To his surprise Whittinghame found Captain Gotham, with his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, leaning against the after guard-rail of the bridge. A huge cigar was jammed tightly betwixt his teeth, and his peaked cap raked at an alarming angle.
"G'day, gentlemen," he exclaimed without attempting to remove his cigar. "Guess you've come to take that wild critter off my hands? Great snakes! If I had a-known he was a low-down Mexican greaser I'd thought twice before he set foot on this hooker."
"Where is he?" asked Whittinghame.
"In the mate's cabin. He's locked himself in, you bet. Thorssenn tried to boost open the door, but the sarpint let fly some. Thorssenn's got more than he can chew, I reckon."
"Was he hit?"
"Clean through the shoulder, boss. Say, how are you going about it?"
Going below and making their way along the narrow alley-way the two Whittinghames and Dacres approached the place where Durango had taken refuge. The hard-visaged Yankee skipper and Silas P. Cotton, not to be outdone in the business of securing the renegade, also joined the attacking party.
Through the cabin door two small jagged holes marked the tracks of Durango's shots. One bullet was embedded in the panelling on the opposite side of the alley-way; the other the unfortunate first mate was nursing in his shoulder.
"The game's up, Durango," said Captain Whittinghame sternly. "You cannot escape, so surrender."
The Mexican's reply was to send another shot through the door, the bullet whizzing between Vaughan and the sub.