War Drums (Sass)/Chapter 9
FOR a long moment silence reigned. Falcon stood beside the table, swaying slightly, as though he had been dealt a blow. Lachlan leaned against the wall, aware only of the pounding of blood in his temples and a sudden weakness in his limbs. Yet, perhaps because his need was greatest, he was the first to recover his faculties.
He leaped toward the table and seized the empty wine pitcher which stood there. In the same instant he poised it and hurled it straight at Falcon's head. It was a deadly missile at that close range. But for his thick felt hat, Captain Lance Falcon might have closed his eyes at that moment for the last time. As it was, he dropped like a felled ox.
Lachlan had not waited to see the effect of that first swift blow. Lithe as a panther, he wheeled, whipped out his rapier and, with its point aimed at the Spaniard's throat, sprang towards the door.
He dealt, however, with a cool man and a quick one. The Spaniard sprang backward in a long leap, landing lightly as a cat; and he had scarcely landed before his sword was out. The moon had broken through the clouds and the deck was bathed in light. For the moment Lachlan faced only one enemy, since the three men of Falcon's company were as yet weaponless. They stood gaping, bewildered at the sudden apparition of an armed man leaping from the doorway of Falcon's cabin; and Lachlan, turning his back on them, drove for the Spaniard with a shout.
With a clash the swords crossed. The Spaniard gave ground, fighting carefully, devoting himself wholly to defence. He, too, was bewildered—not only bewildered but alarmed; and in an instant Lachlan read the man's mind, understood that he believed himself in a trap.
It was no time for hair-splitting niceties. Lachlan knew that he must win his way quickly to the brig's stern, where he had told Almayne to hold the canoe in readiness, for in a few minutes at most Falcon's seamen would join the fight. Between thrusts, he taunted the Spaniard in his own tongue: "Spanish spy," he said, "we have you now and you'll hang for it." Then in a louder voice, as though addressing men behind the Spaniard, "Close in, lads! Take him alive." And all the while he drove fiercely forward, thrusting, thrusting, thrusting, forcing his opponent backward step by step towards the brig's stern.
Yet Don Ruy Ortiz fought well. Convinced that he had stepped into an ambush and that he was assailed by many enemies, he did the one thing that he could do, dealt with the only enemy that he saw. He fought awary battle, giving ground freely, taking no chances. At Lachlan's shout, "Close in, lads!" he leaped sideways, placing his back against the cabin, so that he might not be taken in the rear by new foes; but when no new foes appeared, a light seemed to break upon his understanding.
He smiled—a slow, crafty smile. He was an old soldier and he saw through Lachlan's stratagem; perhaps he himself at one time or another had employed the same trick. Plainly this swordsman who had leaped from the cabin doorway was alone; plainly, too, he was not happy just now, otherwise he would not pretend to have allies when he had none. The Spaniard's quick mind darted here and there, nimble as his nimble sword. He could not know all that had happened; but he knew now that it was not he who was in a trap.
He shifted suddenly from defence to offence. For six paces he gained ground before a prick in the shoulder halted him. After a minute of quick hot work, he realized that his skill was overmatched, and again he fell back slowly, on the defensive once more.
Suddenly Lachlan sprang backward, jumped across a hatchway, darted around the cabin and raced towards the brig's stern. From the direction of the forecastle the three men of Falcon's crew were coming armed with cutlasses, and behind them ran three other men who had clambered up to the brig's deck from the Spaniard's canoe.
In Lachlan's canoe, also, under the brig's stern, the sound of the swords had been heard. Almayne and the two Muskogees had gained the deck, and now they came running to meet Lachlan. He waved them back and the four dashed aft together.
"Into the canoe," Lachlan panted. "I'll hold them. . . . Quick, man!" he shouted. But the hunter shook his head.
There was no time for talk. The Spaniard and the three cutlass men were at hand. Yet before they closed Almayne spoke a guttural word, and the two Indians dropy ed over the stern.
Out of the corner of his eye Lachlan saw that Almayne carried not the cutlass with which he had equipped himself, but one of the long paddles of the canoe. Next moment, as the Spaniard and one of Falcon's seamen rushed, the tall hunter smote with this weapon as though it were a flail.
Don Ruy Ortiz, catching the blow squarely on his shoulder, was hurled sideways and fell sprawling. He fell, as luck would have it, directly in front of the foremost of Falcon's seamen, and the latter, stumbling over him, reeled sideways, staggering drunkenly as he tried to regain his balance.
Almayne gripped Lachlan's arm, nearly dragging him off his feet.
"Now, lad," he shouted. "Overboard!"
Next moment he stood on the brig's bulwark, Lachlan beside him; and in another instant both plunged into the river.
Almayne sat hunched in the canoe's bow, as angry as the proverbial wet hen. In truth, no hen was ever wetter. He had plunged, it seemed to him, almost to the bottom of the river, and, being but an indifferent swimmer, he had not enjoyed the experience. His head had hardly bobbed above the surface when one of the Indians laid hold of him, and a moment later he was safe in the canoe, into which the other Muskogee had already hauled Lachlan.
There had ensued a few minutes of some anxiety, during which the Spaniard and one of Falcon's men had peppered the water round about with musket balls. The shots had done no damage, however, and by now the two Indians had driven the canoe out of range.
The danger was over. In the stern Lachlan McDonald, as wet as Almayne, laughed softly to himself and whistled the first bars of a song. But the tall hunter saw nothing to whistle about and grumbled his discontent in a monologue curiously punctuated with English, French, and Spanish oaths. Lachlan he ignored, addressing his remarks to Little Mink, who sat nearest him.
"A fool's errand," he growled, "a crazy, crackbrained, chuckle-headed venture! Damn near stabbed and damn near drowned, and damn near shot, and 'twould have served us right. And nothing gained except a belly full of salt water. Listen, Little Mink, my brother. From this time forward, Almayne follows his own judgment and not that of any mad boy whose tongue bewitches his wits. I give you that pledge, Little Mink, and if I break it, my best knife's yours."
Lachlan grinned.
"Mark the pledge well, Little Mink, my brother," he said; "Mark the pledge well. And choose the silver-hafted knife that he won from the Frenchman at Fort Prince George."
Again he fell to whistling, and for some minutes, for the joy of it, he let Almayne grumble and snort. Then, having had enough of foolery, he said in a tone of mock reproach:
"Old friend, if you had taken the trouble to inquire what happened in Lance Falcon's cabin, perhaps you would see some sunshine in this sad world."
Almayne grunted and was silent for a moment. Then: "What happened?" he asked grudgingly.
"Two things," Lachlan answered. "Captain Falcon got a knock on the head that put him into a sound sleep from which I think he has not yet awakened. But before he was put to sleep he told me something."
There was that in his tone which aroused Almayne's suspicions.
"What did he tell you?" the hunter asked with an eagerness which he could not conceal.
"That Gilbert Barradell is alive," Lachlan answered, "and that he is a prisoner in Chief Concha's town."