The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand

knew that his vow was weaker. When he was about to give in, he chanced to see McTee and Kate Malone laughing together on the promenade.

      It was McTee who saw Harrigan first and pointed him out to Kate. She leaned against the rail and peered down at him, shuddering at the sight of his drawn face and shadowed eyes. Then she turned with a little shrug of repulsion.

      McTee must have made some humorous comment, for she turned to glance down at Harrigan again and this time she laughed. Blind rage made the blood of the Irishman hot. That gave him his last strength, but even this ran out. Finally he knew that the next day was his last, and when that day came, he counted the hours. They passed heavy-footed, as time goes for one condemned to die. And then he sat cross-legged on his bunk and waited.

      The giant Negro came, bringing word that the bos’n wanted him to scrub down the bridge. He remained with his head bowed, unhearing. The bos’n himself came, cursing. He called to Harrigan, and getting no answer shook him by the shoulder. He put his hand under Harrigan’s chin and raised the listless head. It rolled heavily back and the dull eyes stared up at him.

      “God!” said the bos’n, and started back.

      The head remained where he had placed it, the eyes staring straight up at the ceiling.

      “God!” whispered the bos’n again, and ran from the forecastle.

      In time—it seemed hours—Harrigan heard many voices approaching. McTee’s bass was not among them, but he knew that McTee was coming, and Harrigan wondered whether he would have the strength to refuse to obey and accept the fate of the mutineer; or whether terror would overwhelm him and he would drop to his knees and beg for mercy. He had once seen a sight as horrible. The voices swept closer. McTee was bringing all the available crew to watch the surrender, and Harrigan prayed with all his soul to a nameless deity for strength.

      Something stopped in the Irishman. It was not his heart, but something as vital. The very movement of the earth seemed to be suspended when the great form blocked the door to the forecastle and the ringing voice called: “Harrigan!”

      At the summons Harrigan’s jaw fell loosely like that of an exhausted distance-runner, and long-suppressed words grew achingly large in his throat.

      “I’ve had enough!” he groaned.

      “Harrigan!” thundered the captain, and Harrigan knew that his attempted speech had been merely a silent wish.

      “God help me!” he whispered hoarsely, and in response to that brief prayer a warm pulse of strength flooded through him. He sprang to his feet.

      “I refuse to work!” he cried, and this time the sound echoed back against his ears.

      There was a long pause.

      “Mutiny!” said McTee at last, and his voice was harsh with the knowledge of his failure. “Bring him outside in the open. I’ll deal with him!”

      He retreated from the door, but before any of the sailors could go in to fulfill the order, Harrigan walked of his own accord out onto the deck. The wind on his face was sweet and keen; the vapors blew from eyes and brain. He was himself again, weaker, but himself. He saw the circle of wondering, awe-stricken faces; he saw McTee standing with folded arms.

      CHAPTER 7

      “Mutiny on the high seas,” the captain was saying, “is as bad as murder on dry land. I could swing you by the neck from the mast for this, Harrigan, and every court would uphold me. Or I can throw you into the irons and leave your trial until we touch port. But—stand back!”

      At the wave of his hand the circle spread. McTee stepped close to Harrigan.

      “I could do all that I’ve said, but why should I waste you on a prison when there’s a chance that I can use for myself? Harrigan, will you stand up to me, man to man, and fist to fist, fighting fair and square without advantage, and then if I thrash you, will you be my man? If I beat you, will you swear to follow me, to do my bidding? Harrigan, if I have you to work for me—I’ll be king of the south seas!”

      “Man to man—fair and square?” repeated Harrigan vaguely. “I’m weak. You’ve had me in hell an’ sweated me thin, McTee. If I was my old self, I’d jump at the chance.”

      “Then it’s irons for you and ten years for mutiny when we reach port.”

      “Ah-h, damn your heart!”

      “But if I beat you, you’ll be a lord of men, Harrigan, with only one king over you—McTee! You’ll live on the fat of the land and the plunder of the high seas if you serve McTee.”

      “What oath could I swear that you’d believe?”

      “Your hand in mind for a pledge—I ask no more.”

      He held out his hand. The lean, strong fingers fascinated Harrigan.

      “I’d rather take your throat than your hand, McTee—an’ mebbe I will—an’ mebbe I will!”

      He caught the hand in his own cracked, stained, black palm. The smile of McTee was like the smile of Satan when he watched Adam driven from the Eden.

      “Strip to the waist,” he said, and turned on the crew.

      “You know me, lads. I’ve tried to break Harrigan, but I’ve only bent him, and now he’s going to stand up to me man to man, and if he wins, he’s free to do as he likes and never lift a hand till we reach port. Aye, lick your chops, you dogs. There’s none of you had the heart to try what Harrigan is going to try.”

      If they did not actually lick their chops, there was hunger in their eyes and a strange wistfulness as they watched Harrigan strip off his shirt, but when they saw the wasted arms, lean, with the muscles defined and corded as if by famine, their faces went blank again. For they glanced in turn at the vast torso of McTee. When he moved his arms, his smooth shoulders rippled in significant spots—the spots where the driving muscles lay. But Harrigan saw nothing save the throat of which he had dreamed.

      “This is to the finish?” said McTee.

      “Aye.”

      “And no quarter?”

      Harrigan grinned, and slipped out to the middle of the deck. Both of them kicked off their shoes. Even in their bare feet it would be difficult to keep upright, for the Mary Rogers was rollicking through a choppy sea. Harrigan sensed the crew standing in a loose circle with the hunger of the wolf pack in winter stamped in their eyes.

      McTee stood with his feet braced strongly, his hands poised. But Harrigan stole about him with a gliding, unequal step. He did not seem preparing to strike with his hands, which hung low, but rather like one who would leap at the throat with his teeth. The ship heaved and Harrigan sprang and his fists cracked—one, two. He leaped out again under the captain’s clubbed hands. Two spots of red glowed on McTee’s ribs and the wolf pack moistened their lips.

      “Come again, Harrigan, for I’ve smelled the meat, not tasted it.”

      “It tastes red—like this.”

      And feinting at McTee’s body, he suddenly straightened and smashed both hands against the captain’s mouth. McTee’s head jarred back under the impact. The wolf pack murmured. The captain made a long step, waited until Harrigan had leaped back to the side of the deck to avoid the plunge, and then, as the deck heaved up to give added impetus to his lunge, he rushed. The angle of the deck kept the Irishman from taking advantage of his agility. He could not escape. One pile-driver hand cracked against his forehead—another thudded on his ribs. He leaped through a shower of blows and clinched.

      He was crushed against the rail. He was shaken by a quick succession of short arm punches. But anything was preferable to another of those long, driving blows. He clung until his head cleared. Then he shook himself loose and dropped, as if dazed, to one knee. McTee’s bellow of triumph filled his ears. The captain bore down on him with outstretched hands to grapple at his throat, but at the right instant Harrigan rose and lurched out with stiff arm. The punch drove home to the