Maehoe stepped forward, looking at footprints in the mud at the stream’s edge. He had a revolver in his hand, and there was a package strapped about his waist from which projected the ends of half a dozen dynamite sticks, all fused and ready. He stepped into the stream, to cross.
In pure hysterical rage, Gleason shot him, knowing that the shot would be heard and would bring Sunaku’s warriors eagerly to the spot.
Gleason raised his weapon to shoot again.
Maehoe collapsed in the stream. He wallowed feebly in the water, then summoned superhuman strength and crawled ashore. Dead-white and rigid, Gleason raised his weapon to shoot again.
“One-fella marster,” gasped Maehoe, “he say fetch ’m one-fella Gleason ’m guns, ’m dynamite. Tell ’m shoot hell out of bushboy an’ give plantation money ’m one-fella white Mary pore.”
He struggled to hand over his bundle. Gleason gagged. Henderson had told Maehoe to give Gleason the guns and the dynamite and to ask him to quell the boys and sell his plantation and send the money to his daughter. This was what Maehoe had chased him for! This was what—“
“’M go away plenty damn quick,” gasped Maehoe, shoving the bundle toward Gleason. “’M bad fella bushboy come. I shoot, all same one-fella Native Constabulary....”
Gleason took the bundle in stiff fingers. Gleason’s eyes were glassy. Maehoe grinned at him, a pain-racked, desperate grin.
“Your nerves bad, Gleason,” he pronounced in a swagger, in Henderson’s own identical tones. “The wicked flee when no man pursueth. But no use staying in blue funk. Cherrup.”