Adventure (magazine)/Volume 40/Number 5/The Angel-Maker

by Georges Surdez

 

THE ANGEL-MAKER

by
Georges Surdez

Author of “A Sore Loser,” “Hell's Halfway House,” etc.

DUGUAY, the wiry half breed captain from Reunion, was at the tiller.

The crew of Malagasy negroes, three in number, reclined on the deck planking, humming in unison a barbaric tune of their native land, a cadence which formed an undertone for the giant orchestra of wind and wave. The single mast rose against a dark sky, it's top lost among the stars—stars which seemed to swing overhead with every roll of the small vessel.

To the southeast lay Reunion, the port from which the brig had left the week before; to the west the oriental coast of Madagascar.

In the summery shelter of the fore half-deck, five men were playing cards—five while men. The lantern which hung from the ceiling moved in a circle, illuminating each face in turn with a ruddy glow. The warm wind blew through the stays, singing as the vibrant strings of a monster violin.

One of the white men spoke.

“When are we supposed to get ashore, Gujol?”

“I don't know—” Gujol returned.

Under the lantern, his naturally red face assumed a demoniacal hue. The hair growing low over the forehead, the heavy brows hinting at sullenness, did not give a prepossessing appearance. But the eyes, very blue, clear, were those of a child, and presaged the same quick tempers and quick liking, with an unfathomable, indefinite something added, that created the impression of relentless persistence.

“I guess I'll ask Duguay—” Gujol went on, rising.

He was tall and heavy-set.

As he made his way aft, with a question in his mind as to the future, he could not help but recall the events that had brought him here under the stars, miles from home.

Gujol came from New England. He possessed the somber mystical soul of the Puritan, and all the Puritan's intolerance, the latter a trait for which he had reproached the people in his tiny native village. They were intolerant of others. He was intolerant of them—and in a more positive way, for he had left home. Taking ship from the nearest port he had traveled and traveled, always striving to find a place to rest, where others would think as he thought. The real trouble was he could not adapt himself, but wanted others to mold themselves to his way of thinking.

Three years before the mast, rough living, a forced acquaintance with all classes and all races, had mellowed him. The pendulum of his mind had overswung. Not content to allow others to have their own ideas he fell into the greater evil of accepting their thoughts as his. When he at last decided to find a position ashore he was a far different Gujol from the one who had set forth.

At Saint Denis, in the Island of Reunion, he found work as overseer of a coffee plantation. There he toiled as hard as those of his breed know how. He drove himself; he drove the natives. The “'boss,” an indolent Créole, could not understand the cause of this energy, and finally discharged him.

“He works too hard—the sight of him tired me—” the Colonial Frenchman explained. And so Gujol had worked himself out of a job—the beginning, however, of the Great Adventure.

Coming down from the plantation, he took abode in a little hotel within the town. There he smoked, drank, ate, until his money melted away.

His last franc gone, he strolled down the torridly hot streets, a heat unrelieved by the slightest breeze, to the docks. A liner bound for Australia, after traveling from Liverpool through the Mediterranean, the Suez Canal and the Red Sea, was in, for provisions. Gujol aimlessly stood about, hands in pockets, looking, even in his white garb, what he was—an American.

There is a certain attitude that marks the Yankee. From the boat came four men. At first glance one could see they, too, hailed from the States. What was more natural than for Gujol to address them?

They were queer fellows. There was Crocket, a roly-poly man, short of stature, long of arm, and possessed of a marvelous singing voice and a repertoire of cowboy ballads. There was Evans, a tall lean devil with the face of Mephisto, who wore a gun under his coat; Elliot, a rangy specimen, who also toted arms; and Mouston, hybrid international mixture, one-fourth French, one-fourth American, the other half beyond possible conjecture.

Within ten minutes after meeting, the five were seated in the hotel café, the silent boys were replenishing glasses, the flies hummed about their ears, and before Gujol's eyes unfolded the plains of the Western States, the rugged mountains, the desert. The four were gold miners. The Gold States were overcrowded, they said, and so they had decided to try new fields. Gujol looked at the tanned faces, the calloused palms. Yes, they could wield pick and shovel.

He found himself whirled along into their spirit of search. He asked to join them. They assented readily—the port wine had been good. He was to have a fifth share and in return was to give his experience to aid them.

In 1890, Madagascar had not yet been taken over by the French. But that nation's covetous thoughts had aroused interest. Why should the French be so anxious for the island if all to be gathered there were malarias and assorted diseases? What other conclusion except gold? Gold—Many westerners found themselves in east Africa at that time, who later disappeared when the Klondike sent its clarion peal: GOLD! GOLD!

Illustration: map

Crocket went on to explain that they had learned on board the steamer that the Hova Government, which at that time ruled Madagascar, forbade the entry of white miners. This had raised difficulties, at the same time enhancing their belief that gold was to befound. And if it was there—well, they intended to find it.

Gujol, who had picked up certain information, informed them that the prohibition was not absolute, that by paying well the government official, they could enter. Fifty per cent. of their spoils, must, however, be turned as royalty to the Hovas.

From this, to the decision to enter without permission was but a step.

Gujol had found a vessel, called, poetically enough Amourette, whose captain and owner, Duguay, was said to be ready to make extra cash now and then. For two hundred dollars and a tenth of the proceeds, Duguay agreed to land the five in Mada- gascar in a location which he knew to contain gold. The white men were to supply their own equipment and grub.

GUJOL found Duguay at the tiller, impassively staring ahead, his copper-lidded pipe between his even white teeth, teeth which shone beneath the black mustache in a perpetual bland smile.

“Well, Duguay, when do we land?”

Duguay puffed thoughtfully, shrugged.

“Eh—eh—I guess tomorrow——”

“It will have taken us nine days,” Gujol remarked.

“Got to escape the gunboats—” Duguay explained.

“The gunboat—you mean—” Gujol laughed.

The Hova Government boasted of but one gunboat, a fashion of floating boarding-house for a clan oi parasites in gaudy gold-laced uniforms. The cannon was not provided with ammunition. The coal-burning engine had no fuel.

Duguay laughed in his turn:

“Oh, miracles have been performed and they might get the tub running—” His English was as faultless as his French. His career as semi-pirate, semi-smuggler, had taught him many tongues. “Every time I see a smudge over the horizon I run away. It's better than to jeopardize the expedition by too great a hurry

Gujol had to admit his wisdom.

“We'll go through the reef tonight and maybe you can go ashore before morning—” the captain went on. “There's a wind coming up, and if the gunboat is out, she will take cover——”

Gujol lighted his pipe and squatted against the high railing, his eyes wandering over the billowing surface of the sea, the cascading waters which caught the reflection of the stars in fleeting glimpses, as elusive as will-o'-the-wisps. Out of this space breathed a colder wind that sang with terrific velocity through the stays—perhaps one of the “dry wind” storms of which Gujol had heard.

The swells shivered under the increasing force. Foam flew through the air, biting into one's face. The smack sometimes sank into the black water, then perched on the crest of a moving wall, bow hanging over the edge, bobbing lightly as a cork. There was no great danger with Duguay in command of his expert black crew, fellows who had learned to swim in this very ocean, who knew its every mood.

At times there seemed to be not a breath stirring, then the single sail would snap with the report of a field-piece and fill out. Gujol, who in spite of time spent on the sea, knew little of the technique, admired Duguay's cool manner.

When the wind rose to its climax and held, the little craft flew over the water. The western horizon seemed to move nearer, as the upraising curtain in a theatre. A line of foam appeared.

“The breakers—” announced Duguay.

Gujol asked for no more information, though he surmised that the Asmourette would cross the reefs, enter one of the rivers, on whose shore the alluvial gold could be panned. He made his way now to his friends to impart to them the news. He found them intently looking out toward the north. There he suddenly spied a light, as though a star shifted in its course by some immense convulsion in the spaces between the worlds, had swooped closer to earth. The light almost immediately disappeared.

The breakers were closer now, and even against the wind, the surging sound of shattering waters could be heard. Speculation concerning the light ended with the coming of a more immediate interest. All knew that a slight deviation of the rudder could smash the flimsy hull like an egg-shell, on the razor-edged rocks. And so they grasped the rail and looked toward Duguay, and watched his crew.

Suddenly from out the sea came a cry—

“Help!”

Duguay shouted orders to his crew, swung the craft about and bore down in the direction from which the call had come. Darker against the somber surface, something was moving. Crocket took a rope, threw it out as the Amourette slid by. There was a tug.

“He's got it!' Crocket exclaimed.

And then from the sea came these surprizing words—

“I come, even as Jonah from the whale!”

In due time, over the railing appeared two great hands, which clutched at the wood-work, the muscles knotting beneath the skin. The lantern radiated a weak light to the spot, revealed a face, with long narrow features, the nose seemingly endless, the mouth cruel, the fearless eyes, glinting with resolution, bravado. The torso grew inch by inch until the beholders wondered if he would ever come to an end. An elongated, tentacle-like leg, reached up and straddled the rail, another followed and the newcomer was on board.

He was unbelievingly tall and lank. The hair, which clung wet down the forehead, added to the impression. The hands hung somewhere near the knees. He remained silent. The others noticed more details. The fellow was clad altogether in black, the coat of an unmistakable clerical cut.

Mouston, who was impressionable, mumbled beneath his breath. Gujol was too stupefied to speak. The other Americans waited quietly. Duguay, who had relinquished the tiller to one of the blacks, came forward.

“Welcome—” he said.

The stranger looked from one to the other, until he had scanned all six faces, and, in the same sepulchral tone addressed them:

“I have cried and you have answered. Be blessed!” Then in a lower tone, “Got anything to drink?”

Reminded of the elementary courtesy due a rescued man they took him under the fore deck, and poured him a cup of hair-curling rum, which he swallowed at a gulp without a grimace.

“It warmeth the heart—” he said as he smacked his lips. “May I have more?”

The request being granted, the question arose as to clothes. There was nothing to fit him on board, so he must content himself with a pair of Gujol's trousers, which would reach a trifle below the knee, and a blanket. As he stripped, the men again marveled at his build. He proved to be six feet six, and absurdly thin. The ribs stood out under the yellow skin as those of a torn umbrella. The smooth coffin-like chest, melted without curve into the stomach.

He offered no explanation of his adventure.

“My name is Job—” he announced. “And my dungheap is the universe.”

The Americans regarded each other in silence. Was the man mad? Further questions were answered in a similar manner. At length Gujol declared his belief that he had fallen overboard from the ship whose stern light they had glimpsed a few seconds previous.

“Fallen?” was Job's reply, in a tone of sarcasm and amusement.

Indeed this was poor behavior for a man just plucked from a watery grave. Further conjecture was brought to an end by the passing of the smack through the reef, where water was shipped by the ton. Job remained calm—did not even ask for information.

When the vessel was through, and had entered calmer water where on each side could be seen low sand banks, Duguay announced—

“We're there——”

MORNING found a thick cold mist enshrouding everything in a cloud of cottony vapor. Duguay, questioned, declared this to be what the natives call erika and would last but an hour or so. He pronounced himself against going ashore until the full appearance of the sun.

It was discovered that Job, also, hailed from the West. He was offered a share in the proposition, which he accepted with a few casual words. Mouston, in charge of the provisions was concerned over the quantity of rum the lanky fellow absorbed. Gujol, less materially inclined, watched the sun filter through the mist, wipe the vapor aside with long golden fingers, revealing an intense blue sky, in which one or two ashy clouds sluggishly moved with the morning breeze. To him, this was symbolic of his life. First, the dreary New England farm, then the glamorous tropics of St. Denis and the Southern Ocean.

The cases of equipment had been opened. Each man was dealt out a rifle, revolver, cartridges. Duguay possessed an old carbine, the stock of which had been broken and badly mended, but he seemed to have much affection for the weapon. The party, having entered a small boat, were rowed ashore by two of the blacks.

The trees on the bank of the river glowed intensely green under the sun, with huge patches of yellow. Red and browns glittered dazzlingly. Bright-colored birds rose at their approach, and the rush of animals through the underbrush could be heard. Gujol and Duguay conversed. The others were silent, absorbed in the contemplation of the bank, within the gravelly soil of which the half-breed captain declared could be found the precious metal.

“Ts there any danger of the Hovas finding us?”

“Not unless some one warns them.”

“Your blacks?”

“Don't worry. You know the Hovas have an institution. Fanampoana, otherwise forced labor. Every man is supposed to work a certain period, from a year to a lifetime, according to the wish of the Government. Their army is recruited that way. All public works. are done by Fanam poaned laborers. My three men have refused their service. The penalty is beheading. No, they will not denounce us.”

The boat grounded.

Duguay stepped ashore, and the others followed him through the bush. The smell of wet vegetation was nauseating and the reddish soil underfoot greasy with decayed foliage. The birds increased in number and flew in and out of the trees, uttering weird cries in their anger at being disturbed. Presently they came to a clearing in the center of which stood a hut, raised on slim pillars from the ground.

“Your home—” Duguay indicated.

The floor of the dwelling was covered with dried grass. A few old tins of preserved meat, empty, were heaped in a corner.

“Other white men have been here,” Gujol suggested.

“Yes, I brought them,” Duguay declared. “And they left a few weeks ago.”

Lean Job spoke up—

“If you know there's gold here why don't you get it yourself and reap the fruit of your labor?”

Duguay shrugged.

“No—I've got to live here. I have tried other places in the world and don't like them. Once a Creole—always a Creole.”

“What has that got to do with it?”

“If the Hova Government proved I was mining they'd make it hot for me. As it is, I shall return to the Amourette and wait. How am I to know that you are breaking the laws? In this way I make profit and run no risks. If you are attacked by the soldiers you will be taken. But I will go away—see?”

“What would they do to us?” Gujol questioned.

“Do?” Duguay repeated. “Why, kill you----”

“We would appeal to the American Consul----”

“Officially you never entered Madagascar, so officially you can not be killed on Malagasy soil—eh?”

“Oh!”

“And the American consul here is a black man, who was born a slave. Being black themselves, the Hovas do not respect the far away republic of white men who send an ex-slave as a representative. They have slaves of their own and despise them.”

“What will we do for food?”

“Tl leave a boy here. He'll go to the nearest village once a day. That's six miles. He'll buy pigs, chickens, eggs. He'll pretend to be hiding from the soldiers. You white men stay here and work. If you go near the village the people will inform the soldiers. They'll help a black get away from the authorities, but they resent white men coming to take the gold----”

“Where are we to work?”

“Where the small stream runs into the river. You'll find traces of workings. Proceed there—your friends ought to know how to go about it——”

“That's right----”

Duguay left.

WORK was started during the afternoon.

And before night, they had results. The gold, while not in great nuggets, sometimes attained the size of peas, and was plentiful. Besides the old pans of the white men who had come before them, the party found, in profusion, the rudimentary “rockers” of the natives. The natives did not work the placer steadily, for they feared the Government. They took enough for a few ornaments, a little cash, and kept quiet. For, should the servants of Queen Ranavalona III find the spot it would be farewell to the gold as far as the villagers were concerned.

Gujol's job was to fetch water and cook and exclaim now and then when one of the miners exhibited tiny flakes of dull yellow. Job did not make a pretense of labor. He sat aside with a bottle of rum in his hand. At regular intervals the slim throat would swell as the fiery liquid ran down. From the others' equipment he had procured a revolver, which dangled at his side. The combination was ludicrous: the heavy weapon contrasted with the scarecrow appearance of Job, and his peaceful, persistent tippling.

Supper that night consisted of roast pork disposed on fresh leaves, the fruits piled in the center of the floor. All were happy save Job, whose gloomy eyes had resumed their mechanical turning from one face to the other.

“Well, Job,” started Evans. “Tell us about yourself?”

Job fastened his gaze upon the speaker. If the eyes are the windows of the soul, Job's immortal spirit must have been troubled. Muddy brown, yellowish around the edge of the pupil, they looked like the grounds of strong coffee left at the bottom of the cup.

“My son—” Job began. “It came to pass that you plucked me from a watery grave.” He laughed sardonically. “Previous to that my life had been a long endeavor to convert men to Faith, and to punish the wrong-doer—” He paused.

Evans did not insist. Mouston, who had a passion for gambling, brought out a soiled deck of cards, and, with the others, started a lively game of poker. Job joined in without invitation. Whatever may have been his religious convictions, he certainly knew the game. He gathered all the loose coin in sight—French louis, English sovereigns, American eagles.

But luck shifted.

Evans began to win in his turn, and the coin issued from Job's pockets in endless stream. His thin hands clutched at the pasteboards, his lips worked, his eyebrows twitched. The others smiled at his dismay.

Suddenly he spoke—

“You cheated!”

Evans smiled. Then Job spawned a stream of invectives. Evans grew pale. The others discreetly kept silent. Evans was a good shot. He had often demonstrated the speed of his draw. To such words as Job used and an unjust accusation, according to their code, there could be but one answer. Gujol, alone was unsuspecting. He looked for a fist fight at most. On board ship these terms used by sailors resulted in an exchange of blows, at most a knife thrust.

Evans was mild—deadly cold. Job viciously spat his rage. Evans' hand moved toward his gun, deliberately, as though to warn the other.

There was a report. Job leaped backward against the flimsy wall. His gun was smoking in his hand. Evans, who had been seated, was looking at him in surprize, braced on his hands. Then his head sank on his breast. The upper part of his body toppled forward, and he lay, one arm outstretched, very still.

Gujol saw the back of his shirt darken; then the blood came through.

“The way of the transgressor is hard!” coolly remarked Job, replacing his gun.

Mouston approached the body, turned it over.

“Dead----”

Gujol looked at the others. Horror was written on their faces. The ruthless killing, in spite of their callousness, had shaken them. Elliot, who had been Evans' best friend, was trembling like a leaf.

“Why did you do that?” he questioned.

“I tried to break him of gambling by winning his money—when this method failed I removed him from temptation.”

Elliot reached for his gun in his turn. Job waited until the weapon was half-out, then his own flashed down. The movement and the report were simultaneous. Elliot, in his turn, dropped his revolver; his knees sagged—he toppled forward.

“The way of the transgressor is hard—” repeated Job. Then to the others: “The instrument of Fate, that's what I am. Elliot had murder in his soul. He who lives by the sword shall perish by the sword. I have removed him. If I can not mend a man's ways, I kill him. Out in Cheyenne, they used to call me the 'Angel-Maker'.”

He sat down again.

The bodies were taken aside by Mouston and the Malagasy boy who had been attracted by the detonations.

Gujol thought the scene unreal—a nightmare. Five minutes before Evans and Elliot had been alive; now they were dead. And the maniacal Job was still there, his deadly gun at his side. Who knew when he would start up again, with his muddy eyes shot through with red flashes? The speed of his draw was almost unbelievable.

Mouston was silent. Crocket, tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks, clenched and unclenched his hands. Gujol understood. The three were helpless. With a single move Job could intercept them, kill them.

So he laid down and tried to sleep as the others did.

Throughout the night he heard Mouston's even breathing, the half-sobs of Crocket, was conscious of the dead men in the corner, and the Angel-Maker, reclining in the dusky corner, his eyes open no doubt—for he never seemed to need to sleep.

ELLIOT and Evans were buried in the morning by the stream. As the last of the mist melted beneath the rays of the ardent sun, the final spadeful of earth was dropped into place. Mouston evened the ground with his foot, and the final chapter was ended in the lives of the miners.

The Angel-Maker watched the ceremony, his expression a mixture of self-satisfaction and sadness. Was the man mad or just a devilish murderer! With sad hearts the two miners and Gujol resumed work. Job, the last bottle of rum in hand, oversaw and gave them instructions which they did not dare resent.

For several days this went on. Not once did Job get in a corner. Not once did his eyes lose their roving keenness.

THEN “Solomon” was caught by the Malagasy boy. And Gujol purchased him. He was a maki, of the lemur family, a tiny monkey-like animal. Gujol, who had an inordinate fondness for pets, coveted him on sight and named him to suit his wise little face.

Evans and Elliot had sunk into the background of hard work. Job hovered near like an evil spirit. He took his share of the gold at the end of the week when Crocket weighed the results on the small scales brought out for the purpose.

After Mouston's supply of rum had given out, the Angel Maker sent the boy to the village for more, of the native variety, which he drank down as easily. At night, when his dull eyes lighted and wandered from face to face, Mouston, Crocket and Gujol each felt as though a hand of ice grasped him by the throat. Yes, Job wanted a chance to quarrel.

Solomon grew in knowledge and was some compensation for the stalking death that permeated the hut. He gamboled and learned tricks. He brought Gujol's shoes; he stole fruit; he slept by his side, nestled in his arms. He would gravely pluck objects from gaping pockets, beg for food and perform the thousand and one cute stunts a quadrumane is capable of.

He instinctively disliked Job, kept clear of him, an attitude which Job resented. Ridiculous as it seemed he glared at the little beast with the same quality of hatred he bestowed on the men.

ONE night, Gujol and Solomon were playing. Mouston and Crocket were engaged in a game of cards.

Suddenly Job spoke—

“I'm going to the village.”

“What for?” Mouston asked.

“Drink,” answered Job. “The boy forgot it.”

“The soldiers are there. He did not want to cause suspicion by showing the gold coin,” Crocket explained.

“You'd better stay here,” Gujol put in. “If they see you, they'll get you—and the rest of us.”

Silence came again, broken only by the squeals of Solomon who was catching the nuts Gujol threw to him. One rolled close to Job. The little animal, humanly enough, paused and looked at Gujol. Gujol called him back, but the nut remained there. Gujol tried to distract the maki's attention, but in vain. Job silently stared at him. As though hypnotized by his glance Solomon drew closer and closer.

The Angel-Maker reached out, grasped him, and drew him to his side. He endeavored to stroke him, but Solomon trembled and struggled to get free. Gujol, it must be said, did not interfere. Angered at the maki's unfavorable reception of his caresses, Job attempted to force him to nestle, as he so often did with his master. Solomon, frightened, used his only means of defense—his teeth.

The Angel-Maker released him with an oath, and the monkey scampered away. But before he could reach Gujol, he was dead and Job again was braced against the wall, gun in hand.

The two miners looked up.

Gujol picked up his pet, held him close in his arms. Tears came to his eyes and the little fellow found strength in his agony to crowd his head closer to his chest. Gujol had no gun. He was helpless. Had he borne one he would have had no chance. So, he simply spoke:

“Job, I'll even this up. This little beast you had no excuse to kill.”

“What will you do?” Job demanded calmly.

“Wait----”

The Angel-Maker strode close, looking him in the face.

“Remember—” he said. “The way of the transgressor is hard. Revenge is an unworthy feeling. Think it over while I go to the village.”

With that he went out of the hut, and disappeared.

Mouston and Crocket, too, were angry. Gujol laid the little dead animal before him, stroked the thick hair and mumbled dully, over and over—

“Wait—wait—wait——”

“We'll take a chance and try to get him tonight,” Mouston suggested.

“No—” replied Gujol. “Wait——”

“Do you think he'll go to the village?” demanded Crocket.

“No,” Mouston replied. “He's greedy and won't take a chance of losing the gold he did not work for.”

MOUSTON was wrong.

The next morning the three were awakened by shots from the bush. Job, his long legs propelling him at tremendous speed, raced across the open.

“The soldiers—” he announced; took his tin of dust and made his exit, running down the trail toward the place where the small boat was moored.

The Malagasy boy was a loyal fellow and helped the white men gather their belongings.

From the outside came the howls of the oncoming negroes.

The three left by the rear window and took to the trail. They ran until their lungs seemed about to burst. And as they ran Crocket and Mouston made threats against the Angel- Maker who had ruined their expedition. It was an evil day indeed when they saved him, they declared.

Gujol said nothing.

It was at the second bend in the trail that Mouston fell. An hostile party had evidently crossed the bush at a tangent; Mouston, struck in the forehead, went down like a bag of meal. Crocket and Gujol threw away their packs, which impeded them, and ran on. No more shots came. The soldiers were evidently using muzzle-loaders. But spears fell close at hand. One struck Crocket on the shoulder. Gujol tore it out in spite of the barbed tip, and the mad flight was resumed.

At the shore they found that Job had taken the small boat and was already halfway to the Amourette which had swung her nose down-stream. In the water, swimming vigorously, were the two black boys, the one who had served them as servant and the other, who had been left to watch the boat. Crocket and Gujol dived in, and followed. As they dragged themselves on board, Duguay, at the stern clamored his orders; the negroes scrambled about like monkeys; the sail went up. From the shore came reports, and the heavy lead bullets tore through the stout canvas.

The Amourette stirred, gathered headway, and her slim nose cut down-stream at fair speed. The craft reached the mouth of the river, with the breakers just ahead. The wind fell and the anchor had to be dropped.

And while they lay becalmed, from the shore issued canoes, each manned by a dozen paddlers and bearing several gaudily clad soldiers. Duguay, in this emergency, departed from his assumed neutrality, handed carbines to his crew and to the white men. The modern weapons made ridiculous the attack. One of the Hova soldiers pitched overboard, men cried out as the bullets struck them, and the canoes drew off.

The natives perhaps planned a night rush that would carry the craft without heavy casualities. But when the sun, sinking behind the mountains of Madagascar, threw their long shadows over the lowlands, a fresh breeze came up, and the smack heaved forward. By night she was threading her way in and out of the coral reefs as if her prow wore eyes.

DUGUAY was at the tiller.

As on the night of their arrival, the Malagasy crew hummed an undertone to the wind and the mast swung beneath the stars. From the open sea came the fresh smell of space, bracing after the turgid atmosphere of the river side.

Beneath the lantern glow sat Job, Crocket and Gujol.

“Where are we bound for?” questioned Crocket.

“Back to St. Denis,” Gujol answered.

Job smiled.

“We'll let by-gones be by-gones, eh?”

“No—” replied Gujol.

“Can't prove anything on me. The others reached first— Didn't they?”

“Yes—” Crocket had to agree.

“There is Solomon,” Gujol remarked quietly.

“There is no law against shooting a monkey,” retorted the Angel-Maker. “And in any case, you can't make much of a fuss, this outfit being after gold----”

“I didn't say you'd have to settle with the law,” Gujol explained. “Your quarrel is with me——”

“Then where do you come off?” Job humorously demanded.

“You'll see—”

Gujol regarded his enemy somberly. The fierce indomitable spirit of his ancestors was behind him. He again was the Puritan, capable of wresting a home from the wilderness or of burning old women as witches. His intolerance had come back. Here was an evil doer, a man who had committed crimes.

“When do I get my punishment?” Job derided.

“Tonight—” With this Gujol reached over and grasped the Angel-Maker's shoulder.

Job reached for his gun. But Gujol had started his left hand before moving the right, and while the lanky fellow was watching the hand that held his shoulder, the other closed on his right wrist. The ex-farmer's grip was as rigid as iron. The struggle began. In spite of his height Job was light, while Gujol possessed a sturdy build. Yet, so great was the sheer nerve force of the Angel-Maker, that he actually gained his feet.

But once on the heaving deck, standing, Gujol's greater experience on shipboard told. He kept his balance while Job lurched this way and that. Duguay had relinquished the tiller to one of the boys. The reef broke under the keel. Step by step Gujol worked Job toward the rail. The latter, with his free hand, punched at the broad back, but his blows had no effect. The fanatical youth held him, and pushed him backward, further and further, until Job had the rail at his back with Gujol's superior poundage on his chest.

His long legs clung to the deck desperately. Then one foot lifted and kicked ridiculously in the air.

The watchers could hear the two panting heavily.

“For the love of Heaven!” appealed the Angel-Maker at last. “Don't—don't ——”

“The way of the transgressor is hard——”

“Anything—anything—but don't throw me in there again—” begged Job.

The other foot left the deck. A brief heave, and Job's body was over the rail. But he still hung on, one hand clutched to Gujol—the other on the broad rail——

“Bread plucked from the water—” panted Gujol.

He freed his hand, and with his fist hammered on the clutching fingers on the rail. Job was howling now in inhuman tones. The negroes grinned. Crocket watched calmly, while Duguay, as bland as ever eased himself to the pitching and rolling.

A last punch and the battered fingers relaxed. There was a distant splash.

Gujol turned to the others, his face mystical in its tenseness. His white skin showed in the rips in his shirt. There was a resolution, a courage, never before seen in him.

“Of such ain't the Kingdom of Heaven—” he concluded.

There was a faint cry behind. Then nothing.

Gujol's eyes wandered on the billowing surface of the sea, on the cascading water which caught the reflection of the stars in brief glimpses.

To the southeast, Reunion. To the west Madagascar.

At the tiller, Duguay smoked his pipe.