“Not yet!” Brito’s outflung hand had closed upon a hatchet that had fallen from the dead brave’s hand. Upward he hurled it with despairing fury.
Whether directed by chance or by skill the cast went home. The head of the whirling axe struck Jack squarely upon his forehead, just at the roots of his hair. He gasped, wavered, flung up his hands, and sank down.
Something snapped in Alagwa’s brain. The night-mare numbness that had held her vanished. Together mind and straining body burst the bonds that had held them. Mad with fury she sprang to her feet and hurled herself at Brito, striking blindly with bare, harmless, open hands. No thought of self was in her mind. Jack was dead; she thought only to avenge him.
Brito was scrambling to his feet. Even half risen, his great bulk towered above the girl’s slender form. But so sudden and so furious was her assault that he tottered backward. But as he reeled he clutched at her left wrist and held it, dragging her with him, striking, struggling, fighting like a trapped wolverene. He reached for the other wrist, but before he could grasp it, the girl set her knee inside of his and tripped him, hurling him headlong. But his grip upon her did not relax, and together on the ground the two rolled, desperately locked. Had Brito been less exhausted and the girl less maddened the end would have come instantly; only her fury postponed it.
Suddenly her chance came. Beneath her straining body she felt a weapon and caught it up. It was Brito’s pistol. As she raised it Brito snatched for it. His grip fell short and, overbalanced, he left his head unguarded. Before he could recover Alagwa had struck him across the forehead with the heavy barrel and had torn herself free.
Like a cat she sprang to her feet. But Brito was up, too, nearly as quickly; and she had no strength left to renew her assault.
For a moment the Englishman stood, rocking slowly to and fro, striving to clear his eyes of the blood that was trickling from the furrow the pistol had traced across his forehead. Then he gave a great shout:
“Estelle!” he cried. “Estelle! Damme! It’s Estelle.” He paused, staring. Then he laughed hoarsely. “Plucky, too!” he cried. “A true Telfair, fit mate for a man.” He flung out his hands. “To me! Little one!” he cried. “To me! I liked you when I saw you first. But now—By God! You’re a Valkyrie, a Boadicea. To think of your daring to fight with me. You! A woman and a hop-o’-my thumb. By God! I love you for it. Come to me.” He stumbled forward.
Alagwa sprang away. As she did so her hand touched the powder-horn that had clung to her belt through all that furious encounter. Her bullet-pouch, too, was in place. Lithely she dodged Brito’s rush, and as he blundered past she poured a charge of powder into the mouth of her pistol and rammed home the wad.
Brito saw and read her motion. The man’s pluck was good, for he lurched toward her, laughing. “No! No! No! Estelle!” he cried. “Don’t shoot! You’ve lost one kinsman already”—he glanced towards Jack’s silent form—“and you can’t afford to lose another. Come! Lady! Cousin! Come to me. I’ll take you to England. I’ll make you queen of them all”—He broke off. Alagwa had forced home the bullet and had primed the pan. Now she raised the pistol.