It was arduous work, and he felt a fool, though still frightened. He was not accustomed to stoop and crouch and bend, slithering from place to place like some obnoxious animal mankind sought to exterminate. Instinct screamed to stand up like a man, not skulk like a wildcat; but he crushed instinct and continued to crawl.
He was careful not to knock stones together, not to rattle palmetto fronds. Whenever he elected to break cover he looked around first in all directions; then made a dash for it; then lay still, listening, panting.
The ground was irregular, pockmarked like the surface of the moon. Adam sought out the low spots, avoided the high.
It was a strain on his muscles and often he stopped to rest; but he remained alert.
Was Kellsen doing the same thing? Was the Major crawling and creeping from place to place? Or was he a paragon of patience who could wait unstirring for hours until his opponent, restless, twitchy, exposed himself? Adam doubted this. The flamboyant clothes, the drawl, the insistence on supremacy, did not suggest a phlegmatic nature. Major Kellsen, Adam suspected, was out looking for him in exactly the same way he, Adam, was out looking for Major Kellsen.
It was like a game of blind man's buff in which all the players staggered around with bandaged eyes—and the forfeit was the loser's life.
Now and then he came in sight of the sea again, but it was impossible to tell on which side, so nearly round was the island and so much the same everywhere.
More than once it occurred to him that what he really should do was lay out the island in his mind, make a mental diagram of it, and take care not to retrace his own footsteps—in other words, plot this prowl mathematically, so as to be sure that he covered every yard. Yet, again, where was the sense of that? It could only be a useful tactic if Kellsen sat motionless.
They could of course go on creeping around like this for hours—Adam wondered what would happen when night came. Certainly he'd never dare to sleep.
The pistol in his right hand, the cutlass in his left held low so that it should not reflect the sun, he lifted his head out of a clump of palmetto —and saw a strange man.
This man was about fifty feet away and had his back turned. Clad in buff breeches and a brown shirt, neither of them silk, which would have glittered, and black wool stockings, he wore also a brown linen cap. He was large, but bent far over, apelike, his fists almost trailing the ground. His attitude suggested a steel spring: he was set to snap shut. His head jerked back and forth as he looked around. When he turned that head Adam's way, Adam ducked.
A moment later Adam looked again. And Adam came to realize marveling, that this was in fact Major Kellsen. Shorn of periwig, froggery and bravado, this uncertain duelist, like Adam himself, tense, crept from place to place, fearful lest a finger, an unwitting toe, should turn over death.
Adam's pistol was a cannon in miniature. He had seen the charge poured into it, a heavy one. He had seen the ball they'd cut—tremendous. Though it would not carry far with any degree of accuracy, this brass-and-walnut weapon could smash a man's head open, tear a man's shoulder off, crush his chest. And Major Kellsen, all unaware, made a perfect target.
But Adam couldn't slay a man from behind. He had to say something, make some noise.
He cleared his throat. Kellsen didn't stir.
"Uh, ahoy!" cried Adam.
Kellsen whirled around, his pistol raised. Adam fired.
The explosion was terrific. The recoil threw his arm high. There was a great deal of smoke.
But when the smoke had sauntered away, Major Kellsen still stood there. He looked thunderstruck, his eyes bugged out. But assuredly he had not been hit. And in a moment he began to grin.
His pistol high, he started to walk toward Adam. He placed his feet carefully. He would be sure of himself when he shot.
And all this while he was grinning. He was a very happy man, teeming with the joy relief brings, a relaxation of the tension. For now he had won the duel.
His thumb cocked the pistol. It made a sharp "click!"
He came on, and on.
Adam Long might have turned and run, saving himself a few minutes of life, conceivably even a few hours; but where could he go? Kellsen, with but one precious ball, would hold fire until he could not possibly miss.
Yes, Adam could have run, dodging from place to place, from hole to hole, like a rabbit. To hell with that! He was going to die, but he didn't have to die whimpering.
He rose. He threw his pistol straight at Major Kellsen's face.
There was an explosion, as Kellsen's foot slipped. His gun, like Adam's, had been hair-triggered.
There was a great deal of smoke.
And Adam Long, with a gurgle of delight, a throaty sound, realized that he was alive.
He didn't grin. He laughed.
It was not often that Adam Long laughed.
He shifted the cutlass to his right hand. He fairly whooped as he made for the major.
Kellsen was strong, and he had long arms, long legs, a reach longer than Adam's.
This was a spirited fight, though a short one. It would not have gladdened the heart of a fencing master. The men were clumsy. But they were fierce.
Kellsen stood erect, hacking down. Adam went in low, crouching, his guard high above his head.
Three times they locked hilts, after a brave sparking and slapping of steel. Three times, by common consent, though without word of mouth, or even a grunt, each sprang back.
The fourth time Adam went in lower than ever, but with his blade also low this time. He didn't try to slash. He swept into a straight classic lunge, as though it was a Spanish rapier he held. For you can lunge with a cutlass, which had a point as well as an edge. That is, you can if you don't mind exposing your whole head. Adam ran a terrible risk. If Kellsen was fast—
Kellsen wasn't fast. His sword never came down—except that it slipped out of nerveless fingers. He was slow in falling, like some colossal oak. Yet he died rapidly enough, coughing up great gouts of blood, quarts of it.
Adam had trouble getting the sword out. He carried it, together with Kellsen's, down to the beach. It was a beautiful day.
"All right, ye dogs! Come and take me away!"
Adam knew from Newport how news travels fast in a small place; but the pirates of Providence had some system of their own for disseminating information, and it was a system that would have made the tongues of Rhode Island matrons seem slow. Long before the flotilla of small boats even got past the fort and into the bay the whole population of the island, including the Honorable Maisie de Lynn Treadway-Paul, lined up along the beach, knew the outcome of the contest on Cockroach Key.
She had thrown herself into his arms with a fervor that took the breath out of him, embarrassed him, too, in front of all those people. Yet the others appeared to expect this, and there were even cheers for the lady mixed with the cheers for Captain Long. He put her aside, tut-tut-ting, near to tears because of what he saw in her eyes, the anxiety there, the love; and of course it wouldn't do to let anybody see him acting that way.
"You shouldn't have done a thing like that for me," she cried again and again. "I'm not worth it, Adam! You shouldn't have done it for me!"
Well, he hadn't done it for her, except maybe indirectly; and later on, in the comparative privacy of Tarpaulin Hall, he tried to explain this. He had done it for her, yes; but he'd also done it for himself, for the two of them, and fw Jeth Gardner and Resolved Forbes and the others, and last but by no means least for the Goodwill to Men. It had not been a grudge fight, a matter of jealousy. It had been done, it had had to be done, in order to get his standing straightened out. Sniggered over, he could do nothing toward escape. Admired, he might be able to do much.