Like molten lead Williams’s words fell on the girl’s consciousness. She attempted no denial; denial would be useless. Blindly she turned toward the door. As she did so it opened and three figures pushed through it. One, a huge woman, caught her in her arms. The other sprang past her. The sound of a blow—a clear, clean blow—came to her ears, followed by the crash of benches and table. Then Jack’s voice rose, chill with death.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I learned for the first time a few minutes ago that this lady was not a boy. Within the hour, if she will do me the honor to accept me, she will be my wife. In any event, you will remember that henceforth her honor is mine and you will address her accordingly.”
CHAPTER XIX
THE doubts and fears of the past weeks and the terror of the moment alike dropped from Alagwa, giving place to measureless peace and rest. Jack was well and strong again; his voice had rung out as no sick man’s could ring. He had come to her aid. He would stand by her. She was glad, glad, that he knew her secret. She was so tired of playing the man. Closer she buried her head on Fantine’s ample bosom and let her happy tears stream down.
Fantine did not speak. She stroked the girl’s dark hair and patted her comfortingly on the back. But her eyes ranged forward, watching for what was to come.
Those in the room were divided into two parties, facing each other. On one side, close to the overturned table, stood Hibbs and his company, hands on pistols, waiting. Beside them Williams was climbing to his feet from the floor to which Jack’s blow had hurled him. Facing them stood Jack with blazing eyes, grasping a long pistol, blue-barrelled, deadly. Behind him Fantine held Alagwa in her arms. Over her shoulder Cato and Rogers peered, grimly waiting. Between the two parties sat Stickney, looking with plaintive, fever-filled eyes for the table so suddenly wrenched from beneath his hands.
For a little the picture held. Then Alagwa remembered that Jack was facing foes. Perhaps——
She whirled around, tearing herself from the French woman’s arms, and sprang to his side, dropping her hand to the hunting knife at her belt. She spoke no word, but her glittering eyes were eloquent. They bored into those of Lieutenant Hibbs.
Perhaps Hibbs had no taste for a struggle. Perhaps he merely realized that he had gone too far. Whatever his reasons, he let go his pistol butt and laughed hoarsely.
“Have it your own way,” he scoffed, facing Jack with an assumption of scorn. “This is a free country. Marry whom you d— please. But if you want to marry this boy—Humph! this—er—lady—you’ve got to do it quick. If she isn’t your wife in an hour she goes out of this fort for good and all. You’re white, and I’ll trust you to keep your wife straight. But I’ll be d—d if I’ll trust any Indian-bred girl that lives. I’ll give you an hour to send for Father Francisco and get tied up. Understand! An hour! Not a minute more.”