whisked through
the space where he had stood. An instant later he was pouring a stream
of lead at the spot whence the burning powder had leaped.

Knives flashing, teeth gleaming, the other paddlers charged across the
ten-foot space between the huts.

Jose, his left arm helpless, but his deadly right hand still gripping
his knife, hurled himself on Julio, who had seized a machete from
somewhere.

Knowlton slammed a bullet between the eyes of the foremost _boga_, who
pitched headlong. He swung the muzzle to the other man's chest--yanked
at the trigger--got no response. The gun was jammed.

With a triumphant snarl the blood-crazed Peruvian closed in, slashing
for the throat. Knowlton slipped aside, evaded the thrust, swung the
pistol down hard on his assailant's head. The man reeled, thrust again
blindly, missed. Knowlton crashed his dumb gun down again. It struck
fair on the temple. The man collapsed.

Tim was charging across the open at the crew house. Jose and Julio were
locked in a death grapple. No other living man, except Knowlton, still
stood upright. Stooping, he peered into the red-dyed face of McKay. Then
he laid a hand on the captain's chest. Faint but regular, he felt the
heart beating.

"Thank God!" he breathed. With a wary eye on the battling Peruvians he
swiftly raised the captain and put him into Tim's hammock. As he turned
back to the fight Tim emerged from the other hut, carrying a body, which
he dropped and swiftly inspected. At the same moment the fight of Jose
and Julio ended.

With a choked scream Julio dropped, writhed, doubled up. Then he lay
still. Jose, his face ghastly, stared around him. His mouth stretched in
a terrible smile.

"So this ends it," he croaked, his gaze dropping to Julio. "_Adios_,
Julio! The machete is not--so good as the knife--unless one has--room
to--swing it--"

He chuckled hoarsely and sank down.

For an instant Knowlton hesitated, his glance going back and forth
between McKay and Jose. Swiftly then he ran his finger tips over McKay's
head. With a murmur of satisfaction he turned from his comrade and
hurried to the motionless bowman, over whom Tim now bent.

"Bleedin' to death, Looey," informed Tim. "Ain't cut bad excep' that
arm. That flyin' knife must have got an artery. Can we pull him through?
He's a good skate."

"I'll try. You look after Cap. He's only knocked out--bullet creased
him--"

"Glory be! He's all right, huh? Sure I'll fix him up. Everybody