A pistol spoke, and the captain's hat left his head. "There goes your hat," said a voice; "now for a button." Another bullet sped, which cut from his coat the button nearest his heart. "Come down from there—come down," said the voice he had heard. "Next shot goes home. Start while I count three. One—two——" Captain Belchior descended the steps. "Hands up, same as the rest." Up went the captain's hands; such marksmanship was beyond his philosophy. "'Pache," went on the speaker, "go up there and get the guns he wanted." The steward, with two bright revolvers in his hands, was met at the companion-hatch by a man with but one; but that one was so big, and the hand which held it was so steady, that it was no matter of surprise that he obeyed the terse command, "Fork over, handles first." The captain's nickel-plated pistols went into the pockets of 'Pache's coat, and the white-faced steward, poked in the back by the muzzle of that big firearm, marched to the main-deck and joined the others.
"Go down that place, 'Pache, and chase out any one else ye find," called the leader from behind the crowd. "Bring 'em all down here."
'Pache descended, and reappeared with a frightened cabin-boy, whom, with the man at the wheel, he drove before him to the steps. There was no wind, and the ship could spare the helmsman.
"Now, then, gentlemen," said the tall leader, "I reckon we're all here. Keep yer hands up. We'll have a powwow. 'Pache, stay up there, and you, Laramie, cover 'em from behind. Plug the first man that moves."
He mounted the steps to the quarter-deck, and, as he replaced empty shells with cartridges, looked down on them with a serene smile on his not ill-looking face. His voice, except when raised in accents of command, had in it the musical, drawling, plaintive tone so peculiar to the native Texan—and so deceptive. The other two, younger and rougher men, looked, as they glanced at their victims through the sights of the pistols, as though they longed for the word of permission to riddle the ship's company with bullets.
"You'll pay for this, you infernal cut-throats," spluttered the captain. "This is piracy."
"Don't call any names now," said the tall man; "'t ain't healthy. We don't want to hurt ye, but I tell ye seriously, ye never were nearer death than ye are now. It's a risky thing, and a foolish thing, too, gentlemen, to steal three American citizens with guns under their shirts, and take 'em so far from land as this. Hangin''s the fit and proper punishment for hoss-stealin', but man-stealin''s so great a crime that I'm not right sure what the punishment is. Now, we don't know much 'bout boats and ropes,—though we can tie a hangman's knot when necessary,—but we do know somethin' 'bout guns and human natur'—here, you, come 'way from that fence."
The captain was edging toward a belaying-pin; but he noticed that the speaker's voice had lost its plaintiveness, and three tubes were looking at him. He drew inboard, and the leader resumed:
"Now, fust thing, who's foreman o' this outfit? Who's boss?"
"I'm captain here."