ONE AGAINST SEVEN.
No sooner had Nick Carter announced his intention than he saw it
impressed the men in front of him.
The dread of the sharpshooter is proverbial. When a man knows he may
possibly be the next target for a man who shoots straight, and that the
marksman will go after one man, and one only, it takes much of the fire
of battle out of him, unless he is of phenomenal courage.
In this critical situation, the detective had hit upon a shrewd course.
It was much better than making a rush, blazing away indiscriminately.
Now each of the seven men facing him wondered if he might be the one to
be shot first.
That ugly-looking automatic pistol, with a number of cartridges ready to
be sent flying at the enemy, was calculated to disturb the equanimity of
any ordinary person.
There was a nervous shifting of feet among the sailors, and the
detective’s jaw set firmly as he saw that his bluff was likely to be
effective. It was hardly a bluff, either, for he and Mike Corrigan would
both shoot on the instant if there were any move by the enemy. Moreover,
each had picked out two men.
If Kennedy had not been unusually quick-witted, and if the sailors had
not had a respect and love for the owner of the yacht, Mademoiselle
Valeria--known in the Hotel Amsterdam as the Baroness Latour--which
amounted to worship, it is likely that Nick Carter would have had things
all his own way.
But Kennedy knew his men, and he was aware of the fact that a reminder
of the young woman by whom they had been employed in many shady
transactions in the past, and who had always paid them well, would make
them forget pretty nearly everything else.
Quick action was imperative.
He saw that they were wavering, and that unless something was done
quickly to bring them up, they might actually yield themselves to these
two men who were holding them down with as much confidence as if they
had been a dozen.
“Remember mademoiselle!”
Kennedy yelled this slogan with the suddenness of a rifle shot.
The effect was remarkable. On the instant, the whole seven leaped toward
the detective and Mike Corrigan.
As they did so, the two automatic pistols barked once--twice--almost
together.
The two men aimed at by Nick Carter both dropped.
If Mike Corrigan’s aim had been as good as the detective’s, they might
have won. But the porter’s hand was shaky, and both of his bullets
missed. He managed to shoot them at a rock some distance away, where
they flattened and fell into the sand.
“Fire, men!” shouted Kennedy.
But Carter was not waiting for a bullet from the other side. For the
third time he pulled his trigger. Then, taking his gun by the barrel, he
used the heavy stock for a club and sprang at Kennedy, just as a shot
came from the enemy and Mike Corrigan sank to the ground with a groan of
agony.
The sailors might have fired again, only that they were afraid of
attracting attention by the reports. Besides, seeing that Nick Carter
had flung himself upon the first mate, they were for a moment uncertain
what to do.
The detective and Kennedy came together with a crash. Outlaws as they
were, the sailors of the piratical yacht out there in the bay were
inclined to let the duel between the two giants go on till one or the
other had gained a victory.
The seamen enjoyed a good fight, whether they were in it personally or
not.
This was a good thing for the detective now. He was perfectly aware
that, if he won, they might get a chance to close in and overpower him.
But, even with that, he would make a dash for freedom, to come back with
reënforcements later.
Letting his pistol fall to the sand, Nick went for his tall foe with his
bare fists. Kennedy, being on the defensive, parried the detective’s
straight lunge, and got a knee lock on his adversary.
Nick, carried into close quarters as his opponent met his rush, started
a long, slow, heartbreaking twist which was almost as grueling on
himself as on Kennedy.
The latter was in good condition physically--hard as nails and full of
aggressiveness. If he had been weaker than Nick Carter, the detective
could not have made such progress with his mode of attack. Carter’s
supple form bent to every turn, and though Kennedy tried to crush him by
main strength, his adversary could laugh at all his efforts.
Then Nick took a new line--or, rather, an amplification of his first
method of attack.
Slowly he threw his powerful leg outward and twined it around that of
the panting first mate.
Kennedy fought hard to keep out of this lock. But he could not help
himself. The hold the detective had on him was almost breaking his back,
and he knew that if he relaxed for the slightest fraction of a moment,
the awful pressure of Nick Carter’s steellike arms would crumple him up
like a dried leaf in a hurricane.
The crucial moment came.
Kennedy was compelled to give way slightly, in the hope of relieving the
pain in his breaking back. That was what Nick had been waiting for.
Seizing the opening like lightning, his leg flew around to the position
he had been seeking.
Now he knew he had his man under control.
Twisting with the suppleness and power of a boa constrictor, he ducked
and heaved. As he did so, a gasp of involuntary admiration went up from
the sailors.
There was no alternative for the first mate now but to yield or break in
two.
The next instant he was sent flying over the detective’s head in a neat
and scientific cross-buttock, landing upside down on the sand, where,
with a groan, he lay without motion and “all in.”
Although Nick Carter was well breathed by his exertions, and gasped hard
as he sought to recover himself, there was plenty of fight left in him.
The sailors came at him in a body.
With the fall of their leader, they seemed to emerge suddenly from the
spell that had held them still. It seemed to Nick as if there were
twenty flying fists in front of his face.
He recovered himself immediately, and, stirred to better efforts by the
odds against him, he let drive scientifically and with deliberation,
notwithstanding that he sent in his blows so swiftly.
One--two! One--two!
The detective’s hard fists drove right and left into the faces of the
men before him.
Usually they landed on the jaw, although now and then, for a change, the
target was an eye or nose.
“Come on!” roared Nick Carter, warming up comfortably with all this
excitement. “How many are there of you?”
One--two! One--two!
In the quiet of the night, with no other sounds to be heard, the blows
thudded as if some one were kicking a dog.
One of the sailors went down, but the two left came on, fighting
desperately.
The detective was ready for them.
A finished boxer, he was economical of his exertions. When he struck, he
always landed, and when he parried, he moved only just so much as was
required to ward off a blow.
There were no fancy twists or ballet master’s gyrations about Nick
Carter when using his fists in real battle.
A rain of heavy blows descended upon him. He retired just enough to get
arm room, and came back steadily.
Had he had his assistants by his side, the detective could have held off
these powerful seafaring men to the end.
But all he had was Mike Corrigan, and poor Mike had been put out of
commission by a bullet.
So it came that even the iron physique of the great detective weakened
under the strain of the last half hour.
On the other hand, the sailors were fresh. Moreover, furious at the fall
of their superior officer, the first mate, they determined to avenge him
at all hazards.
The two men made a rush at Nick Carter side by side, and though he sent
forth a hailstorm of blows, which seemed to fairly smother them, they
contrived, by shameless “covering up,” to keep on their feet, until, by
sheer weight, they forced the detective to his knees.
Still fighting, he was sent forward on his face.
He had been beaten, seven against one, almost into unconsciousness!
Almost--but not quite.
He lay still, on the ground, face downward, but keeping a sharp eye on
what might be going on around him.