Morgan, very white, was sitting on the opposite lounge trying to stop with a handkerchief the blood from a scalp wound. From where I lay I could see the body of Williams just outside the saloon. A stray bullet from one of the retreating mutineers had killed him at the very close of the battle.
Altogether that left us five sound men, counting Blue as a man, and three wounded ones. The pirates had suffered more. One I had disposed of at the first rush, just before they reached the cabin, and the flunky had wounded one of the firemen.
Yeager had picked off Johnson in the run for the bridge, and Sam had wounded Caine. In addition to these at least two more had been blooded in the scrimmage at close quarters outside the wheelhouse.
"Eight of them left against five of us, not counting the wounded on either side," Yeager summed up.
"What has become of Philips?" I asked, remembering that I had not seen him since the row began.
"Thought I saw him run down stairs when the beggars poured in on us here, sir," Alderson answered.
Later the poor fellow was found in his berth, trembling like an aspen leaf. He had locked his door and buried his face in the pillows.
A shock of red hair above a very white face appeared at the head of the companionway. "Is—is it all over?" gasped a small voice.
"Yes, Jimmie, right now it is. And you'll notice that we're still sticking to the saddle, son, and not pulling leather either," observed the plainsman cheerfully.
"I—I didn't know it would be like this," murmured the boy. "I thought——" His voice tailed out and he dropped limply into a seat, his fascinated eyes fixed on my bleeding arm.