Phil charged.
The man was unbelievably quick. Yet Phil had anticipated that quickness. It was impossible that the man could have lived so long on the island, going out occasionally for food and to inflict his discipline upon the natives, without having been enough of a woodsman to protect himself against ambushes.
He jumped to one side, flung the rifle around and fired all with one motion.
The bullet missed. Phil felt the fan of its breath against his cheek.
He flung himself forward, head down, like a runner sliding head first into a base.
The gravel scratched his hands and chin. There was a cloud of loamy soil, twigs and decayed foliage thrown up. And the maneuver surprised the man with the rifle, for the second shot missed.
Then Phil’s hands gripped the ankles, he flung himself up and around. The man swung the clubbed rifle. The blow caught Phil upon the shoulder, numbing him with sickening pain, but he hung on.
His adversary dropped the gun with an oath, and Phil knew that he was reaching for the automatic at his belt. Phil flung up his right hand, hooked the fingers in the belt, yanked as hard as he could, striving to get to his feet.
The tension on the belt had an unexpected result. The buckle gave way, and belt and gun thudded to the earth. The big man swung his right foot back for a kick at Phil’s face, and Phil, pushing forward while the man was standing on one leg, threw him off balance.
That gave Phil a chance to get to his feet.
They faced each other, two men, each unarmed save for nature’s weapons, and neither having the slightest doubt as to the sort of struggle upon which he was embarking. It was a fight to the death.
The long-armed man swung over a terrific blow. Phil ducked it and planted a swift right smash to the stomach, and had the satisfaction of hearing the tall man give a grunt of pain.
He pressed his advantage, swinging a left, right, left.
Then the long arms closed on him. But Phil knew something of wrestling, and sensed that the other was punch groggy. He broke the hold, flung him away, and set for the delivery of the final smashing blow that would end the conflict.
The tall man swung wildly, awkwardly. Phil stepped forward, easily assured of victory now. He needed but to walk inside of the swing, slam home his right, and...
His foot slipped on a round pebble. He lurched, back, off balance, directly in the path of that vicious swing.
He tried to dodge, made a frantic but futile effort to block the blow with his elbow. But he was falling, the fist crashed into the side of his jaw, and he saw a great flash of light, then streaking ribbons of black, then felt himself falling into black oblivion.
Something crashed the back of his head after he felt that he had been falling for hours, and he realized that it was the ground which had hit him, the back of his head thudding into the soil of the trail.
He fought with himself to keep his senses, to get his eyes open and his vision cleared.
He managed to open his eyes, but all he could see was a confused blur of dancing tree-tops against the blue of the sky. Then he saw something else, a weird figure which swung about between him and the tree-tops. Gradually that figure took form and substance. It was the long-legged man, once more in possession of the rifle, although still punch drunk, swinging the clubbed weapon in a blow that would undoubtedly brain the prostrate cowpuncher.
Phil saw the rifle swinging down, gave every ounce of will power he possessed into a last desperate attempt at rolling to one side.
He rolled, flung out his hand. He could hear the whooshing whistle of the rifle butt as it just grazed his head. Then his hand, outflung, touched a hard object.
His senses were clearing rapidly. He knew at once that his hand rested on the automatic which had been jerked from the waist of the long-legged ruler of the island.
Phil rolled over and over, clutching the belt, holster and gun in his hand.
He knew the other would fire, was raising the gun.
He jerked the weapon from its holster.
The rifle roared.
Phil scrambled to his hands and knees, his face stung by the flying particles of dirt, thrown up by that rifle shot.
“Drop it!” he yelled.
The man tried for another shot.
But he was dealing with a man who had learned the use of a short gun out in the open spaces where one must be able to shoot the head off of a coiled rattlesnake without taking time to line up the sights along the barrel.
Phil fired twice, and the bullets, plowing their way along the side of the gun stock, slammed into the right hand of the man who held it, ripping away the trigger finger, smashing bones.
With a howl of pain, he dropped the gun.
“Turn around,” said Phil.
The man hesitated, then turned.
“Put your hands back of you.”
The command was obeyed.
Chapter 9
The New World
Phil pulled the man’s coat off, ripped it into shreds, bound the arms, then gave attention to the wound. The right hand was badly smashed, bleeding freely. Phil stopped the bleeding by making a rough tourniquet.
“Now,” he said, “you’re going to march straight to that native village, and instruct the chief to turn over the captives he’s taken into your charge. You’ll keep out of sight when you make the command, and I’ll have the guns trained right on your back. If anything goes wrong you’ll be the first to go.”
The tall man was white of face, and his eyes were filled with sullen hatred.
“I can’t walk. That bullet’s smashed my hand all to pieces, made me sick all over.”
Phil prodded him menacingly with the gun.
“You asked for it,” he said. “You’ve done a lot of killing in your time, and I imagine you’ve had very little mercy for the ones that were on the receiving end of your guns. Now you’re going to be a good dog and get started, or I’m going to put you out of the way right here. It’s either your life or the life of two who are worth a hundred of you, and if you think I’ll hesitate about shooting, you’re just a bad judge of character.”
The man who had been master of the island until a few moments previous, sighed, started to walk.
“Untie my hands so I can keep my balance,” he said.
Phil jabbed him in the back with the business end of the rifle he had confiscated.
“Don’t talk, walk,” he ordered.
The man immediately lengthened his stride.
“Any treachery, and you get shot. If they’re killed before we arrive, you get shot. So remember that you’re going to be the one who determines your fate!” snapped Phil.
The man ahead of him said nothing, but strode on, purposefully, grimly silent.
They swung into a trail which ran to the right, dropped down a steep slope. The trail widened, and other trails came feeding into it. The sound of the drum grew louder.
A watcher jumped out into the trail, snapped his bow up. The tall man with the bound arms called out something to him in a guttural tongue and the native dropped the bow, turned, and ran at top speed.
The tall man lengthened his stride.
The sound of the big drum ceased. There sounded the rattle of voices clamoring a chorus of sudden panic. Phil gathered that the watchman had warned them of the approach of the man who carried thundering death with him.
“Stop here,” said Phil’s captive.
Phil held the gun ready, cocked.
“Remember,” he said, “the first sign of treachery, and you get your backbone blown to splinters.”