Part 52 (1/2)

”No, by thunder, you won't! I don't care about the cattleman, but Gallagher and Alderson were my s.h.i.+pmates. I'm no murderous pirate.”

”You'll hang for one, you fool, if you're not careful. Didn't Gallagher desert to the enemy? Wasn't Alderson against us from start to finish?

Didn't one of them give me this hole in my arm just now? They'll either join us or go to the sharks,” Bothwell announced curtly.

From where I stood, perhaps forty yards north of the cache, I could make out that my friends were prisoners. No doubt the pirate had taken them at advantage and forced a surrender. Of Barbados I could see no sign.

Later I learned that he had taken to his heels at the first shot.

Twice I gave the hoot of an owl. Falling clearly on the still night, the effect of my signal was startling.

”What was that, boss?” asked a Panamanian faintly.

”An owl, you fool,” retorted Bothwell impatiently. ”Come, I give you one more chance, Gallagher. Will you join us and share the booty? Or shall I blow out your brains?”

Gallagher, from where he lay on the ground, spoke out firmly:

”I'll sail no more with murderous mutineers.”

”Bully for you, partner!” boomed the undaunted voice of the cattleman.

”And you, Alderson?”

”I stand with my friends, Captain Bothwell.”

”The more fool you, for you'll be a long time dead. Stand back, Fleming.”

As I ran forward I let out a shout.

Simultaneously a revolver cracked.

Bothwell cursed furiously, for Henry Fleming had struck up the arm of the murderer.

The Russian turned furiously on the engineer and fired point-blank at him.

The bullet must have struck him somewhere, for the man gave a cry.

Bothwell whirled upon me and fired twice as I raced across the moonlit sand.

A flash of lightning seared my shoulder but did not stop me.

”Ha! The meddler again! Stung you that time, my friend,” he shouted, and fired at me a third time.

They were the last words he was ever to utter. One moment his dark, venomous face craned toward me above the smoke of his revolver, the next it was slowly sinking to the ground in a contorted spasm of pain and rage.

For George Fleming had avenged the attempt upon his brother's life with a shot in the back.

Bothwell was dead almost before he reached the ground.

For a moment we all stood in a dead silence, adjusting our minds to the changed conditions.

Then one of the natives gave a squeal of terror and turned to run. Quick as a flash the rest of them--I counted nine and may have missed one or two--were scuttling off at his heels.