The Max Brand Megapack Read Online Free PDF Page B

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