“Put your revolver back,” the midshipman ordered peremptorily. “You and I never have been enemies—except for a very short time,” he added as the remembrance of those two anxious days after his capture on the “Negros” came into his mind. “Anyway, we have now the same objective, that murderer yonder, but,” and he lowered his voice to a cold, hard tone, “you shall not kill him if we can capture him alive. I forbid it.”
Gregorio’s black eyes blazed, and despite the avowed friendship of the native, O’Neil reached hastily for his revolver. Then as suddenly the native mastered himself and with a shrug turned away his telltale eyes.
“I know how you feel, colonel,” Phil declared conscious of the passion in the native’s soul, “but I’d rather have it done regularly. We’ll try him by a military commission for treason and hang him in the Plaza in Palilo as a warning to all traitors.”
Slowly the fishing boat overhauled the bigger craft. Now the distance was but five hundred yards. The sun had risen and shone down on the green opalescent water. A report of a rifle-shot startled the Americans who had settled themselves for a long and monotonous chase.
“So they are going to offer resistance,” Phil exclaimed.
“Yes; let him have it, O’Neil,” he added as the sailor threw the muzzle of his piece forward and looked questioningly at the midshipman.
O’Neil’s rifle cracked and a figure standing on the rail near the mast doubled up and fell forward in the boat.
A fusillade of shots followed from the fleeing boat, the bullets hissing in the water dangerously near the dozen huddled Americans.
“We can’t allow this,” Phil exclaimed uneasily; “they can’t miss us if we get any closer.
“Open fire!” he ordered suddenly.