He waited for a return fire sheltered from the pantry doorway. But none was forthcoming. Then realisation came to him. There was no means of closing that trap while the man below still retained a single shot in his gun. At all costs he must draw his fire.
So he drew nearer. He stood in view of the trap. It was only while he fired a second shot. Then he leapt aside under cover as McLagan’s answering shot rang out. It grazed his passing shoulder with a hot slither, and the blood surged to his brain. He moved a step forward and fired again into the depths. And again McLagan replied. The shot only missed Liskard by inches and the man uttered a sound like a laugh. It was the engineer’s third shot, and he was more than satisfied. A few more. Only a few more.
He stood ready. He darted in and fired again through the trap. Again came McLagan’s retort which took him in the cloth arm of the thick pea-jacket covering his body. He sprang clear. And suddenly a furious oath broke chokingly from his almost stifled throat. An arm had caught him from behind encircling his bull-like neck. There was a brief struggle while he tried to turn his weapon on the unexpected assailant. Then he crashed to the deck undermost, with his gun-arm held and twisted till his hand released the weapon.
Cy Liskard was standing just clear of the break in the vessel’s poop. He was beside the main hatch, disarmed, defeated, but without bonds to hold him prisoner. Immediately behind him stood Sasa Mannik who had sworn never to set foot on the wreck again. And beside him was Peter Loby, lean, grinning, with a gun in his hand ready for immediate action. At the head of the alleyway stood Ivor McLagan still handling his automatic.
He was gazing at the gold man speculatively. Somehow there was far less resentment than repulsion in his feeling for this man from the hills, who, but for the timely arrival of Peter and his servant, would in all probability have achieved his purpose of cold-blooded murder. He was a dour, hard-looking creature whose queer eyes fascinated him. And for the moment he was wondering at the thing lying back of them.
“Well, what’re you goin’ to do?”
Liskard had stood the victor’s scrutiny in silence as long as he could.
McLagan laughed derisively at the snarling challenge.
“Do? There’s surely a lot of things I could do,” he said. “I could have you pitched into that store room, or lazaret, as I heard you call it, and close it up and fire the ship. Her steel bulkheads would make it a dandy oven. Then ther’s good yards to this craft, for all her canvas is mostly blown off them, and plenty of rope. Then I’ve still got haf a clip of cartridges in my gun and several more in my pockets. I could easy pass you on glorywards if I fancied that way. But I don’t.”