The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  I paid no more attention to him, for the feet of those who had been shooting at us were already scurrying forward.

  "Blythe," I called in warning.

  But the captain was engaged with a mutineer who had climbed up in the way Neidlinger had attempted. A second man--and I saw in an instant that it was Caine--was astride the rail on his way to support the first. Half way over he had stopped to take a shot at Sam.

  I fired from my hip without waiting to take aim. It was the luckiest shot of my life. The boatswain's shoulders sagged, his fingers relaxed so that the weapon clattered on the floor, and slowly his figure swayed outward. There was no grip to his knees. He toppled overboard, head first. I heard the plop as his body dived into the sea.

  Blythe cut down his man at the same instant.

  "Back to the wheelhouse," I shouted.

  We were barely in time. They came crowding in on us pell-mell. We had already switched off the light. Now the lantern was dashed to pieces by trampling heels.

  I was flung back against the wheel and the revolver knocked from my hand. Sinewy fingers gripped my throat and forced me down until I thought my back would break. Close to my ear a gun exploded. The pressure on my jugular relaxed instantly. The body of my opponent sank slowly to the floor and lay there limp.

  I took a long breath, leaped across the prostrate figure, and flung myself upon another. We struggled. I became aware that we had the room to ourselves. The others were fighting outside.

  The vessel had fallen into the trough of the waves. In one of its lurches the moon flooded the place with light.

  "Sam!" I cried, and he "Jack!"

  In the darkness we had mistaken each other for the enemy.

  Catching up a cutlas I followed him into the open. Our friends had come and gone again. To say that they were going would be more accurate. For they were now in full flight, the pack of wolves in chase.

  A few moments earlier and we might have saved the day. Now we could only pursue the pursuers.

  Blythe leaped down the steps, revolver in hand. I followed, but my foot caught on a body lying at the foot of the ladder. A hand caught my coat.

  "Gimme a lift, partner," asked a voice.

  "You, Tom?" I cried, helping him up. "Hurt, are you?"

  "Knocked in the head. A bit groggy. That's all."

  The delay made me a witness rather than an actor in the dénouement. Our friends had disappeared within the saloon and slammed the door. The foremost mutineer reached it, tried the handle, and threw his weight against the panels. The others came to his assistance. A revolver shot through the door dropped one of them. The others fell back at once.

  They met Blythe. A stoker swung a cutlas and rushed for him. Full in the forehead a bullet from the captain's revolver crashed into his brain. Like a football tackler the body plunged forward to Sam's feet.

  For a moment nobody moved or spoke. Then,

  "My God!" groaned Henry Fleming.

  I cannot account for it. These men had been brave enough in the thick of the fight while facing numbers not so very inferior to their own. But now, standing there three to one, it seemed as if some wave of horror sickened them at sight of the lifeless body plunging along the deck.

  They stood there with eyes distended, while Blythe, grimly erect, faced them as motionless as a statue.

  "Gawd, I've 'ad enough," the cook gasped, and got his fat bulk to the stairway with incredible swiftness.

  The others were at his heel, fighting for the first chance down.

  A bullet clipped the deck in front of me. I looked up hastily to see Bothwell's malevolent face in the wheelhouse window.

  "Turn about, Mr. Sedgwick," he jeered, and let fly again.

  Half dragging him with me, I got Yeager into the shadow.

  "Got a revolver?" I whispered.

  "Yes." He felt for it in the darkness. "Damn! I must 'a dropped it when Bothwell hit me over the coconut."

  "Are you good for a run to the saloon? He'll pick us off just as soon as the moon comes out from behind that cloud."

  A bullet took a splinter from the rail beside me.

  "We'd better toddle," agreed the cattleman. "Go ahead."

  I scudded for safety, Yeager at my heels. We reached the door of the saloon just as the captain did.

  "Let us in. Captain Blythe and friends," I cried, hammering on a panel.

  Some one unlocked the door. It was Dugan.

  "You here?" I exclaimed.

  "Yes, sir. I heard the shooting and came up just in time to lock the door on Mack. Think I wounded him through the door afterward, sir."

  "Any of our men short?" Blythe asked quickly, glancing around with the keen, quiet eye of a soldier.

  Alderson spoke up.

  "Fleming cut Blue down as we tried to force the steps, sir."

  "Killed him, you think?"

  "No doubt of it, sir."

  "Any more lost?"

  We did not notice it till a few minutes later, but little Jimmie Welch was missing. None of us was seriously wounded in the scrimmage, though nearly all had marks to show. Even Philips had a testimonial of valor in the form of a badly swollen eye.

  "They've suffered more than we have. Check up, my men. Mack, dead or badly wounded, shot by Dugan. Can you name any, Alderson?"

  "Only Sutton, sir, that you killed out here. There was a man lying on the bridge when we got there. Don't know who, sir."

  "Tot Dennis," answered Blythe, who had cut him down at the same time when I disposed of the boatswain.

  I mentioned Caine.

  "Didn't you finish another in the wheelhouse, Jack?"

  "I didn't. You did."

  The captain shook his head.

  "You're wrong about that. Must have been you."

  This puzzled me at the time, but we learned later that the man--he turned out to be the stoker Billie Blue had dirked in the first fight--had been killed by an unexpected ally who joined us later.

  "Counting Mack, they've lost five to our one," Sam summed up.

  "Hope they've got a bellyful by this time," I said bitterly.

  "They've won the wheel--for the present. But that's unimportant. Bothwell can't hold it. We'll starve him out. Practically it's our fight."

  What our captain said was quite true. Even if Bothwell could have solved the food problem and the question of sleep, he dared not leave his allies too long alone for fear they might make terms and surrender.

  For we had beaten them again. They had left now only seven men (not counting Mack), at least two of whom were wounded. This was exactly the same number that we had. Whereas the odds had been against us, now they were very much in our favor when one considered morale and quality.

  At Blythe's words we raised a cheer. I have heard heartier ones, for we were pretty badly battered up. But that cheer--so we heard later--put the final touch to the depression of the mutineers.

  "Mr. Sedgwick, will you kindly step down-stairs and notify the ladies that the day is ours? Get me some water, Morgan, and I'll take a look at Mr. Yeager's head. Philips, find Jimmie. Alderson, will you keep guard for the present? You'd better get back to bed, Dugan. I want to say that each one of you deserves a medal. If the treasure is ever found I promise, on behalf of Miss Wallace, that every honest man shall share in it."

  At this there was a second cheer and we scattered to obey orders.

  When I knocked on the door of Miss Wallace's stateroom a shaky voice answered.

  "Who is there?"

  "It is I--Sedgwick."

  The door opened. Evelyn, very pale, was standing before me with a little revolver in her hand. She wore a kind of kimono of some gray stuff, loose about the beautifully modeled throat, in which just now a pulse was beating fast. Sandals were on her feet, and from beneath the gown her toes peeped.

  "What is it? Tell me," she breathed in a whisper, her finger on her lips.

  I judged that her aunt had slept through the noise of the firing.

  "They attacked us on the bri
dge again. We had the best of it."

  "Is anybody--hurt?" she asked tremulously.

  "Five of them have been killed or badly wounded. We lost Billie Blue, poor fellow."

  "Dead?" her white lips framed.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Nobody else?"

  I hesitated.

  "Little Jimmie is missing. We are afraid----"

  Tears filled her eyes and brimmed over.

  "Poor Jimmie!"

  I'll not swear that the back of my eyes did not scorch with hot tears too. I thought of the likable little Arab, red-headed, freckled and homely, and I blamed myself bitterly that I had ever let him rejoin us at Los Angeles.

  "He wouldn't have come if it hadn't been for me. I asked you to let him," the young woman reproached herself.

  "It isn't your fault. You meant it for the best."

  Of a sudden she turned half from me and leaned against the door-jamb, covering her face with her hands. She was sobbing very softly.

  I put my arm across her shoulders and petted her awkwardly. Presently she crowded back the sobs and whispered brokenly, not to me, but as a relief to her surcharged feelings.

  "This dreadful ship of death! This dreadful ship! Why did I ever lead true men to their deaths for that wicked treasure?"

  I do not know how it happened, but in her wretchedness the girl swayed toward me ever so slightly. My arms went round her protectingly. For an instant her body came to me in sweet surrender, the soft curves of her supple figure relaxed in weariness. Then she pushed me from her gently.

  "Not now--not now."

  I faced a closed door, but as I went up the companionway with elastic heels my heart sang jubilantly.

  CHAPTER XVII

  A TASTE OF THE INQUISITION

  It could have been no more than five minutes after I left her that Evelyn followed me to the upper deck saloon. Yet in the interval her nimble fingers had found time to garb her in a simple blue princess dress she had found near to her hand.

  Without looking at me she went straight to Blythe, who was sponging the wrist of Alderson.

  "You'll let me help, won't you?" she asked, with such sweet simplicity that I fell fathoms deeper in love.

  "Of course. You're our chief surgeon. Eh, Alderson?"

  The sailor grinned. Though he was a little embarrassed he was grateful for the addition to the staff.

  After they had finished I brought her water to wash her hands. For the first time since she had entered the room our gaze met.

  Braver eyes no woman ever had, but the thick lashes fluttered down now and a wave of pink beat into her cheeks. Moved as she was by a touch of shy confusion, the oval of her face stirred delicately as if with the spirit of fire, she seemed a very blush rose, a creature of so fine a beauty as to stir a momentary fear.

  But I knew her to be strong, even if slight, and abrim with health. When she walked away with that supple, feathered tread of hers, so firm and yet so light, the vitality of her physique reasserted itself.

  "Some one slipping this way in the shadows, Captain Blythe," spoke up Morgan, who was on guard.

  Sam had been reloading his revolver. At once he stepped to the door.

  "Who goes there? Hands up! I have you covered. Move forward into the light. Oh, it's you, Smith! What do you want?"

  "I've come to give myself up, sir. I'm sick of it. Very likely you won't believe me, sir, but I joined under compulsion to save my life. I didn't dare leave them so long as Captain Bothwell----"

  "Mr. Bothwell," corrected Blythe sharply.

  "Mr. Bothwell, sir, I meant. He watched me as if I were a prisoner."

  "I think I noticed you on my bridge with a revolver in your hand," the Englishman told him dryly.

  "Yes, sir. But I fired in the air, except once when I shot the fireman who was killing Mr. Sedgwick over the wheel."

  I turned in astonishment to Blythe.

  "That explains it. Some one certainly saved me. If you didn't it must have been Smith."

  "That's one point to your credit," Blythe admitted. "So now you want to be an honest man?"

  "I always have been at heart, sir. I had no chance to come before. They kept me unarmed except during the fighting."

  His head bandaged with a blood-soaked bandanna, his face unshaven and bloodstained, Smith was a sorry enough sight. But his eye met the captain's fairly. I don't think it occurred to any of us seriously to doubt him.

  Sam laughed grimly.

  "You look the worse for the wars, my friend."

  Smith put his hand to the bound head and looked at the captain reproachfully.

  "Your cutlas did it at the pilot-house, sir."

  "You should be more careful of the company you keep, my man."

  "Yes, sir. I did try to slip away once, but they brought me back."

  "Let me look at your head. Perhaps I can do something for it," Evelyn suggested to the sailor.

  While she prepared the dressings I put the question to Smith.

  "Jimmie. Oh, yes, sir. He's down in the f'c'sle. Gallagher ran across him and took him down there."

  This was good news, the best I had heard since the mutiny began. It seemed that the boy had slipped out to get a shot at the enemy, and that his escape had been cut off by the men returning from the attack.

  Judging from what Smith said the men were very down-hearted and in vicious spirits. They were ready to bite at the first hand in reach, after the manner of trapped coyotes.

  "How many of them are there?" I asked.

  "Let's see. There's the two Flemings, sir, and Gallagher, and the cook, and Neidlinger, and Mack, but he won't last long."

  "Do you think they're likely to hurt the boy?"

  "Not unless they get to drinking, sir. They want him for a hostage. But there has been a lot of drinking. You can't tell what they will do when they're in liquor."

  I came to an impulsive decision. We couldn't leave Jimmie to his fate. The men were ready to give up the fight if the thing could be put to them right. The time to strike was now, in the absence of Bothwell, while they were out of heart at their failure.

  Why shouldn't I go down into the forecastle and see what could be done? That there was some danger in it could not be denied, but not nearly so much as if the Russian had been down there.

  I was an officer of the ship, and though that would have helped me little if they had been sure of victory it would have a good deal of weight now.

  Blythe would, I knew, forbid me to go. Therefore I did not ask him. But I took Yeager aside and told him what I intended.

  "I'll likely be back in half an hour, perhaps less. I don't want you to tell Sam unless he has to know. Don't let him risk defeat by attempting a rescue in case I don't show up. Tell him I'm playing off my own bat. That's a bit of English slang he'll understand."

  "Say! Let me go too," urged the cattleman, his eyes glistening.

  "No. We can't go in force. I'm not even going to take a weapon. That would queer the whole thing. It's purely a moral and not a physical argument I'm making."

  He did not want to see it that way, but in the end he grumblingly assented, especially when I put it to him that he must stay and keep an eye on Bothwell.

  While Blythe was down in his cabin getting a shave I watched my chance and slipped down to the main deck. Cautiously I ventured into the forecastle, tiptoeing down the ladder without noise.

  "Dead as a door nail. That makes seven gone to Davy Jones's locker," I heard a despondent voice say.

  "'E could sing a good song, Mack could, and 'e carried 'is liquor like a man, but that didn't 'elp 'im from being shot down like a dog. It'll be that wye with us next."

  "Stow that drivel, cookie," growled a voice which I recognized as belonging to the older Fleming. "You're nice, cheerful company for devils down on their luck. Ain't things bad enough without you croaking like a sky pilot?"

  "That's wot I say, says I; we'll all croak before this blyme row is over," Higgins prophesied.

  I saunt
ered forward with my hands in my pockets.