“And the revolver, if it will shoot any further than it will kick.”
“They'll give us all the fight we want,” declared Moran.
“Oh, him Kai-gingh, him fight all same devil.”
“Give the men brandy, Charlie,” commanded Moran. “We'll rush that camp right away.”
The demijohn of spirits was brought down from the “Bertha” and passed around, Wilbur and Moran drinking from the tin cup, the coolies from the bottle. Hoang was fettered and locked in the “Bertha's” cabin.
“Now, then, are we ready?” cried Moran.
“I tink all light,” answered Charlie.
The party set off down the beach. The moon had long since gone down, and the dawn was whitening over the eastern horizon. Landward, ragged blankets of morning mist lay close in the hollows here and there. It was profoundly still. The stars were still out. The surface of Magdalena Bay was smooth as a sheet of gray silk.
Twenty minutes passed, half an hour, an hour. The party tramped steadily forward, Moran, Wilbur, and Charlie leading, the coolies close behind carrying the cutting-in spades over their shoulders. Slowly and in silence they made the half circuit of the bay. The “Bertha Millner” was far behind them by now, a vague gray mass in the early morning light.
“Did you ever fight before?” Moran suddenly demanded of Charlie.