It did not frighten Jack. His blue eyes gleamed with an anger that did not blaze—a frosty anger that froze those on whom it fell.
“Just a moment,” he cried. “The first man that lays hand on me dies.”
The crowd hesitated, clutching at pistols and knives. The moment was freighted with death.
Then, abruptly, some one pushed a rifle—Williams’s rifle—into Jack’s hands and he heard Alagwa’s voice in his ear. “White chief kill!” she gritted. “Sing death song. I die with him.”
On the other side Cato pressed forward. “I’se here, Mars’ Jack,” he quavered. “Cato’s here.”
CHAPTER XI
FOR a moment the crowd hung in the balance. Then Jack laughed. The ridiculous side of the quarrel had struck him. He turned to Alagwa. “Thank you, Bob, old chap,” he said, gratefully. “And you, too, Cato. I won’t forget. But I reckon we won’t have to kill anybody.”
Still holding the rifle, he turned back to the throng. “Here’s your rifle, Williams,” he said, tossing the gun indifferently over. “Come, old man,” he called to Alagwa. “Come, Cato!” Without a backward glance he strode away.
Silence almost complete followed his departure. Mr. Hibbs made no move to renew his order; he stood still and watched the party walk away. Plainly he was beginning to realize that he had gone too far.
Stickney, however, with an impatient exclamation, separated himself from the others and hurried after Jack. “You did exactly right, Mr. Telfair,” he said, as he came up, “and I’m sorry you should have been so outrageously treated. Captain Rhea isn’t a bad sort, but he is very ill and Mr. Hibbs is in his place and you see what sort of a man he is. The fiasco about the ammunition made it worse. We are practically out of it.”