Curlie nodded, but at once the sound of his whistles grew louder, more insistent, and the antics of the giant more frantic.
“He will not dare,” Johnny told himself. Yet even as he said it, he knew that he was wrong. What had come over the black man? Had despair lent him courage? Had he by some chance come to realize that the thing before him was made of copper, steel and wood and was no spirit at all? Be that as it may, as he paused before the threatening giant, he suddenly drew a revolver from his belt and emptied its contents into the giant’s broad breast.
The giant’s only answer was a redoubling of his fury. He danced. He cracked his teeth. He grimaced terribly.
For a few seconds the black leader wavered. He took one backward step. At his back sounded the shouts of his men and from far back of that came a wild crash of thunder. The storm was all but upon them.
“The battle is won,” thought Johnny.
But no, with one wild cry the black man leaped at the giant. With a cutting, rending crash his machete drove into the very heart of the giant. At the same instant an iron hand came down upon his head.
The black man sank to the stone floor, to lie there motionless. The giant ceased his swinging and dancing. Only his eyes still burned a steady green. Bending slowly over he came to rest in a position that made it appear that his green eyes were fixed upon the vanquished leader.
With one wild wail the black horde turned to race madly away into the night and the storm.
“The fight,” said Curlie, coming forward, “was a draw.” His voice was husky. “They did one another in. It’s too bad,” he said bending over the still form of the black leader. “I didn’t mean to do that. He threw himself into it. He was a brave, though mistaken man. Had he lived at another time or espoused another cause, he might have died a hero.”
“But you, my friend,” he touched the mechanical giant affectionately, “you will live to fight again. In the world there are ever wrongs to right.