"Work smooth, boys," he said. "First I crash the door. The Mex here pulls the bolt. The guy won't be by the door; he'll be off in a corner. When you hear the bolt click, come in low, so you'll be in back of that bottom sheet of iron.
"Then we rush the room. Guns and lights. Don't give him a chance. If he does duck through — I don't see how he can, though — I'll get him with the ax."
Pedro grinned.
"Let him come," he said, brandishing the machete.
The men were alert. Thirty hardened fighters of the underworld were in readiness. Even those in the corners were prepared, although they believed the man in the inner room would never reach the doorway.
Red Mike swung the ax against the door. Once, then again, and again. As the heavy strokes resounded, Spotter sidled across the room and reached the door to the street.
"I'm goin' out," he told the men there. "I ain't got no rod; I ain't no use here."
He peered through the crack of the outer door, watching the wood splinter under the powerful strokes of Red Mike's ax. A small hole appeared in the door of the inner room.
The proprietor of the Black Ship stepped well back from the door. The den was tense and silent as he surveyed the work that he had done. He swung the ax; then waited. Another blow; then another pause.
Spotter perceived the plan. The intermittent strokes of the ax would keep the prisoner away from the door. Spotter grinned.