assed when Chet
raised your little bet.

"But it looks as if Chet and Mademoiselle Delacouer and I will have to
be living on this world for some time. We don't want to start that life
by killing off even such as you--not in cold blood. We will give you a
chance; we will split our provisions with you--give you half of what we
have; you will have to shift for yourselves when that is gone. We will
all have to learn to do that."

* * * * *

Again the heavy, glowering face of Schwartzmann broke into a laugh that
was half sneer.

"You're damned kind," he told Harkness, "and, as usual, a fool. Two men
and a girl!" He half turned to count his own forces.

"There are seven of us," he challenged; "seven! And all of them
armed--all but me!"

He spoke a curt order in his own tongue, and each man whipped a pistol
from his clothes.

"Seven to two," he said, and laughed again; "maybe it iss that Herr
Harkness would like to count them.

"_Your_ ship and _your_ supplies!" he exclaimed scornfully. "And you
would be so kind as to giff us food.

"_Gott im Himmel!_" he shouted; "I show you! I am talking now! We stay
here--_ja_--because this _Dummkopf_ has the controls _gebrochen_! But it
iss we who stay; und you? You go, because I say so. It iss I who rule,
und I prove it--seven to two!"

"Three!" a firm voice spoke from between Chet and Harkness; "seven to
three! Our odds are improving, Herr Schwartzmann."

And Chet saw from the corner of his eye that the gun in the small hand
of Mademoiselle Diane was entirely unwavering. But he spoke to her
sharply, and his voice merged with that of Harkness who was saying
somewhat the same words:

"Back--go back, Diane! We can handle this. For God's sake, keep out; we
don't want any shooting."

Neither of the men had drawn his gun. Their hands were ready, but each
had hoped to end this weird conference without firing a shot. Here was
no place for gun-play and for wounded men.

* * * * *

Their attention was on Diane for the moment. A growled word from their
enemy brought their minds back to him; they turned to find black pistol
muzzles staring each of them in the eyes. Herr Schwartzmann, in the
language of an earlier day, had got the drop.

"Seven to three," Schwartzmann said; "let it go that way; no difference
does it make. If I say one word, you die."

Chet's arm ached to snap his hand toward his gun. It would be his