“No, she’s not going with us,” he said, decisively. “This is no picnic—no place for women. I’ll have to ask you to give us that map, Miss Laurie, at once. We have to sail immediately. We’ve been waiting here, on the raw edge, for over a week.”
“I shall not give you the map,” Margaret returned, firmly. “I am going to sail with you.”
“Then I’m sorry, but I’ll have to take it,” said Henninger, and stepped quickly forward.
“None of that, Henninger,” exclaimed Elliott, but before he could interfere further, the girl had whipped a black, serviceable revolver from the dress, the same weapon which Elliott had seen her use in Lincoln.
“Stop,” she said, directing its muzzle at Henninger’s chest. “I’ll show you my map when we’re out of sight of land.”
Henninger stopped short, looked at her queerly, and finally broke into a small, amused chuckle.
“Put away your little gun, Miss Laurie,” he said. “I fancy I made a mistake. I reckon you can come with us if you want to, if the other boys don’t object. Oh, come, don’t break down, after that gun-play.”
“I’m not—not breaking down,” said Margaret, faintly, but still firmly. “But I think I’d like to sit down.”
Henninger handed her an empty keg, which seemed to be the nearest thing to a chair on board, and she collapsed. The twilight had deepened to almost total darkness.
“Bring a lantern aft, you!” shouted Henninger, and one of the men in the bow made a light and brought it to the stern. His brown Arab face shone in the circle of illumination, an aquiline, predatory profile, and his eyes flashed upon the group of white men around the girl.