Carew was still a score of paces distant from the cave mouth. But so startled was he by the sudden appearance of the charging, hostile figure, that Martin had covered half the intervening distance ere Wild Bob's sagging mouth closed. But by then Carew had recognized the oncomer, and realized his danger. He took snap aim with his weapon, and fired point blank at Martin.

The bullet seared Martin's cheek. Behind him, Little Billy, just emerging from the cave in Martin's wake, stopped short in his tracks, clutched at his poor, disfigured breast, and sank slowly to the ground.

Before Carew could shoot again, Ruth reached up her hands and clawed his face. Screaming a curse, Carew threw her from him and staggered back a step.

But Martin was closed with him now. He had Carew's wrist, wrenching it, and the weapon dropped to the sand. He had Carew's throat in his clutch. He was pressing, pressing, forcing the man back.

It was the very fury of his headlong, unreasoned a.s.sault that gave Martin initial victory. He was not as large as Carew, nor as strong.

But at the moment he had the strength of three men in his body. He was berserk. He had no craft in his fighting; only blind rage and the strength it gave him. His hands were at the throat of the most hateful thing in the world--the man who had harmed loved ones, the man who tried to steal his woman.

Carew's fists battered at Martin's unguarded face. Martin did not even feel these blows. He squeezed and squeezed that cursed neck. Carew gave ground. He bent backwards. His glaring eyes were popping; his mouth was open. He was down.

And then something happened to Martin. He was conscious of pain, of sudden, paralyzing pain that pervaded his whole body. The strength left his fingers; he felt his entire body giving way, slumping weakly.

Now he was on his back, and fingers were at his throat. Carew's face loomed above him, red, contorted, the lips curled into a fiendish snarl, an insane murderous light in his eyes. Martin was choking; a tremendous weight was on his chest. In Carew's hand was a knife descending. Above the ringing in his ears, Martin heard Carew's voice saying, "You shall not have her!"

A sudden roar filled his ears. The weight on his chest jerked suddenly; the knife fell from the up-raised hand, the fingers loosened on his throat. He saw Carew's eyes blinking rapidly, and an expression of stupid surprise succeeded the triumphant ferocity in the man's face.

And then Carew rolled off him altogether, and lay quiet on the ground by his side.

Dazed, Martin raised himself on his elbow. He saw the skirt, and then the smoking revolver clutched in the little hand, and, his eyes leaping upwards, Ruth's frightened face and wide open, horrified eyes. The pain still gripped him, but he tried to get up, and he held out his arms to her.

CHAPTER XXIII

CONCLUSION

"Aye, it was the knee he give you, lad. 'Ow was an innercent babe like you to know about foul tricks o' fighting? But 'twas a close shave you 'ad, a blinkin' close shave, swiggle me stiff, it was! If it 'adn't been for the la.s.s grabbin' up 'is gun and potting the blighter--well, it's a lucky lad you are, Martin, with a double treasure won, and but sore muscles to pay." The bosun shifted his quid and spat over the rail into the racing sea. "Aye, the la.s.s," he mumbled. "A lucky lad, that's wot."

"I know I am," answered Martin, humbly. "Oh, so lucky. If only poor Billy had had some of my luck."

"'E was feyed, Martin," declared the bosun. "I knew from the moment you told me wot Sails as 'ow I'd never clasp Little Billy's 'and again, and 'im alive and cheery. Poor Billy! 'E was my mate, my chum, and I'd give my share o' the swag ten times over just to 'ear 'im cuss me out again."

They took a turn or two on the deck in sorrowful silence, Martin limping somewhat painfully, and the big man accommodating his stride to the other's progress. The brig was running before the wind, over a sun-sparkled, white capped sea; every rag she owned was spread, and the breeze snored aloft like an organ. The bosun paused at the p.o.o.p break, snorted into his large red handkerchief, and pretended to inspect the drawing of the mainsail. Then, his emotion conquered, he resumed the stroll.

"We left foul weather be'ind us in that black Devil's 'ole," he commented. "Now it's fair winds and bright skies. Ow, well, swiggle me stiff, wot's done is done and can't be undone, as Sails would 'ave said. 'Tis fine weather for you, eh, lad--and you standin' the moonlight watches with the la.s.s by your side? Another day o' this, and we'll be landin' those five yellow imps we got in the hold on their own bloomin' coast, and then it's 'urrah for 'ome and the splicin' party, eh, lad?"

Martin smiled happily.

"I don't mind landin' the four 'foremast 'ands, and lettin' them off scott free except for their cuts and b.u.mps," grumbled the bosun. "They didn't 'ave no 'and in the plannin' of it. But to land that feller, Ichi--swiggle me stiff, if I 'ad my way, I land that blighter in the air, below the tops'l yardarm, with a bloomin' noose around 'is neck!

Why, 'e was the ruddy bird wot started the business!"

"But I promised him his life," said Martin. "And--my G.o.d, Bosun, hasn't there been enough death on this ship?"

"Well, anyway, that feller, Ichi, is lucky 'e wasn't on board when we 'ad the grand fight," vowed the Bosun. "I was looking for 'im; I 'ad 'im marked for my meat. Swiggle me, 'e'd 'ave gone over the side if I got my 'ands on 'im that mornin'. Aye, and Yip was layin' for 'im, too."

"How Yip hated them," mused Martin.

"Aye, that 'e did," agreed the bosun. "But 'e was a slick one, was Yip. 'Oo but 'im would of thought o' dopin' their grub? And the 'olesale way 'e did it--mixin' a pint bottle o' c.o.c.kroach killer in with their rice. A white man wouldn't 'ave been able to do that. But it give Yip his chance, when they got the bellyache, to skip for'ard and lay out the 'atch guard with his cleaver. My blinkin' heye, when I come up after 'e opened the 'atch, there 'e was with that j.a.p's neck across the 'atch combin', and 'e was 'ackin' away and yellin' like a wild Indian. Aye, and 'e'd 'ave 'acked some more o' them, if that shot that was aimed at me 'adn't took 'im through the 'ead. Swiggle me, Marty, I wouldn't 'ave been able to eat 'is grub after that."

"Nor I," agreed Martin. "Well, Bos, I think I'll take a turn below."

"Aye, I 'eard the la.s.s' voice through the skylight, a moment since,"

observed the bosun, slyly. "Swiggle me--get along with ye, lad!" He gave Martin a gentle nudge with his giant's elbow that nearly knocked him down the hatch.

She was in the cabin, when Martin descended the stairs. She welcomed him with a glance that more than repaid him for the bosun's thump; aye, that repaid him (he would have sworn) for all the pain and misery he had ever suffered.

She was standing by her grandfather's side, and the latter was seated at the cabin table, a mess of papers before him.

"Well, my boy, I've just been figuring out our fortune," he hailed Martin. "It's plenty; more than plenty. Something not much short of a million, as prices for ambergris were quoted when we left San Francisco. Not such a bad little treasure, eh?"

"We have paid a stiff price for it," answered Martin, soberly.

A shade crossed the captain's serene old face. "That we have," he a.s.sented. "Too great a price. Gladly I'd give it all, and more, to get my men back again. To have--Little Billy--" He heaved a deep sigh, and smiled again. "Ah, and that is not all," he said, patting Ruth's hand, which lay on his shoulder, "for it seems I must lose my girl, as well. Even the thought of walking in on that doctor who told me I would never see again hardly reconciles me to the thought of losing my girl."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Ruth. "Why, grand-daddy, you don't lose me.

You gain--a son."

Captain Dabney's bright, clear eyes searched Martin's face, and when he replied to Ruth it was in a contented, satisfied voice:

"Yes, I do," he said. "And a worthy son, girl, tried and tempered, by Fire Mountain."

THE END