sure you’re really dead before we leave.”
    Horn lifted his gun.
    As he did so Shaw brought his legs up and lunged forward, swift as light.
    His feet caught Horn a wicked, crunching blow in the under-side of the chin that shattered teeth and jaw and lifted the American backwards. Horn went over as if he’d been sandbagged—but from behind him Beatty opened up with the gun. Her aim wasn’t too bright; the lead sang over Shaw’s head but in doing so it sliced right through the rope holding him to the gallows. As the rope parted Shaw dropped, instinctively throwing his legs out sideways. He landed lightly, right astride the top of the shaft. Horn was still out cold on the floor. Beatty used her gun again but she was badly rattled, firing blinder than before. The bullets went wide. Shaw jumped away from the shaft towards where the coal was stored. He got his right foot behind a large lump and lifted it into the air, hard and fast and accurate. It got Beatty right on her gun arm and she dropped the gun, and before she could recover Shaw had thrown himself bodily at her and the two of them had crashed to the floor, Beatty underneath with the breath knocked clean out of her well-developed body and her head pouring blood at the back from where she had hit the stone.
    Like Horn, she was out cold.
    Shaw looked across at Horn. The man hadn’t moved a muscle and his head looked a trifle oddly set. Shaw began to think that kick in the jaw had broken his neck. Whether or not that was the case, Horn was undoubtedly immobile for quite a time to come. And Shaw knew the American had been carrying a knife. . . .
    He got up from Beatty and ran across to where Horn was lying. Speed was everything now, but he had a necessarily long job ahead if he was to free his hands. Dropping down by Horn’s body—he could see now that the man had in fact broken his neck—Shaw pushed at the clothing with his feet, lifting the coat until he had contacted the knife in the trouser waistband. Slewing, he took the haft in his teeth and pulled it away from the corpse. Quickly he got to his feet and looked around for somewhere to fix the knife firmly enough for him to be able to saw the rope across its blade, and he found the place he wanted in one of the wooden uprights of the gallows, where a bullet from Beatty’s gun had slightly separated two continguous battens. With his teeth, painfully, Shaw slid the haft of the knife into the wood, then drove it home firmly with his foot, wedging it down on to a large nail. Losing no time he turned round, felt with his bound hands for the knife, and maneuvered the blade beneath the rope. He sawed away hard, helping to hold the knife in place with the tips of his fingers.
    It took him only two minutes of painful effort and a good deal of blood and then he felt a strand of the rope give. He wrenched his wrists hard apart and the rope pulled away. He shrugged himself out of the loosened noose beneath his arms and then, breathing hard, he ran for Horn’s and Beatty’s guns, reloading the latter and taking some spare ammunition for both. He took a quick look at Beatty; she was pale and there was a lot of blood but she was breathing.
    With a gun in each hand Shaw went fast up the cellar steps.
    He paused at the door, listening out. There was no sound. Carefully he turned the handle and eased the door open, then stepped out into the passage, which was lit by a single electric bulb. Moving slowly on, he made his way quietly along the passage towards the room where he had breakfasted—how long ago? He still had some way to go when he heard footsteps. They were coming down the passage leading from the hall ahead. Between him and the hall, the passage took a right-angled corner. Shaw flattened against the wall and