Denny Shane had reached the corner where hung his musket. It was not loaded. Cora knew this, for the old fisherman had said he was always afraid of some accident happening, and he never kept a charge in the gun. It was for the effect of it, he said, that he had it hanging on his wall. Now it would be useful as a club, at least—more useful than the easily shattered red oar had been.
But before Denny could reach the gun Kelly was upon him. With a fierce motion the desperate plotter grasped the fisherman around the neck. Holding him thus with one arm, he snatched the papers from him with his other hand.
“Here you go!” Kelly cried to Bruce. “Take the papers while I hold him. Burn ’em if you want to, but be sure you do the job well! Then we’d better get out of here. I think I hear a boat coming. This place will soon be too hot for us!”
Bruce took the papers from his crony. Hastily scanning them, to make sure he had the right ones, he struck a match that Moran handed him.
Kelly and Denny were struggling in the corner of the room. But poor old Denny had not much strength left. The events of the night had been too much for him, and he was giving way under the cruel pressure of Kelly’s arms.
“These are the very papers we want—or don’t want, rather!” exulted Bruce. “With them out of the way the property is ours.”
The match flickered in his fingers.
“Don’t you dare burn them!” cried Cora.
One corner of the papers had caught fire.
Then from without the cabin sounded a chorus of cries.