Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 118: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

256 as if he could fight a mouse. But in his hand was the gun—and it took per- haps three seconds to reload it. The skipper kept on his course, mak- ing a bolt for the companionway. His daughter, clinging to him desperately, knew that to ascend that ladder would only mean the same disaster which had overtaken the negro. There was not time. She cast a desperate glance at Swope, who was sitting against the bulkhead looking up at them with a malevolent grin. The blood-thirsty devil actually had time enough to grin and wait! It was just then that the skipper - stepped on something in his path. He paused abruptly, reached down with his two hands and picked up a gun. Until now the old man had been in a stupor of resignation. And in these few moments of hectic danger, he did not stop to realize that that gun had already been fired by the negro, and hence was empty. For that matter he might not have detected that the negro had fired at all. There had been two shots, but they sounded almost as one. Picking the gun up, Bartlett turned to face his enemy, instead of risking the hopeless move of mounting that ladder. Swope saw the whole thing, and burst into a venomous little chuckle, drawing in his breath and hissing. Swope knew perfectly well that the negro had shot off that gun. “There’s a fine spirit, my bucko!” he laughed. ‘“ Ain’t runnin’ away af- ter all.’ He still sat there, his thin knees doubled up and his face peering across at them like a gargoyle. “ Com- in’ back to fight like a man! Good! It’s what I like. ~ “Don’t want to shoot you down like a forecastle rat. You ain’t that. You're an officer. So’mI. Both of us officers and gentlemen. We'll fight man-to- man.” The skipper had thrust his daughter out of his way, and lurched toward the circle of light where Swope was. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, Swope stood up, backed away. “A fight at ten paces, eh, skipper?’ he shouted with a frenzied sort of bra- vado. “Ten paces—I’m givin’ you your chance—man to man!” The skipper squeezed the trigger. ‘The hammer snicked. “What? Not ten paces? Wouldn’t wait?” Swope guffawed. “ Thought it was man-to-man. Well—anyway— you had first shot. Here goes mine.” The confusing darkness, the wagging flame of the hanging lantern casting sharp shadows like many figures fenc- ing each other, that and the fact that the girl had leaped between them, stayed the murderer’s hand for but a - fraction of a moment. He scowled at the two figures strug- gling in each other’s embrace, the daughter offering her own body as a shield to accept the shot; the father frantically trying to shove her out of danger. Swope scowled, swore, held his gun leveled, peering fiercely into that chaos of shadowy movement. Then he saw that there were not two presences but three. _ A slim gray shadow had dropped down from the companionway door— dropped is the word, for his feet had not touched a single step of the ladder. Swope was certain that this was the lanky Tom Brass bringing news of an attack. And then came the voice, laconic and biting: “IT say, what the devil is this—a duel ?” Swope straightened, every fiber of his being tightening in terror. His head bent forward and he stared into the darkness, lowering his brows, like a man facing the red light of sunset. The skipper and his clinging daugh- ter were thrust aside brusquely enough, the little man almost stumbling on a coil of rope. And instead of the pic- ture of these two—the squat father, the slim daughter, clinging to each other like two helpless children in oe —_ Gomichboo cS (E(@)