HOW long unconsciousness held Alagwa she never knew. It could not have
been for very long, however, for when she opened her eyes she saw Jack
and the man in hunter’s costume, the only foe left standing by that
short, fierce fight, still facing each other. She saw them dimly,
for, though the dawn was merging fast into the full day, to her eyes
darkness still impended.
Nor were her eyes alone affected; a pall seemed to bind both her mind
and her muscles, holding her motionless. Idly she watched the two, with
a curious sense of detachment; they seemed like figures in a dream
whose fate to her meant less than nothing.
The two men had drawn a little apart and were watching each other
narrowly. Evidently they had been struggling fiercely, for both were
panting; Alagwa could see the heave of their breasts as they drew
breath. The advantage seemed to be with the unknown, for Jack was
practically unarmed; in his hand he had only a light stick, charred at
the end, evidently a survival from some ancient campfire, while the
other gripped a pistol.
At last Jack broke the silence. “So, Captain Telfair,” he said. “We
meet again!”
Slowly into Alagwa’s consciousness the meaning of Jack’s words
penetrated. She did not move; she could not move; but her eyes focused
on the man in hunter’s garb who leaned forward, half crouching, and
glared into Jack’s face.
It was Brito. He had not even disguised himself, unless it be
counted a disguise to discard his conspicuous red coat in favor of
a neutral-tinted shirt and deerskin trousers. Had it not been for
Alagwa’s dazed condition, she would have known him instantly.
As she watched, he threw back his shoulders and laughed with evil
triumph.
“Yes!” he jeered. “We meet once more--for the last time. Your friends
hounded me out of Wapakoneta. Damme! but they timed their actions
well! Who would have thought they would drive me here just in time to
intercept you. The fortunes of war, my dear cousin, the fortunes of
war.”
Jack did not speak, and the other half raised his pistol and went on,
with a sudden change of tone: “You cub,” he hissed, “you’ve got only
yourself to blame. I warned you not to come between me and Estelle
Telfair. You came--and now you pay for it. I’d be a fool to let you
escape when fortune has delivered you into my hand.”
Captain Brito’s tones were growing more and more deadly. With each word
Alagwa expected to hear his pistol roar and to see Jack go crashing
down. Desperately she strove to spring to the rescue. But she could not
move; she could not even cry aloud. A more than night-mare helplessness
held her fast.
Jack faced his foe undauntedly. Not for an instant did he remove his
eyes from Brito’s. Despite the disparity in weapons he seemed not at
all afraid. “All right!” he said, coolly. “You’ve got the advantage
and I don’t doubt you’re cur enough to use it. When you’re ready, stop
yelping and blaze away.”
Brito flinched at the contempt in the American’s tones, but he held
himself in check. “Where is the girl?” he rasped. “Where is she, d--
you? Where have you put her? Give her up, and I’ll let you crawl home.
Quick, now, or you die.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “The girl?” he echoed. “I haven’t”--he broke
off--“Find her for yourself,” he finished. Alagwa knew that he had
begun a denial. Why had he stopped? Had he suddenly guessed who she
was? Or was he hoping to trap Brito into some admission--playing with
him in the chilly dawn in the very face of death?
Brito half raised his pistol, then lowered it. “I’ll find out now!” he
gritted. “You’re at my mercy. I’ve got a right to kill you and I’ll do
it. I’ll count three and then, if you don’t speak, I’ll fire.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. Alagwa noticed that he was edging closer
and closer to the man who threatened him. “Don’t wait for me,” he
answered scornfully. “Shoot and get it over with, you dog. As for
telling you anything, it’s quite impossible. It isn’t done, you know.
Shoot, you hound, shoot!”
The last words were drowned in the roar of the heavy pistol. Brito had
taken the lad at his word. But as his finger pressed the trigger, Jack
struck him swiftly and desperately with his stick across the knuckles
of his pistol hand.
The blow was light but it was sufficient. Diverted, the ball went wide,
burning but not breaking the skin on Jack’s side above his heart.
Before the roar of the pistol had died away, Jack had sprung in. His
fist caught the Englishman between the eyes.
Bull as he was, the latter reeled backward. The useless pistol, jerked
from his hand, flew through the air and thudded upon the ground. An
instant he clutched at the air; then, like a cat, he was on his feet,
launching forward to meet Jack’s assault.
In England boxing was in tremendous favor, and even in America, prone
to more violent methods, it was in high esteem. Rich and poor, peer and
peasant, alike prided themselves on their strength and quickness in
feint and blow. Prize fighters were honored, not merely by the rabble
but by those who held themselves to be the salt of the earth. Brito
had fought many a time, both for anger and for pleasure. Jack, less
quarrelsome and less fond of the sport, was yet well trained in the use
of his fists.
Furiously the two men crashed together, Brito striving to crush his foe
beneath his greater weight, and Jack striving vainly to gain room for a
clean, straight stroke. Swift and brutal came the blows, short half-arm
jabs, cruel and punishing. Once Jack was beaten to his knees, but he
struggled up, striking blindly but so furiously that Brito staggered
back.
But for the moment Jack had no breath left to follow up his advantage
and Brito none to renew the assault. Face to face they stood, with
blood-streaked faces, gaping mouths, and sobbing chests, each glad of
the respite but each determined that it should not be for long.
For an instant Brito’s eyes wandered about the ground, seeking a
weapon; for an instant Jack’s eyes followed the Englishman’s and in
that instant he saw Alagwa where she lay crumbled against the rampart.
A yell of fury burst from his lips and he sprang forward. Brito saw him
coming and threw his weight into a blow that would have ended the fight
if it had gone home. But it did not go home! Jack dodged beneath it and
drove his right with deadly force against the other’s thick neck. Then
as Brito swung round, giddy from the impact, Jack struck him on the
chin and sent him reeling back a dozen feet, clawing at the air, till
he stumbled across the body of an Indian and fell upon his back.
Jack bent above him, fist drawn back. “Surrender,” he panted.
“Surrender! Or by God----”
“Not yet!” Brito’s outflung hand had closed upon a hatchet that had
fallen from the dead brave’s hand. Upward he hurled it with despairing
fury.
Whether directed by chance or by skill the cast went home. The head of
the whirling axe struck Jack squarely upon his forehead, just at the
roots of his hair. He gasped, wavered, flung up his hands, and sank
down.
Something snapped in Alagwa’s brain. The night-mare numbness that had
held her vanished. Together mind and straining body burst the bonds
that had held them. Mad with fury she sprang to her feet and hurled
herself at Brito, striking blindly with bare, harmless, open hands. No
thought of self was in her mind. Jack was dead; she thought only to
avenge him.
Brito was scrambling to his feet. Even half risen, his great bulk
towered above the girl’s slender form. But so sudden and so furious was
her assault that he tottered backward. But as he reeled he clutched
at her left wrist and held it, dragging her with him, striking,
struggling, fighting like a trapped wolverene. He reached for the other
wrist, but before he could grasp it, the girl set her knee inside of
his and tripped him, hurling him headlong. But his grip upon her did
not relax, and together on the ground the two rolled, desperately
locked. Had Brito been less exhausted and the girl less maddened the
end would have come instantly; only her fury postponed it.
Suddenly her chance came. Beneath her straining body she felt a weapon
and caught it up. It was Brito’s pistol. As she raised it Brito
snatched for it. His grip fell short and, overbalanced, he left his
head unguarded. Before he could recover Alagwa had struck him across
the forehead with the heavy barrel and had torn herself free.
Like a cat she sprang to her feet. But Brito was up, too, nearly as
quickly; and she had no strength left to renew her assault.
For a moment the Englishman stood, rocking slowly to and fro, striving
to clear his eyes of the blood that was trickling from the furrow the
pistol had traced across his forehead. Then he gave a great shout:
“Estelle!” he cried. “Estelle! Damme! It’s Estelle.” He paused,
staring. Then he laughed hoarsely. “Plucky, too!” he cried. “A true
Telfair, fit mate for a man.” He flung out his hands. “To me! Little
one!” he cried. “To me! I liked you when I saw you first. But now--By
God! You’re a Valkyrie, a Boadicea. To think of your daring to fight
with me. You! A woman and a hop-o’-my thumb. By God! I love you for it.
Come to me.” He stumbled forward.
Alagwa sprang away. As she did so her hand touched the powder-horn
that had clung to her belt through all that furious encounter. Her
bullet-pouch, too, was in place. Lithely she dodged Brito’s rush, and
as he blundered past she poured a charge of powder into the mouth of
her pistol and rammed home the wad.
Brito saw and read her motion. The man’s pluck was good, for he lurched
toward her, laughing. “No! No! No! Estelle!” he cried. “Don’t shoot!
You’ve lost one kinsman already”--he glanced towards Jack’s silent
form--“and you can’t afford to lose another. Come! Lady! Cousin! Come
to me. I’ll take you to England. I’ll make you queen of them all”--He
broke off. Alagwa had forced home the bullet and had primed the pan.
Now she raised the pistol.
Brito saw it and changed his note. “D-- you, you hussy!” he yelled.
“I’ll choke----”
The pistol roared and he reeled back, clutching at his side. Then he
crashed down.
For an instant Alagwa stared at him, noting the red stain that was
widening on his shirt beneath the heart. Then she let the pistol fall
and turned away. Staggeringly she made her way to Jack’s side and sank
down beside him. Into his torn hunting shirt she slipped her hand till
it lay above his heart.
No faintest throb rewarded her. No quiver of lip or eye negatived the
red wound upon his brow. Silently her head fell forward. It was all
over. Jack was dead. Without a gasp hope died.
[Illustration: ALAGWA SHOOTS CAPTAIN BRITO]