In addition, after glancing astern to see whether he was out of the steersman’s sight, he wrenched open the window a little more, pushed out the barrel of his gun, and stood there waiting.
He was not kept long before he saw the man come on deck bearing a heavier bag of powder, and he was in the act of sitting down in one of the cane seats near the rail to tie on a piece of string, when, with all the caution of some wild bird, he looked sharply round for danger.
In an instant he had caught sight of the barrel of the gun thrust through the window, and making a bound he reached the ladder, and swung himself down upon the main-deck, where he stood with the powder-bag in his hand, as if hesitating as to what he should do.
The men were watching him, and he knew it. They must have noticed his ignoble retreat, and here was the way to redeem his character.
This he did by coming straight to the cabin-door, and depositing the bag there, opening it, and throwing out several handfuls of powder to help form the train; but just at that moment the door was snatched open, and a gun thrust out so suddenly that it struck the mutinous leader on the side, and he leaped back, lost his balance, and fell heavily upon his back, while a roar of laughter arose from his followers.
Jarette leaped up with a cry of rage, snatched a pistol from his belt, and bravely enough dashed at the door; but as he nearly reached it, there was the sharp report of a gun, and almost simultaneously there was a burst of flame from the deck, a heavy rushing sound,—and the mutineer disappeared in a dense white cloud of smoke, out of which he staggered back to his followers, panting, startled, but, with the exception of a little singeing, unhurt.
Chapter Sixteen.
“Why didn’t you aim straight, man?—why didn’t you aim straight?” cried Captain Berriman. “You did not touch him.”