The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 72: what you’re looking at

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

446 sand groaning, a ragged cut from temple to chin. “Into ’em, bullies!” roared Steelfist, set- ting the example. Though it was long since Wicliff’s natives had wielded spear and club, they evinced a lust for battle that staggered the seamen. There was no chance for rifles, save as clubs; the natives had surrounded the party from the ships, cutting them off from the boats; and, though but a dozen in all, followed the lead of Fancy Harry nobly. Desperate, the seamen whipped out knife and clubbed rifle, and fought for their lives. Lovell, revolver in hand, went down under the rush. A stalwart native smashed down a seaman with a huge club and drove in at Steelfist; the skipper leaped nimbly aside, whirled, and sent his terrible right from the shoulder. As the native crumpled up and fell in a heap, a wild snarl of triumph broke from Marshall. “Into ’em, lads—knife the cursed rats Blake turned his head, desperation in his eyes, and sought the John Foster. He prayed that young Boston would come— but the lagoon was silent, empty of boats. Boston and his men were either drunk or heedless of the fracas. There came a crack and a rifle-flame thirty feet away; the two sentries sent out by Marshall were coming in. So suddenly had the whole thing passed, that only now had they realized what was up. Blake writhed up against the missionary. “For God’s sake, loose my hands!” he cried. ‘There’s Ryan over there, knocked out—he must have a revolver about him, for I gave him one! Hurry up—loose me and give me a gun, Wicliff!”’ Something like a groan broke from the gaunt missionary, but his trembling fingers worked at Blake’s wrists. “T have no strength,” he muttered in Blake’s ear. “I’ve been tramping with my boys all night, making sure all was safe— then we found Mary gone, and there was more searching—your man Ryan found us just in time—” “Get me that gun!” cried Blake, as his hands came free. Setting down the form of the girl, Wi- cliff obeyed. Even in the firelight Blake could see that the man had aged terribly since their last meeting, and must be very weak. Searching Ryan, who had been flung out |? THE ARGOSY. of the fight, senseless, Wicliff found the revolver, and came back. Meantime, Mar- shall had been working havoc among the natives, his blood-streaked face like that of a demon; Lovell encountered him, stood up to him for a moment and slugged toe to toe—only to go down beneath a clubbed rifle from behind. Blake lifted his revolver, coolly, his hand steady. He threw down on the rifleman running from the south end of the beach, and the man dropped to the shot. Turning, he picked off the man who had clubbed Lovell, and sought to get a shot at Steelfist. But the skipper had heard those reports, and had learned their cause. He came around with a roar, turned-his back on the fight and leaped at Blake, cursing as he came. Lips compressed, eyes narrowed, Blake waited—he must be sure of his shot this time. When the raging Marshall was two. yards away, he pulled trigger. The hammer clicked emptily—the last cartridge was gone! - Before Blake eould move that steel fist -had crashed into his cheek and knocked him sprawling on the sand. He got to his knees, desperate with the agony of his burned feet, to see Marshall turn on the motionless Wicliff. Wild with pain and rage, Blake tottered up and fell on the skipper with one terrible blow flush to the jaw. Steelfist reeled, came back, and Blake, unable to guard, caught a short-arm jab that hurled him down again. He was done, and knew it; sobbing with his very impo- tency, he dragged himself up to his elbow. But Marshall gave him no further thought. ‘Now, you cursed gospel-shark,’’ bel- lowed the maddened: skipper, “it’s lights out for you an’ this—” And then came Ole. Bleeding horribly from his jagged face- long wound, the Finn, who must have come to himself a moment before, rose from the sand. His peaked face and watery eyes gleamed with berserk madness, he mouthed inarticulate yells that were more horrible than words, and his sheath-knife glowed in the firelight. Marshall heard those yells, and turned barely in time. Ole came in with a leap and a swift upward stab that had meant death to an ordinary man. But Steelfist, snarling, caught the thrust in the steel and leather harness of his right hand, and CORnMICGLOOOKS (E@