One of the boatmen, itching to possess some of that dazzling reward, had reached out and actually laid his dirty hand on the mate.
Talk about your catapults of olden days that hurled huge stones against the gate of citadel or fortress, they could not have gotten in their insidious work with greater effect than did the mate of the Pathfinder.
I saw the big boatman suddenly double up, after the manner of a hinge—at the same time he seemed propelled through space, vanished in blackness beyond the end of the platform, and immediately a tremendous splash announced his safe arrival below.
It was now my turn to take command.
“Put the ladies in a boat, and be quick about it, Robbins. I’ll keep these chaps in check. Sing out when you’re ready!” I cried.
The other boatmen had recoiled when they saw the starlight gleam wickedly from the blue barrel of the revolver with which I confronted them.
“Get out! run! or you are dead men! Vamos—muerta!” I shouted.
They comprehended the menacing action, if not my elegant phraseology, and began to back away from such dangerous quarters.
Still, they were ugly and treacherous customers.
It was my desire to have more of their room and less of their company about the time I must jump into the boat.