It was night when the brig dropped anchor, some little distance from Mulinu’u Point, after the long run south. The lights of three or four schooners, a long, rakish-looking barquentine, and a barque that was plainly the Wanderer, shimmered through the night haze that hung over the roadstead. Three other ships were beating up from the east, and it was evident that Melita would have a full house before dawn.
From the fires along the beach it was apparent that a sort of dance picnic was being held for the pleasure of the men of the sea and the world. Half a dozen red glows dotted the sand, and the sound of singing drifted on the breeze.
To escape the festivities Travers landed some distance below the hotel and climbed round the back of the long, low building. Here Tia Kua took charge and led him down a dark, cool passage to the big room in the front of the place.
It was practically deserted, the majority of the men preferring the revelries of the beach, under the stars, to the stifling languor of the inside, though four of the older men were in evidence near Melita’s dais idly smoking long cheroots and talking in low tones together. Of the half-caste there was no sign.
Tia Kua slipped across the room to the heavy curtains that screened Melita’s quarters. She listened at the door, and then beckoned to Travers. The four men near the dais watched this byplay with growing interest. Many strange things took place in Melita’s house.
Parting the curtain, Travers stepped inside and laid his ear against the door, Tia Kua tensely clutching his arm and listening, too. Steinberger’s voice was loud and arrogant, and he was evidently repeating some old argument.
“I’ve got this little knight-errant of yours, m’ dear, and I’ve got your little sister. You want them back, both of them. All right. You come with me and we’ll call it quits. I’ll even marry you. At the mission, if you will.”
“Wilhelm,” Melita’s voice was pleading and very soft, and Travers thrilled and tingled to his fingertips, “I’ve never had much happiness, and this man.… He already means so much. I had hoped.… But you would not understand. I am not a bad woman.… You would only tire of me in a few weeks. Why not make a few people happy for a change? I—”
“I’ve heard all that already! You know my terms. Take them or leave them. Either you come with me, or I keep your sister and finish this Travers. I’d sooner do that, anyway. I don’t mind admitting that man is dangerous to me. But if you come I’ll let him go and give him back his ship. Hurry and decide. I’ve let you fool and argue with me for two solid days, and I’ve got to get back!”
There was a long silence, broken only by Steinberger’s heavy breathing. Then Melita whispered:
“I have a little money, Wilhelm. If you—”
“I have money, too. I want you, not money. Come!”
“You will swear to let Travers go, and my sister?”
“H’m, seems you’re very fond of this—sailor!”
“I am.”
There was a quiet dignity in the tone that quieted the German. It did not sound like the old Melita. Travers set his teeth and kicked open the door.
* * * *
Melita was standing before Steinberger, nervously twisting her fan in her hands. The German was sitting on the divan and rubbing his palms together like a man confident of the outcome of his plans. He collapsed like a wet rag as his astonished gaze fell on Travers standing in the dim red square of the doorway. There was sticking-plaster and the stain of iodine on Travers’ face, and Steinberger boasted a huge purple lump on his jaw. Under other circumstances either of the men would have evoked a laugh.
Melita stared for one intense moment, and then collapsed to her knees and sobbed with relief. Tia Kua ran to comfort her.
Steinberger reached for his holster, and the sailor was on him like a flash, knocking the drawn gun from his hand and sending him spinning across the back of the divan.
The German charged like a bull when he had recovered his feet, and the force of his weight carried Travers until he fell with, a crash, the other’s two hundred and fifty-odd pounds of fat holding him down.
The fat hands reached for the sailor’s throat, but he got his thumbs in the pig-like eyes and, with a curse, Steinberger reeled back half-blinded. It was not pretty fighting.
Travers was up and after his opponent immediately, pounding his ribs and working his face to a mass of purple bruises. He did not go unpunished himself. Steinberger’s weight and superior reach aided him. The German picked up a brazier and cut Travers’ head open, half stunning him and driving him to his knees. Before he could follow up his advantage the sailor had staggered to his feet and gone into a clinch.
The mirrors on the walls were shivered as the two men swayed all over the room. Finally they crashed into the divan and split apart, bloody and breathless.
They rested for a spell, teeth showing and eyes glittering with passion. The centuries and epochs of upward climbing from the primeval slime and forest had been for naught. The martyrdom of a million reformers was in vain. Here stood two men locked in mortal combat, unaffected by all that had gone before. They were the result of it all.
Travers was the first to recover. With quick, lithe steps he advanced and jabbed at Steinberger’s mouth. With a snarl they closed and for a while wrestled again about the room, stumbling over rugs and matting, low tables and cushions.
The German swore continuously, but the sailor fought in silence. Blood flecks were everywhere. Then Steinberger ran his hand behind the sailor and, feeling the automatic reposing in the hip pocket, drew it after some difficulty. Just at that moment Travers broke the German’s hold with a mighty effort and, lifting the huge body, pitched it into a corner.
With a broken arm and collar bone Steinberger rocked to his knees and fired blindly. Travers clapped a hand to his hip, realized what had happened, and then cast frantic eyes around for the gun he had knocked from Steinberger’s hand in the beginning. He could see it nowhere.
A bullet snickered over his shoulder and tore a hole in the copper mesh of the walls. Another clipped his neck. Dimly he heard Melita scream and then shout something.
He gasped as a numbing, red-hot pang shot through his left arm. He pawed at the air. This was the end. William Travers, his brother, would never be avenged, nor would Mary, the little wife. For one vivid moment the mists cleared from the sailor’s eyes and he looked clear-eyed for his death.
Steinberger staggered, panting, to his feet and sobbed with laughter. His sound arm rose and held the automatic steady. Travers closed his eyes and swayed on his feet.… There came a shot, then a fusillade of shots, and faintly Travers heard Steinberger choke.
He opened his eyes and saw the German go down, fighting for breath, his chest a gory ruin where a soft-nosed bullet had mushroomed.
Melita cried out in a faint voice as she watched the blue smoke curling up from the muzzle of the nickel-steel revolver she had snatched up from the floor. It was the revolver she had given to Travers, the revolver Travers had knocked from the German’s hand in the beginning of the fray.
Travers stumbled forward. He was aware of a warm something flowing down his limp left arm, but he took no heed. He halted beside the dead man and looked down. He felt dizzy and very tired.
“That squares things, Brietmann,” he muttered thickly. “Billy’ll rest easy now. And may … and may God have mercy on your soul.”
Then he turned and saw Melita. Her eyes were wide with horror, and with one hand she held her handkerchief to her mouth. She had forgotten to breathe.
Travers swore feebly and crossed to the motionless girl. At his touch on her arm she shuddered and roused herself. The revolver dropped unheeded to the floor and, swaying against the man’s shoulder, she commenced to cry.
Travers raised Melita’s face and kissed her lips.
“Melita!”