"THE LYNCHING"
With darkness the explorers returned, and also Jack's strange eyesight,
much to the amazement and delight of Loyola.
The first use the rover made of his recovered vision was to gaze long
and earnestly at the woman by his side, and his eyes brightened from a
look of keen criticism to a warm glow of deep, hungry tenderness.
"Well?" asked Loyola's low voice, as she sat with downcast eyes before
the overpowering longing of his gaze.
"My God!" burst out the rolling-stone, "and to think that you are tied
to that villain."
"You have my love--what else matters?" she whispered shyly.
"I want you, you, you!" he hissed. "Oh, child, you don't know how
hateful my life has been without you."
"We can only hope," she said bravely.
"Lolie, there is murder in my heart when I think of it all. Aye,
murder, crying, begging, moaning for its victim," he cried hoarsely.
"Oh, Jack, you mustn't talk like that."
"I can't help it, child, I want you too much!" groaned the rover
dismally.
Her small hand crept into his with a mute sympathy and perfect
understanding. The very touch soothed him. No need to speak. Each knew
the other's thoughts, and with wistful, tender glances they sat hand in
hand, snatching a sweet comfort in being together.
Whatever the future held for them, whatever fears or black forebodings
each held in his or her heart, they put away from them, determined to
let nothing cloud the sweetness of the moment.
It might all be very wrong, but they were but human and both had
suffered much.
And now Broncho approached and insisted on lighting an immense
camp-fire, though the night was quite warm and the trade wind mild and
gentle.
"It's shore a heap cheerless an' doleful rustlin' your chuck an'
beddin' down for the night without a fire," he explained. "It's plumb
comfortin' to lie in the smoke and kauf, an' minds me of old times,
though I shore misses the song o' the night gyard ca'min' down the
cattle an' the yowlin' o' the coyote huntin' his grub."
Presently food was served out from the scanty store landed by the
marooners, for while that lasted the _Ocmulgee's_ awful salt junk and
hard-tack were placed on one side, with many a sigh of relief from the
whaleboat's crew.
Loyola insisted on taking Hawksley his allowance with her own hands,
for which she received a choice lot of carefully picked insults by way
of thanks.
With bent head and her hands to her ears the woman writhed under the
lashing tongue, each hideous, sneering sentence cutting her to the
heart. With all her misery revived, she staggered back to the others
white and shaking, and sank down by Jack's side in an attitude of utter
despair.
The rover bit his lips in a desperate effort to control his feelings,
but there was a wild look in his eyes which the observant cowboy
noticed with a kind of grim smile.
"_Poco tiempo!_" he muttered to himself with a grunt of satisfaction.
"_Poco tiempo!_"
The bosun's mate, stretched by the side of his fellow conspirator,
desperately strove to rally out of a growing despondency. His eyes
roved round restlessly, and he fidgeted as if unable to remain quiet
for long.
What had been the result of Broncho's eloquence? Even Tari seemed to be
affected by the general uneasiness, whilst the boy could not keep his
eyes from the clear-cut shadow of the prisoner, silhouetted inkily on
the moonlit sands.
With a furious shake the bosun's mate attempted to banish his
gloomy thoughts, and turning to Broncho, remarked with a suspicious
carelessness in his deep voice:
"Jack Derringer gives out to me as 'ow you wos a cowpuncher, an' it
gets me teetotally 'ow you plays your little game."
"Wall," returned the cattleman politely, "it's some difficult to
explain, you not bein' a cowman. What is it you-alls is aimin' for to
know the savvy of? Is it cuttin' out or brandin' or night herdin',
hoss-wranglin', workin' on a trail outfit, or what?"
"'Orse-wrangler's a josser as does a bunk wiv the 'orses, ain't he?"
"No, siree," replied Broncho seriously. "You're some tangled in your
rope. That's a hoss-rustler. Hoss-wrangler is what we-alls call the
longhorn who keeps tab o' buckskins, pintos, an' sech-like obstrep'rous
but some necessary parties."
"I'm all jammed in a clinch. Your lingo'll shift me off my bedplate
afore long. What kind er flat-foot is a buckskin?"
The polite cowpuncher made no remark as to his inability to understand
Bill's naval idioms, but explained:
"A buckskin's a sort o' cayuse----"
"I'm a leatherneck if you ain't enuff to make a blighter tin-hats.[12]
An' wot's a cayuse?"
Broncho looked faintly astonished at the extraordinary ignorance of the
man-of-war's man.
"A cow-pony," he said, half in sorrow.
"Is my upper-works collapsin', or wot? A cow-pony? Wot sort er bally
hermofridite is that?"
"Why, a cow-hoss----"
"Cow-'orse? Am I 'alf-rats, or is you 'avin' a game? If so, governor, I
guess you an' me'll part brass-rags----"
"Thar's generally a pretty fair mob of 'em in a round-up or
trail-outfit; ten or twelve per man is the usual play," went on Broncho
serenely, passing over Bill Benson's excited words, which, of course,
were double-Dutch to him.
The bosun's mate sighed faintly.
"Go on; oh, go on," he said resignedly. "An' wot's brandin'?"
"Wall, thar's range-brands an' road-brands. Sometimes it's a wattle cut
on the jaw, sometimes a slit dewlap, but mostly we-alls just irons 'em
on the hindquarter. Brands that-away is mighty numerous an' variegated.
These few I recalls for your eedification--The Running W, Laurel-Leaf,
Circle, Lazy H, Pitchfork, Double-Bracket, the Two-Bar----"
"I've 'eard o' monkey brand, but I'm a blighted grabby if I ever
navigates with a range-brand afore. Noo-fangled range-finder, I s'pose.
A wattle-cut on the jaw I can keep stations with. It's a nawsty
upper-cut that, I h'expec', likely to 'eat the bearin's of the josser
wot cops it. Well, wot's the nex' course? Branding'll pass; it's too
deep for my intellec'. Rub it off the signal-slate an' sachey ahead."
"Then thar's bound'ry-ridin', which is scoutin' round watchin' the
cattle don't get strayed or drifted offen their proper range."
"I s'pose you does your manœuvrin' on a geegee most times?"
"On'y sech low and 'ornery mavericks as sheepmen foots it in the
cow-country."
"Well, I never did take a cruise on er 'orse, but I takes my gal out
one day in a shay. Lord! It were a go an' no mistake! I was got up to
kill, and she--well, she was good gear an' you may lay to that. So we
ups anchor and off we goes, makin' a fair wind of it, me a-cockin' a
chest an' swayin' the main good-oh. It's then that bloomin' sarpint,
Old Nick, starts in his little game, an' like another Eve, my Dinah
gets her sailin' orders an' whispers kinder soft-like:
"'Make 'im go, Bill darlin', lick 'im an' make 'im go! 'An' me like a
innocent babe, not twiggin' Old Nick's tactics, begins chucklin' like a
hen, an' gives a pull on the yoke-lines.
"Well, what does this blighted 'orse do but give a flip out aft, an'
go weavin' off like a crazy lunatic, an' we're soon navigatin' under
forced draught. My Dinah gives a toot on her siren, an' I lays back on
the yoke-lines; but that flat-footed, mud-scatterin' moke ain't takin'
no notice, an' just claps on every pound o' steam.
"We goes by old Bluelights of the _Hannibal_, and a tiffy, like a
torpedo-catcher on 'er steam trials. Bluelights 'e sings out,
"'Makin' 'eavy weather of it, Bill?' an' he hits the target that time
if he never does afore.
"Right ahead there's a tramp loaded down to her Plimsoll mark with
coals, an' goin' dead slow.
"I rings up the engines for 'ard astern with both screws, but it ain't
no use; the next minit we rams him. Lord! It were a giddy-go-round!
"My Dinah an' me goes over the bows like bein' shot out of a 5-inch.
She lands on the coals, which you can bet has a bad effec' on her flash
rig-out; but I up-ends the sleepy skipper o' the coal tramp, an' the
pair of us goes overboard, me a-claspin' 'im in my volupshus arms.
"We lands soft, an' he turns on me reg'lar frothin' at the mouth. I
won't repeat 'is remarks, which is that powerful an' florid it's a
treat and er eddication to 'ear 'im.
"Then 'e begins to wave 'is spars like a Norwegian flag[13] in a
breeze, an' thinks I, 'It's time I tunes up my big bassoon in this
bloomin' oratorio'; so I breaks in:
"'Refill y'r water-jacket an' cool off, me butter-backed, grimy-eyed
blackymoor. Just keep them dingy paws o' yours outer detonatin'
contact, or I'll cat an' fish them lovely black eyes o' yours.'
"That fair gives him the pip.
"'Sock it to 'im, Bill,' screeches my Dinah, from where she's repairin'
'er riggin' on the coal-tramp.
"The end of it all is, war is declared and 'ostilities commences.
'E starts in on 'is windmill racket, until I gives 'im one on that
protrudin' ram-bow o' his an' drors fust blood.
"It's then a bloomin' bladder-bellied peeler comes steerin' down on us
and interrupts the jamboree, an' that's the end o' my cruise be'ind a
'orse."
"Hosses," remarked Broncho musingly, "are a heap like human bein's.
Some is reliable, an' some plumb onreliable.
"Some is mulish, an' that mean they'll eat your chaps offen you whilst
you is consumin' of a drink; others, sech is their perverse nature,
will go curvin' off on the run as if they're locoed; whilst many will
buck their saddles off an' sunfish every time you-alls swings your leg
over them.
"I has a white-eyed claybank one time that would pitch ontil this
sinful world played its last jack-pot if I held my hand on his back
that long--good old worm-fence buckin' at that. Yes, hosses is shore
mighty various, but the worsest of 'em is virgin gold to a peanut ahead
of any human that ever draws breath. Chucks! They don't run on the same
range."
"That may be the way it looks from your side of the deck, but the bally
fantasia that moke plays makes me sorter doubtful. I allows you lays it
on too thick, mate," objected Bill Benson.
"I merely states it as my opeenion," observed Broncho politely; "an'
now," he went on, "as it's gettin' some late, I guess I'll roll into my
blankets."
"Down 'ammicks, boys," called the bluejacket to the others.
It had been arranged that he was to be on guard the first watch,
Broncho taking the middle, and Tari the morning, Jim and the rover
reserving themselves for the following night.
Soon the whole camp was asleep except the bosun's mate, who paced up
and down the beach in a moody reverie. As the hours passed he shrank
more and more from the dread event in which he was to take part during
the middle watch; yet he had consented and given his word, and he was
not the man to back out of an undertaking and leave his mate in the
lurch, however much his feelings went against it.
Slowly midnight approached, and at last the dreaded moment arrived.
With an irrepressible shudder he went up to the sleeping cowboy and
shook him gently, saying,
"Eight bells, mate!"
Broncho opened his eyes and sat up, his mind rousing itself from deep
sleep to clear-headed wakefulness with the long habit of his calling.
"All quiet?" he asked in a whisper.
"Aye," replied the bluejacket, in the same low tone.
Broncho gave a keen glance round. Jack, with his right hand locked in
Loyola's, was sleeping the sleep of the just, but the woman seemed to
be crying softly.
Anxiously the cowboy bent over her.
"It's all right!" he whispered. "The poor gal's on'y a-whimperin' in
her sleep, and I ain't none surprised."
Jim likewise, lying on his face, seemed dead to the world.
They then roused Tari, who sprang straight out of a heavy slumber to
his feet without a word, and the three silent men crept softly away.
Tari glided ghostlike in the moonlight to the boat, and returned to the
others with a coil of rope on his arm; and now all three approached
the unconscious Hawksley.
Broncho had a ball of spun-yarn and a thole-pin in his hand. With these
he scientifically gagged the terrified ruffian before he could make a
sound; then, casting him loose from the tree, with Tari in the lead
tugging on a rope made fast to the miserable wretch's wrists, and the
other two on each side of him, they made an ominous-looking procession
through the black patches of shadow and gleaming shafts of moonlight in
the palm-grove.
Tari, his great harpoon like a wand of office in one hand and the rope
attached to the prisoner in the other, sagging and tautening like a
towline as the unhappy man hung back in terror and was jerked forward
again, stalked ahead through the scrub and palms without a moment's
hesitation as to his course, and in silence they threaded their way
with stern eyes and grimly set jaws.
But what was that? Yes, there it was again! A human form dodging on
their trail, taking advantage of every bit of shadow and gliding after
them with the silence of a cat's tread.
For a second the pale moonlight glinted on a white, agonised face with
big, frightened eyes, but firmly compressed lips.
It was little Jim. The one of all others the conspirators thought they
had least to fear from.
But the boy was quick-eared, and his wits had been sharpened in the
roughest school in the world.
All that long evening he had shivered under the knowledge that some
deadly deed was in planning for the midnight hours.
Shrewdly he guessed the object of those long deliberations between the
cowboy and the man-of-war's man. A word caught here and there of dread
significance, and his hastily formed conclusions were confirmed.
Unable to sleep, racked with uncertainty as to what to do, as to
whether he ought to inform the unconscious rover or let matters take
their course, and nursing his grim knowledge, the boy lay quaking
through the long hours of the first watch. Then at midnight, obeying
the impulse of the moment, he counterfeited sleep to avoid detection;
but on the three conspirators moving off he was unable to contain
himself longer, and rising stealthily, he crept off on their trail,
still undecided as to what he ought to do, but dragged after them by an
unknown influence which gave him a sufficiency of nerve and cunning to
avoid being discovered and yet left the problem still unsolved in his
tortured brain.
Presently the little procession arrived at an open piece of ground in
the midst of the forest, like a fairy glade, surrounded as it was by
the stately trunks of the cocoa-palms standing majestically like the
columns of a Greek circular temple. In the centre of this open space
grew a gigantic tree, like a king circled by his courtiers.
Up to this monarch of the grove Tari led his captive, and halted.
Jim, as he slipped behind a clump of brushwood, recognised the spot as
one which he and Tari had stumbled upon during their exploration of the
afternoon, and he remembered that it was on the opposite side of the
island to the signal palm, the lagoon coming in between.
The conspirators had chosen their spot well. It was far out of earshot
of the camp, and seemed as if designed purposely for the object which
they had in view.
Silently they went about their preparations, whilst the boy watched
them from his hiding-place with a horror in his eyes.
Making use of a grummet, Tari, with the coil of rope round his
shoulders, went up the tree like a cat. To any one who has never seen a
native go up a tree in this fashion it is a most astonishing sight.
The rope circles the tree and the man's thighs, whilst he keeps his
balance with his feet pressed against the trunk, progressing upwards by
jerks. Each time, as he takes the pressure of his body off the rope, he
slips the grummet higher up the trunk, tautening it up with his thighs
before it can drop back again.
In this way Tari was soon at the top, and producing the boat's
halliard-block and a salvagee strop from inside his shirt, he fixed
them on the strongest branch he could find; then, reeving the rope,
lowered one end to the ground. This Bill Benson and Broncho took hold
of, and the Kanaka taking the other, they lowered him easily to the
ground, thus testing at the same time the efficiency of their gibbet.
The doomed man was now led under the dangling loop, one of the
executioners still keeping a firm hold on the rope to his wrists,
whilst the others removed the gag.
Immediately the miserable wretch, dropping on his knees, burst into a
piteous appeal for mercy.
The bosun's mate turned away, unable to stand the dreadful sight,
but Broncho was made of sterner stuff, and listened to the raving,
distracted words with an unshaken sternness.
"Have mercy!" whimpered the terrified ruffian. "Have mercy! I'll be
your slave. Anything! I'll give you gold [eagerly], for I have it where
I can lay hands on it. I swear it. By God, I swear it; only let me go!"
Slowly Broncho shook his head.
"Christ! Have you no pity in your soul? Think what you are doing! This
is murder--cruel, bloody murder!"
"It's a shore-enuff proper-conducted lynchin'," growled the cowboy.
"What have I done to you? Lord God! What have I done? Free my hands and
I'll fight you square, anyhow you like! Anything but this, this--this
horrible death. I ain't fit to die. Lemme free an' have a chance in a
square fight."
"I don't fight wi' skunks o' your breed!" came the scornful answer.
At this the wretch broke down utterly and exhausted himself in wild
oaths of abuse; but after a string or two of these Broncho cut in
impatiently:
"I allow you'd better throw off any prayer-stock you-alls wishes to cut
loose. Your time's gettin' some scarce."
With a moan of terror the doomed ruffian threw himself down on his
face, howling like a cur, and casting to the winds all further efforts
at self-control.
Unmoved by this pitiful display of a cowardly soul, Broncho stepped up
to the writhing form and pulled him to his feet; then, with a slow,
deliberate care, adjusted the noose round the condemned man's neck, and
called to the others to haul in the slack of the rope.
All this time, Jim, crouching behind the brushwood and shaking all over
with fright, puzzled his poor head in a desperation as to how to act.
At the last moment the thought came to him. Already the three men were
preparing to lay back on the rope, when right over their heads came a
weird, unearthly voice:
"_Hangmen, beware! Do this deed and your time will shortly come!
Beware! beware!_"
The effect was instantaneous. Tari and the bosun's mate dropped the
rope and sprang backwards in wild alarm; only the undaunted cowboy
stood firm.
Even the condemned man ceased his whimpering and looked up fearfully.
"Blazes! What were that?" cried the scared bluejacket in a hoarse
whisper.
"Don' know," replied Broncho laconically. "A sperit mebbe, but no
sperit palaver is goin' to jolt up this lynchin'. Take a holt and h'ist
away."
"_Take care! take care!_" hissed the sepulchral tones again.
"My God!" groaned the prisoner, and would have collapsed, but a tug at
the rope about his neck by Broncho's steady hand caused him to remain
erect.
As for the superstitious bosun's mate, he crouched down as if fearing a
blow, whilst Tari, with a wild cry of "Spirit debble! spirit debble!"
fled madly from the spot.
Meanwhile, the small author of this terror-inspiring voice was tearing
back along the trail with all the speed he could muster.
Breathlessly he burst into the camp, and darting to Jack's side, gasped
incoherently,
"They're lynchin' him! They're lynchin' him!"
"Him? Whom? Why, it's Jim," exclaimed the rolling-stone, sitting up and
blinking his eyes, his example being followed by the surprised Loyola.
"Come!" urged the panting boy. "Come quick! We may be in time. I give
'em a good scare. Follow me!" and off he went.
Jack was up in an instant, rapidly putting two and two together from
the boy's wild words, and away he dashed in pursuit, with Loyola on his
heels.
As they ran Jim managed to gasp out between his sobbing breaths a short
account of Broncho's lynching, which drew an exclamation of concerned
astonishment from the rover.
All this time Broncho was using his best eloquence to get the
bluejacket to return to his grisly job.
"Brace up!" he urged, "brace up! You-alls ain't goin' to stampede the
trail at a bunch o' ghost talk."
"I can't, man! Blawst me, I can't do it," groaned the terrified Bill
Benson. "Gaud save us," he went on; "it were a warnin'!"
"Chucks!" growled the impatient and lion-hearted cowboy. "Rats to
'em, I say! Air you a quitter, Bill Benson? You, a British navy-man,
a quitter?" and there was scorn keen as a razor-edge in his drawling
voice.
"S'elp me Gaud, Broncho, I can't face it!"
"You heard 'em, Benson," put in Hawksley, seeing his chance; "you heard
'em. Don't let that fiend hang me, or may my spirit haunt you! May my
blood be on your head and put a curse on all your days!"
"Silence, you gal-thief, silence!" hissed the angry cowpuncher, giving
a jerk to the rope which nearly dislocated the wretched man's neck;
then, addressing himself to the bluejacket, he went on:
"If you-alls baulk this ford, Benson, I'll put the coward's brand on
you, shore as I'm tabbed in the stud-book Buckin' Broncho."
"It's no use," returned the man-of-war's man sulkily. "I ain't out
to buck agin spirits--my courage don' run that swift. I ain't afraid
as long as it's men, but ghosts top the limit o' my gristle. They
overweights my firin'-battery absolute and entire."
For a second the cowpuncher glared in silence; then, slowly drawing his
revolver, cocked it and covered the bluejacket with its sinister barrel.
"Mebbe this here argument'll revive you some," he drawled
contemptuously.
Broncho was bluffing, bluffing desperately, but he had not spent the
pay of so many seasons learning poker for nothing.
"Better catch a holt!" he went on significantly. "This here gun ain't
out for play. It's a business proposeetion which it ain't wise nor
healthy to monkey with."
After one wild, searching look into the stern eyes of the cowboy, Bill
Benson gave in and reluctantly resumed his hold on the rope; whilst the
unhappy Hawksley, seeing his last hope gone, burst afresh into a flow
of terror-inspired lamentations and prayers.
At last the moment had come!
"Lay back on it!" hissed the cowpuncher, as the two executioners drew
the rope taut.
In another second Hawksley would have been dangling in space. Already
he was on the tips of his toes, when "Crack!" and the rope was cut
through just above his head, and down he fell in a heap.
"Hold! What the devil are you doing?" cried a panting voice, and the
next moment Jack burst into the open, a smoking pistol in his hand,
followed by Jim and Loyola.
"You ain't wanted here, Jack Derringer," roared the baffled cowpuncher.
"He's my steer, an' rope him I will! I'll take it kind if you'll quit
blockin' up the scenery an' obstructin' this here execution."
"Why, Broncho, what's taken you? My old bunkie isn't going to turn into
a butchering desperado, is he? Come, old son, this little game of
yours has gone far enough."
"I stands a corralful from you, Jack, as you-alls knows; but you're
playin' mighty near the limit. I asks you again to vamoose," returned
the cowboy, sticking desperately to his guns; then he added more
softly, "It's for your own good, pard."
"No good's going to come to me by any man's murder in cold blood."
"It's a fair an' square lynchin', Jack, and a sight easier death than
the skunk desarves."
"Chuck it, Broncho, chuck it!" cried the rover. "It's no use. I can't
allow it. The thing's impossible."
"On'y a jerk er two an' the gal's yours, Jack. It ain't your shout. I
takes the responsibeelity. You-alls has no need to take a hand. He's
my beef. Lope up the trail a hoss-length or two, Jack, an' the gal's
free." Thus the cowboy tempted cunningly.
The blood rushed to the rover's face at the very thought. For a second
a mighty temptation to let events take their course assailed him, and
then, with a sinking misery in his heart, he regained his manhood.
"No, Broncho, no!" he jerked hoarsely.
"Think o' the hell you-alls is condemnin' the poor gal to! Think of her
draggin' along her life-trail on the rope o' that hoss-thief," went on
the tempter. "I allows you ain't the right to sp'ile her life this way."
The others watched the pair, waiting on the result with beating hearts.
Would the cowboy's eloquence prevail? Would he after all be allowed
to carry out his dreadful project? A word from Jack and the execution
would continue. Every one realised the deadly temptation the cunning
Broncho was so insidiously putting before his friend. Would the rover
give in? Had he the right to spoil another life as well as his own? No
one dared to answer the question.
Suddenly Loyola threw her head back, and going to the hideously tempted
man, put her hand mutely into his, with a tender look of perfect
confidence.
Jack caught the look, and knew that she was telling him that she would
abide by his decision, whichever way it went. She trusted him, trusted
him absolutely--that was what her eyes said--to do that which was right.
"What do you say?" asked Broncho, with an air of finality. "Shall I
turn him loose an' bog the gal's happiness in an everlastin' quicksand,
so as when the years o' hell an' misery pile up she comes to hate you
an' your high-falutin' moralities worse'n him?"
"My God, Lolie, you won't? Oh, say you won't!" groaned poor Jack.
"Never!" whispered the girl, a smile of the supremest courage upon her
face.
"Turn him loose," ordered the rover, in a voice which they could hardly
recognise as his; then, rounding on his heel, he walked slowly out of
the glade with bent head and miserable eyes.
A deep breath, almost a groan, burst from the lips of the onlookers.
Jim sobbed audibly. The strain had been too much for the poor boy, now
that he realised so fully all that his action had cost the man whom he
loved most in the world. Bitterly he cursed himself. He would rather
have seen Hawksley hanged a thousand times. Utterly miserable and sick
at heart, he flung himself upon his face on the ground, his whole body
shaking with the strength of his emotion.
And Loyola--what of Loyola? With a strange, glorious light shining
in her splendid eyes, she watched the receding figure of the
rolling-stone; there was no misery in her face, only a perfect
sweetness of content. Heedless of its consequences to herself, she only
thought of her lover's courage, and her spirit leaped within her in a
great exultation.
To her came the cowboy, asking sadly,
"I hope you ain't none raged with me, ma'am? I were playin' the hand
for you and Jack."
For answer she placed her hand in his and murmured softly:
"I understand, Broncho--and I shan't forget," with which the cowboy's
troubled face cleared wonderfully.
"An' my pard, Jack, ma'm'; I knowed all the time he were right. Any
other maverick would ha' weakened, but he didn't. He's all grit, is
Jack. I played up the hand for all it was worth, but I knew I was
beaten when he fust called me."
At this praise of the man she loved the woman fairly beamed upon him;
then her eyes turned slowly upon the unconscious form of her husband.
Following her glance, Broncho growled gruffly:
"Luck's hopped your way to-night, mister. I allow a thunderbolt's bein'
constructed to put out your light, an' that's why Providence puts the
hobbles on us humans an' blocks our game. I surmise they ain't none
ready for you yet. Mebbe their heatin' plant ain't planned so as it
reaches high enuff figures for you-alls, an' them pitchfork gents is
busy fixin' it."
With which characteristic address he stepped to the side of its
unconscious object, followed by Loyola.
The all-but-hanged scoundrel lay there strangely white and still, his
legs crumpled up under him.
One glance of his experienced eyes, and the cowboy gave a queer
exclamation of surprise.
"What is it?" cried the woman anxiously.
But, instead of answering, Broncho hurriedly felt under the man's shirt
for the beat of his heart.
For nearly a minute he held his hand there, whilst Loyola and Bill
Benson watched him with a growing look of apprehension; then he slowly
drew back the eyelids and revealed a pair of glassy, expressionless
eyes.
With a recoil of horror Loyola staggered back and fainted, the
bluejacket catching her as she fell.
Hawksley was dead!
"Heart failure, I reckon!" muttered the cowpuncher grimly. "Seems his
tickets for the great unknown were taken after all!"
And he turned to the unconscious woman, whilst the bosun's mate rushed
to the lagoon for water.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] Tin hats = drunk.
[13] This is the name given by sailors to the small windmill noticeable
on all Norwegian wooden ships, which is used to pump the water out of
them.