“Wot we done to dem Chinks was sure a plenty, kiddo,” he remarked to Miss Harding, and then he came to his feet, seemingly as strong as ever, shaking himself like a great bull. “But I guess it’s lucky youse butted in when you did, old pot,” he added, turning toward Theriere; “dey jest about had me down fer de long count.”
Barbara Harding was looking at the man in wide-eyed amazement. A moment before she had been expecting him, momentarily, to breathe his last—now he was standing before her talking as unconcernedly as though he had not received a scratch—he seemed totally unaware of his wounds. At least he was entirely indifferent to them.
“You’re pretty badly hurt, old man,” said Theriere. “Do you feel able to make the attempt to get to the jungle? The Japs will be back in a moment.”
“Sure!” cried Billy Byrne. “Come ahead,” and he sprang for the window. “Pass de kid up to me. Quick! Dey’re comin’ from in back.”
Theriere lifted Barbara Harding to the mucker who drew her through the opening. Then Billy extended a hand to the Frenchman, and a moment later the three stood together outside the hut.
A dozen samurai were running toward them from around the end of the “Palace.” The jungle lay a hundred yards across the clearing. There was no time to be lost.
“You go first with Miss Harding,” cried Theriere. “I’ll cover our retreat with my revolver, following close behind you.”
The mucker caught the girl in his arms, throwing her across his shoulder. The blood from his wounds smeared her hands and clothing.
“Hang tight, kiddo,” he cried, and started at a brisk trot toward the forest.
Theriere kept close behind the two, reserving his fire until it could be effectively delivered. With savage yells the samurai leaped after their escaping quarry. The natives all carried the long, sharp spears of the aboriginal headhunters. Their swords swung in their harness, and their ancient armor clanked as they ran.
It was a strange, weird picture that the oddly contrasted party presented as they raced across the clearing of this forgotten isle toward a jungle as primitive as when “the evening and the morning were the third day.” An American girl of the highest social caste borne in the arms of that most vicious of all social pariahs—the criminal mucker of the slums of a great city—and defending them with drawn revolver, a French count and soldier of fortune, while in their wake streamed a yelling pack of half-caste demons clothed in the habiliments of sixteenth century Japan, and wielding the barbarous spears of the savage head-hunting aborigines whose fierce blood coursed in their veins with that of the descendants of Taka-mi-musu-bi-no-kami.
Three-quarters of the distance had been covered in safety before the samurai came within safe spear range of the trio. Theriere, seeing the danger to the girl, dropped back a few paces hoping to hold the brown warriors from her. The foremost of the pursuers raised his weapon aloft, carrying his spear hand back of his shoulder for the throw. Theriere’s revolver spoke, and the man pitched forward, rolling over and over before he came to rest.
A howl of rage went up from the samurai, and a half-dozen spears leaped at long range toward Theriere. One of the weapons transfixed his thigh, bringing him to earth. Byrne was at the forest’s edge as the Frenchman fell—it was the girl, though, who witnessed the catastrophe.
“Stop!” she cried. “Mr. Theriere is down.”
The mucker halted, and turned his head in the direction of the Frenchman, who had raised himself to one elbow and was firing at the advancing enemy. He dropped the girl to her feet.
“Wait here!” he commanded and sprang back toward Theriere.
Before he reached him another spear had caught the man full in the chest, toppling him, unconscious, to the earth. The samurai were rushing rapidly upon the wounded officer—it was a question who would reach him first.
Theriere had been nipped in the act of reloading his revolver. It lay beside him now, the cylinder full of fresh cartridges. The mucker was first to his side, and snatching the weapon from the ground fired coolly and rapidly at the advancing Japanese. Four of them went down before that deadly fusillade; but the mucker cursed beneath his breath because of his two misses.
Byrne’s stand checked the brown men momentarily, and in the succeeding lull the man lifted the unconscious Frenchman to his shoulder and bore him back to the forest. In the shelter of the jungle they laid him upon the ground. To the girl it seemed that the frightful wound in his chest must prove fatal within a few moments.
Byrne, apparently unmoved by the seriousness of Theriere’s condition, removed the man’s cartridge belt and buckled it about his own waist, replacing the six empty shells in the revolver with six fresh ones. Presently he noticed the bound and gagged Oda Iseka lying in the brush behind them where he and Theriere had left him. The samurai were now sneaking cautiously toward their refuge. A sudden inspiration came to the mucker.
“Didn’t I hear youse chewin’ de rag wit de Chinks wen I hit de dump over dere?” he asked of Barbara.
The girl, oddly, understood him. She nodded her head, affirmatively.
“Youse savvy deyre lingo den, eh?”
“A little.”
“Tell dis gazimbat to wise his pals to de fact dat I’ll croak ’im, if dey don’t beat it, an’ let us make our getaway. Theriere says as how he’s kink when his ole man croaks, an’ his ole man was de guy youse put to sleep in de
