The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 69: what you’re looking at

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

SHIPS OF STRIFE. From the path across the clearing he saw Marshall’s men breaking cover in a wild charge. When Marshall himself came into the moonlight Blake fired, and saw Steelfist go down. Then men broke from the bush all around, surged on the veranda, and the darkness of the house was filled with a shrieking, curs- ing, sobbing riot of battle, where quarter was not asked or given. Blake, knowing there was no escape, drew aside with a grim determination to make each of his shots tell. From six feet dis- tant a revolver spat fire at him, and as the bullet nicked his ear, Blake caught the sav- age face of Long Rube Bower behind the gun. He fired, saw the mate fall, and then was rushed back by knife-armed men. After that first volley, the rifles had been dis- carded. In that moment the three remaining brandy-drinkers retrieved themselves nobly and well, swinging into the fray with knife and bottle—then the bellow of Steelfist Marshall rose anew, and Blake knew that the skipper was still unharmed. Vainly he tried to get another shot at Steelfist; twice he shot down men who leaped at him, then a wild rush of bodies sent him to the floor and his revolver whirled out of his hand. Blake came up, fighting like a demon, only to go down again, dazed, under the unseen blow of a stretcher. Before he could rise some one had leaped on him, a knee in his back, grinding him down and strangling him, and hearing the brutal laugh of Mar- shall above him, he felt himself tied hand and foot. There was a shot, and the Bottle Heaver screamed. ‘Then Steelfist’s voice rang out again. “Haul the Dude down to the beach, two o’ you! I got use for him later. Lively, now! Where’s Bower? Hey, Rube—” As Blake was lifted and carried away, he could hear the skipper cursing like a mad- man over the mate’s body, and smiled grim- ly to himself. Five minutes later he was unceremo- niously dumped in the sand near the two boats, and left to his own reflections. Find- ing that his lashings were too well tied to be loosened, Blake composed himself to await events. He was under no illusions as to his pres- ent situation. Steelfist Marshall had not 443 spared him through pity, but through cru- elty, and doubtless had some savage re- prisal in mind. But what of Paddy Ryan and the bo’sun? Fancy Harry seemed to have completely vanished. From Ryan’s one shout of warn- ing, Blake gathered that the little Irishman had slipped through Bower’s party and was now desperately scurrying in search of Wi- cliff and the natives. That hunt, he reflect- ed, promised to be vain so far as he him- self was concerned. He knew that Marshall must now be go- ing through the bungalow; a moment later a wild yell.of triumph that shrilled through the mass of jungle apprised him that the search must have been successful. Blake gave vent to an inward curse. “T wouldn’t care so much for myself,” he thought bitterly, “but if that old ass Wicliff had only hidden the loot properly, it might still be saved from Steelfist. What about Ole, I wonder? Those first shots I heard—”’ With unhappy surmise fast growing upon him, he was interrupted by the arrival of two men, both bearing knife-wounds, who cursed and kicked him impartially. Both reeked of brandy, and Blake knew that what was left of the stuff had found its mark. Then from the direction of the bungalow lifted a chorus—the short, snappy chanty used in furling the bunt of the heavy sails. “Way-hay-hay—my old woman’s a divil for gin— We'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boot!” The reason for this was made clear a moment later. Down the beach came four men, each pair carrying the end of a long pole that disclosed itself as the rail of the bungalow veranda. In the center was slung a large chest, whose weight caused the four men to stagger. Steelfist Marshall followed, a rifle in his hand. On closer approach, Blake saw a streak of blood on the skipper’s cheek, which accounted for his first bullet. After him came the rest of the gang, singing and cursing and yelling. Blake’s first thought was that they had thoroughly looted the house, for they car- ried furniture, strips of rail, and in fact everything which could be moved or torn away. —Then—Blake went sick as he looked. For, marching between two men was a white figure which he knew instantly. It was Mary Peabody. “Stow that chest in my boat!” snapped GO 0)(0\) AMUG S (C@)