But he was gone.
That somebody had escaped they knew, but had clung to the hope that it was one of the tars, who had been frightened and bolted out.
But, no, the half-drunken sailors were all huddled together, gazing stupidly about them, not knowing what was to come next.
Some of them had drawn the tar's never-absent companion, their dirk-knives, and were prepared to make resistance in case all this row was but a blind to cover up an attack on them for the purpose of robbing them.
But robbing the tars was the thing furthest from the minds of that rascally crew just at that moment.
They had threatened the life of a detective, he had escaped, and they thought the consequences would be a descent on the place, as soon as enough blue-coats could be gathered for the purpose.
"Now—who fired those beer-glasses?"
The bullet-headed proprietor of the "ranch" asked this question in a gruff tone.
Instantly they began eying each other, and slowly but surely pair after pair of eyes were fastened on Shadow.
"Run out these Jacks."