his right. Francisco, turning to preserve his
guard, now had the light full in his face. But the moon rode so high
that the steersman's disadvantage was negligible, and the next assault
of the _puntero_ was blocked as before. And this time the wrist of the
_popero_ proved a bit the better; he threw the attacking steel aside and
struck in a slashing sweep at his antagonist's stomach.

A convulsive inward movement of the bowman's middle, coupled with a
swift back-step, made the slash miss by a hair's breadth. With the
quickness of light Jose was in again. His knife hand, still outstretched
sidewise, stopped with a light smack of flesh on flesh. Then it jerked
outward. His steel now was red to the hilt.

One more rapid step back, a keen glance at his opponent, and Jose stood
at ease. From Francisco burst a bubbling groan. He staggered. His knife
dropped. His hands rose fumblingly toward his neck. Suddenly his knees
gave way and he toppled backward to the ground. The silvery moonlight
disclosed a dark flood welling from his severed jugular.

With the utmost coolness Jose ran two fingers down his wet blade,
snapped the fingers in air, and spoke to his crew:

"As I said, we shall have a new _popero_. To-morrow, Julio, you will
take the platform."

A rumble ran among the men. Their eyes lifted from Francisco to the
Americans, and in them shone a wolfish gleam. The bowman turned sharply
and faced them.

"Who growls?" he rasped. "You, Julio?"

"_Si, yo soy_," Julio answered, harshly, fingering his knife. "I will be
steersman, but I steer downstream, not up. Francisco spoke the truth.
Now or later--what is the difference? Let it be now!"

A louder growl from the others followed his words. One stepped back into
the shadow of the hut.

"_Perros amarillos!_ Yellow dogs! You go upstream, fools! The Americans
must be taken--"

A raucous sneer from Julio interrupted him. Simultaneously the paddler's
hand leaped upward, poising a knife.

"The gringos stay here--and you, too, you Yanqui cur!"

The poised knife hissed through the air at Jose.

Out from the crew house shot a streak of fire and a smashing rifle
report.

Jose dodged, staggered, screeched in feline fury, the knife buried in
his left arm.

McKay grunted suddenly, fell, lay still.

"God!" yelled Tim. "Cap's gone! Clean 'em, Looey!"

With the words he leaped aside and pulled his pistol, just as another
rifle flare stabbed out from the other hut and a bullet