He had hardly spoken when Rideau appeared from behind them, and glanced at the groaning man. Then he shuffled backward well away from him; answered Maxwell's look of interrogation with a nod; and, while his face grew distinctly less like that of a European, he fumbled inside his jacket. The barrel of a pistol was visible the next moment. "It is," he said suggestively, "if the cases are few, the best way for preserve the others. In their own country they use the paddle. One good blow where the skull she is thinnest, and—voilà, the safe remedy!"
Dane stretched a big hand out, and Rideau winced with a stifled expletive as he dropped the weapon; while the Briton was sensible of a distinct disappointment when he saw that the man's wrist remained unbroken. The suggestion had apparently revolted Maxwell also; he stared at the speaker with unconcealed loathing, while the latter opened his lips for a moment in a wolfish snarl as he glanced sideways at Dane. Just then, Victor Rideau looked very much less like a French gentleman than a low-caste negro. Nevertheless, he was the first to recover his serenity.
"You have the mistaken squeamish; but me, I know the most advisable, and have great fear of the sick which catches," said he. "She is distressful for me. Sacre! Here is more other. To-morrow I consult you. Alors, I go."
A shrill scream of human agony rang through the lifeless air, and Rideau, who did not stand upon the order of his going, departed with all possible celerity.
Neither of his partners was much inclined for mirth, but there is often a ludicrous side to a tragedy; and Maxwell positively laughed when Dane savagely hurled the pistol after its vanishing owner.
"Missed! I would have given a good deal of the gold to strike him squarely between the shoulders. I meant it to hurt," he said.
Then an uproar began. Black figures, swarming out of the workings, gathered about the fallen man, clamoring excitedly, and Maxwell resumed command.
"They're panic-stricken; and fear will spread the sickness fastest. This must be stopped at once! We have not a moment to lose, or there will be murder done."
Dane felt very helpless as they ran forward to disperse the mob of terror-stricken black men. He still carried the shovel, though Maxwell went empty-handed, because, either from pride or policy, he never displayed a weapon once camp had been pitched. He appeared quietly resolute, though Dane afterward admitted feeling desperately anxious and more than a little afraid, for the mass of dusky faces with unreasoning fear and its accompanying ferocity stamped upon them was not an encouraging spectacle. Any one of those negroes was physically a match for two white men, and there were a good many of them.
The mob came to a standstill at the sight of them. Maxwell, removing his hat, straightened out the dints in it before he spoke a few words, and then, thrusting his way through the groups which opened up before him, halted beside the fallen man.