“I am captain of the Nathan Ross,” said Joel. “And you are my brother, and a—mutineer. Give me the guns.”
Mark threw up his hand angrily. “You’ll not hear reason. Then—go below, and stay there. You....”
There are few men who can stand flat-footed and still hit a crushing blow; but Joel did just this. When Mark began to speak, Joel’s hands had been hanging limply at his sides. On Mark’s last word, Joel’s right hand whipped up as smoothly as a whip snaps; and it smacked on Mark’s lean jaw with much the sound a whip makes. It struck just behind the point of the jaw, on the left hand side; and Mark’s head jerked back, and his knees sagged, and he tottered weakly forward into Joel’s very arms.
Joel’s hands were at the other’s belt, even as Mark fell. He brought out the revolvers, then let Mark slip down to the deck; and he stepped over the twitching body of his brother, and caught up the two rifles, and dropped them, with the revolvers, over the after rail.
Mark’s splendid body had already begun to recover from the blow; he was struggling to sit up, and he saw what Joel did, and cried aloud: “Don’t be a fool, boy. Keep them.... Hell!” For the weapons were gone. Joel turned, and looked down at him; and he said quietly:
“While I can help it, there’ll be no blood shed on my ship.”
Mark swept an arm toward the waist of the ship, and Joel looked and saw a growing knot of angry men there. “See them, do you?” Mark demanded. “They’re drunk for blood. It’s out of your hands, Joel. You’ve thrown your ace away. Now, boy—what will you do?”
The men began to surge aft, along the deck.