"Benson?" asked Rogers.
"The Canadian Mounted Police and the whole Colonial Government can go hang. Give me a gun, Rogers, and I'll trouble you no more!"
Rogers was about to speak, when the big first mate appeared at the forecastle door, and said in the forceful manner of deep-water mates:
"Turn to. Where's that bloody-minded stage robber? Hey! Here you are! Get aft to the wheel again. You can steer, if you are a murderer."
"All right, Sir," answered Rogers, deferentially, and then, in a whisper to the two, he said, "In my bag, halfway down. Two guns and two belts."
Then Bill Rogers, desperado, outlaw, and fugitive from justice, went to the wheel, and as he steered he smiled again, grimly and painfully, for his nose hurt.
Billings had followed him aft, up on the poop, and to the vicinity of the after companion, where he stood, waiting for the Captain. Snelling, having finished his dinner, had gone forward to oversee the men, all of whom were now on deck and scattering to their various tasks. That is, all but two. Quincy and Benson, each one girdled with a beltful of cartridges, each carrying a heavy revolver, each scowling wickedly, were marching up to Snelling.
"Hands up!" said Quincy, sternly. "Up with 'em and go back to the other end of the boat!"
Involuntarily, it seemed, the second mate obeyed. Up went his hands over his head. Then, remembering that he was second mate, he answered, "What's this? Mutiny! Put them guns down!"
Quincy's gun spat out a red tongue, and Snelling's cap left his head.