“Shut up, Gopala!” Temble said.
Gopala smiled. “Ah, of course. How stupid I am!”
“What is this all about, please?” the Frenchman asked coldly.
“Nothing,” said Temble. “Nothing at all.” He pushed back his chair and without further comment he left the room. De Beauharnais shrugged.
“Forgive his rudeness,” Gopala said. “He has been under considerable strain, you understand.”
“Of course, of course,” de Beauharnais murmured. He clapped his hands for the house boy to bring the coffee.
Mal had taken the first sip of his coffee when he heard, as did the others, a distant cry from within the house, the thud of a fall. De Beauharnais sprang up, dabbing his lips with the napkin. He ran toward the inner doorway and stopped abruptly, slowly raised his hands and backed away. “What is the idea of this?” he demanded in a shrill, indignant voice.
Roger Temble, an automatic pistol in his hand, aiming directly at de Beauharnais, advanced into the room. His brown eyes had a staring look behind the clear lenses.
“Don’t try to stop me. I went into your rooms to find one of your guns, M’sieur. One of your boys tried to stop me. He will be all right, I’m sure. Don’t follow me and don’t try to send anyone after me. I’ll be back soon.” He moved around the Frenchman to the doorway that led onto the porch. They heard the screen door slap shut, heard his feet thud against the packed dirt as he ran off into the darkness.
Mr. Gopala inserted a cigarette into his filter holder. He lit it with the gold lighter he had managed to cling to throughout the shipwreck. He said, “M’sieur, I took the liberty of borrowing a tiny bit of petrol for my lighter.”
De Beauharnais put his hands on his slim hips. “What is there that I do not understand? What sort of madmen have been wrecked on my reef? My apologies to you, Madame Temble.”
“I think,” said Sara in a small thin voice, “that my husband has gone to kill Mr. Dolan and Mr. Branch.”
Wide-eyed house servants had appeared in both doorways. De Beauharnais gave his orders in the multi-voweled tongue of the islands. He said to those at the table, “Kindly stay where you are.” He left the room. He was back in five minutes wearing a face net, carrying a small calibre rifle and two revolvers.
His smile was tight. “So long as we deal with madmen, we must act accordingly.” He handed one revolver to Mal. “You will come with me.” He handed the other to Gopala who took it gingerly. “And you will stay with Madame.” He gave a curt bow in her direction. “Forgive me. I intend to bring him back with me. If he does not come willingly, I shall harm him.”
Five boys were waiting at the foot of the porch steps. They all carried fish spears and wore the long flat trading knives. They were excited. They fell in behind de Beauharnais and Mal as the two men headed for the beach to walk up to the new encampment at the eastern end of the island.
VI
Mal had accepted the revolver and the responsibility with a blandness that had no conscious thought behind it. He was now being carried along in the course of events with a numbed acceptance. There was an unreality about it, and he tried to concentrate on the impressions his senses received in order to recreate reality.
The rising moon flooded the beach with silver and made the waves molten. Far out in the bay a deeper shadow hinted at the spot where the Bjornsan Star had sunk after sliding off the reef. His shoes made small scuffing sounds in the dry sand. Behind them the boys padded along, talking to each other in hushed liquid tones. The sea against the outer reef was more vibration than sound. Phosphorescence glimmered through the smaller waves that licked up along the packed sand.
De Beauharnais used a long tireless stride and Mal felt the pull of muscles in his thighs.
Far ahead and to the left Mal saw the white hard spot of light from the Coleman lantern de Beauharnais had loaned to the encampment of the nine men. As he saw it, they heard, above the soft sounds of the sea, a distant shout and then the flat snapping sound of shots fired in the open air, three of them in rapid succession.
De Beauharnais yelled orders to the five boys and broke into a lithe ran. Mal had difficulty keeping up with him. His hand was sweating on the cool grip of the revolver. As he ran de Beauharnais turned and said in almost a conversational tone, “I will go along the beach. You head toward the encampment and fire into the air and try to drive him down to me. If he tries to stand against you, find cover and try to shoot his legs.”
The nightmare feeling of unreality did not diminish. As they neared the light Mal, obeying like an automaton, swerved left and ran directly toward the light. He did not realize he was shouting until he heard his own voice in his ears.
He topped the small rise and saw two figures, directly under the lantern hung by a taut wire from tree to tree, rolling and struggling. Another figure lay ominously still a few yards away. The other men were standing nearby and one of them kicked heavily at the two struggling figures on the ground. They all moved back as Mal shot twice into the air, the heavy revolver jumping his hand.
Mal shouted to de Beauharnais to come. Dolan rolled onto the top of the other figure, casting a mighty shadow in the hard blue-white light. Roger Temble was underneath and Dolan’s two big hands were locked around the smaller man’s throat. Dolan’s arms were so long that Temble could not reach Dolan’s face. Already Temble’s motions had grown loose and languid.
The automatic glinted in the hand of one of the men nearby. Mal aimed the revolver and the man hurriedly tossed the automatic into the dust at Mal’s feet. He snatched it up and yelled, “Bob! Bob, let go of him!”
Dolan gave no sign that he had heard. His eyes were squeezed shut and the corded muscles stood out on his bare arms. Temble no longer struggled.
Mal hesitantly struck Dolan over the head with the barrel of the heavy revolver. Dolan shook his big head. Mal, as de Beauharnais came up behind him, hit Dolan again, much harder. The big man sagged. It took a third blow before he dropped and even then the big fingers had to be pried off Temble’s throat.
Both men were unconscious. Mal gave the automatic to de Beauharnais who slipped it into his pocket and went over to the other man who lay face down in the dust. One hand scrabbled spasmodically at the dust, as de Beauharnais gently rolled him over. It was Tom Branch, his pale eyes wide and frightened, and dust caked on his lips. There were two bleeding holes in the center of the thick chest and a third one high, near the base of the throat. Each time Branch breathed the air whistled and bubbled in the hole at the base of his throat.
“Amazing vitality,” de Beauharnais said calmly.
Blood clogged the throat hole and gouted from the side of Branch’s mouth. His body went into sustained tremble, from head to foot, and then he lay still, the eyes no longer frightened, staring instead at a fixed point an incalculable distance away.
“What happened?” de Beauharnais asked of the nearest man, who made a gesture to show that he didn’t understand. By then Temble was forcing himself up into a sitting position. Every breath made an audible rasp in his bruised throat. He gagged, and began to paw at the ground on either side of him. “Glasses,” he said in a husky whisper. “Glasses.”
Mal found them, off to one side. Both lenses were shattered, the bows bent. He kicked them over to Temble, who felt them with his fingers. “Can’t see without them,” he whispered.
Dolan came alive with no intermediate period of helplessness. One moment he lay still, the next he was on his feet, rocking a bit, fingering the top of his head ruefully, his green eyes full of comprehension. He looked hard at Temble who sat like a chubby helpless child, the broken glasses in his thick hand.