-man, and cook, "rounded up" from their sanctums by
the man called Laramie, it had reached the main-hatch before the
captain, pacing the quarter-deck, was aware of the disturbance. With
Captain Belchior to think was to act. Springing to the cabin skylight,
he shouted: "Steward, bring up my pistols. Bear a hand. Lower your
weapons, you scoundrels; this is rank mutiny."

A pistol spoke, and the captain's hat left his head. "There goes your
hat," said a voice; "now for a button." Another bullet sped, which cut
from his coat the button nearest his heart. "Come down from there--come
down," said the voice he had heard. "Next shot goes home. Start while I
count three. One--two----" Captain Belchior descended the steps. "Hands
up, same as the rest." Up went the captain's hands; such marksmanship
was beyond his philosophy. "'Pache," went on the speaker, "go up there
and get the guns he wanted." The steward, with two bright revolvers in
his hands, was met at the companion-hatch by a man with but one; but
that one was so big, and the hand which held it was so steady, that it
was no matter of surprise that he obeyed the terse command, "Fork over,
handles first." The captain's nickel-plated pistols went into the
pockets of 'Pache's coat, and the white-faced steward, poked in the
back by the muzzle of that big firearm, marched to the main-deck and
joined the others.

"Go down that place, 'Pache, and chase out any one else ye find,"
called the leader from behind the crowd. "Bring 'em all down here."

'Pache descended, and reappeared with a frightened cabin-boy, whom,
with the man at the wheel, he drove before him to the steps. There was
no wind, and the ship could spare the helmsman.

"Now, then, gentlemen," said the tall leader, "I reckon we're all here.
Keep yer hands up. We'll have a powwow. 'Pache, stay up there, and you,
Laramie, cover 'em from behind. Plug the first man that moves."

He mounted the steps to the quarter-deck, and, as he replaced empty
shells with cartridges, looked down on them with a serene smile on his
not ill-looking face. His voice, except when raised in accents of
command, had in it the musical, drawling, plaintive tone so peculiar to
the native Texan--and so deceptive. The other two, younger and rougher
men, looked, as they glanced at their victims through the sights of the
pistols, as though they longed for the word of permission to riddle the
ship's company with bullets.

"You'll pay for this, you i