The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 65: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

SHIPS Howard an’ their gang are comin’ hell-bent for election, right behind.” ““How close?” queried Blake, meeting the dark figures and shaking hands all around, even including Sullivan in his delighted - greeting, for he was overjoyed that the man had played fair. “We cut out o’ the bunch when they was startin’, an’ run ahead,” explained Ryan. “Got any guns?” - “One for myself—come along,” and Blake turned. “If we can lick that gang before Long Rube shows up, we’re all right.” CHAPTER XV. WHERE THE TREASURE WAS. EVEN men at his back, the clearing flooded with moonlight, the path beyond obscured and dark—Blake made his dis- positions quickly, He posted the men at the edges of the clearing, in a circle, and ordered them to show themselves only at the bo’sun’s whistle. Fancy Harry he retained on the bungalow veranda, and the two men lighted their pipes for a short smoke. “How many men with Bower, bo’sun?” “Six, Dude. They got all the rifles. We had a devil of a scrap out on the beach, after that condemned Howard blew up the Marshall! Besides us, there’s only eight left, an’ the two skippers. Was that you took the Foster?” “Young Boston,” explained Blake. He began to narrate what had happened, when a low warning hail from Paddy Ryan cut him short. “T hear the skipper cussin’, Dude!” Blake and Lovell knocked out their pipes and waited, tense. — A moment later the sounds of men crash- ing through the bush became clear—seamen are not made for such work. ‘The opening of the path blurred and darkened with grouping figures, which did not venture into the light of the clearing. For a long minute no sound broke the silence—Blake’s men kept quiet, the at- tackers were evidently reconnoitering. Then two huge shapes moved out into the moon- light, and Blake saw Howard and Steelfist Marshall side by side. In each skipper’s hand was a revolver, and Howard’s was an automatic. Blake noted that fact swiftly. OF STRIFE. ‘No one here,” spat out Marshall. “Come on, boys!” 439 © Blake moved forward to the steps, where ° he was still in shadow. ‘“That’s far enough, Steelfist,’? he or- dered quietly. “I’ve got you covered, and my men are all around you. I’ve got the Foster, too. Want to make terms?” “No, you cursed liar!” roared Howard. “Come on, boys!” “Stop or drop!” cried Blake grimly. The only answer was a yell from Mar- shall, and the group of figures dashed for- ward. Steelfist’s revolver spat fire—and as it did so, Blake threw down on Hovw- ard’s massive bulk and pulled trigger. “All right, bo’sun!” Lovell’s whistle shrilled out. Howard fell with a single gasping curse, and Mar- shall tripped over him. Before Steelfist could gain his feet Blake’s men raised a wild shout and charged, the Dutchman leaping in first of all on Marshall himself, and knocking away the latter’s revolver. One of Howard’s men knifed the Dutch- man twice, in the back. Blake shot the man dead—and up staggered Steelfist Mar- shall, spitting blood and curses, lashing into the thick of the fight. Blake thrust his revolver away and bored in. He reached Marshall just as the deadly steel hand knocked Lovell sprawling, and staggered the skipper with a straight punch to the jaw. Marshall whirled, Blake drove his fist home again, and the skipper reeled back. The fight was over, however. Panic- stricken by the ring of men leaping out on them from the darkness, the attackers broke blindly for the shore and Marshall, though wild with fury, smashed his way after them and was gone, still roaring curses. Blake was content to let him go, and called in the men from any pursuit. Picking up MHoward’s automatic, he found the clip full, and passed his own half- empty weapon to Ryan. The revolver knocked away from Marshall he handed to Fancy Harry, and then proceeded to take stock of damages. Though short, the battle had been sick- eningly bloody. The Dutchman was dead, knifed twice to the heart; the Bottle Heaver lay inert, a boat-stretcher resting on his skull. One of the attacking seamen had been shot by COMMICLOOOKS (C@)