Pike.

I must have missed Steve Roberts that first time, but I came so near him
that he jumped. The next instant he had located me and turned his
revolver on me. But he had no chance. My little automatic was
discharging as fast as I could tickle the trigger with my fore-finger.
The cowboy's first shot went wild of me, because my bullet arrived ere he
got his swift aim. He swayed and stumbled backward, but the bullets--ten
of them--poured from the muzzle of my Winchester like water from a garden
hose. It was a stream of lead I played upon him. I shall never know how
many times I hit him, but I am confident that after he had begun his long
staggering fall at least three additional bullets entered him ere he
impacted on the deck. And even as he was falling, aimlessly and
mechanically, stricken then with death, he managed twice again to
discharge his weapon.

And after he struck the deck he never moved. I do believe he died in the
air.

As I held up my gun and gazed at the abruptly-deserted main-deck I was
aware of Wada's touch on my arm. I looked. In his hand were a dozen
little .22 long, soft-nosed, smokeless cartridges. He wanted me to
reload. I threw on the safety, opened the magazine, and tilted the rifle
so that he could let the fresh cartridges of themselves slide into place.

"Get some more," I told him.

Scarcely had he departed on the errand when Bill Quigley, who lay at my
feet, created a diversion. I jumped--yes, and I freely confess that I
yelled--with startle and surprise, when I felt his paws clutch my ankles
and his teeth shut down on the calf of my leg.

It was Mr. Pike to the rescue. I understand now the Western hyperbole of
"hitting the high places." The mate did not seem in contact with the
deck. My impression was that he soared through the air to me, landing
beside me, and, in the instant of landing, kicking out with one of those
big feet of his. Bill Quigley was kicked clear away from me, and the
next moment he was flying overboard. It was a clean throw. He never
touched the rail.

Whether Mike Cipriani, who, till then, had lain in a welter, began
crawling aft in quest of safety, or whether he intended harm to Margaret
at the wheel, we shall never know; for there was no opportunity given him
to show his purpose. As swiftly as Mr. Pike could cross the deck with
those giant bounds, just that swiftly was the Italian in the air and
following Bill Quigley overside.

The mate mi