McTee bellowed again. It was not pain. It was not mere rage. It was a battle cry, and with it he rushed Harrigan. They raged back and forth across the deck, and the wolf pack drew close, cursing beneath their breath. They had looked for a quick end to the struggle, but now they saw that the fighters were mated. The greater strength was McTee’s; the greater purpose was Harrigan’s. McTee fought to crush and conquer; Harrigan fought to kill.
The blows of the captain flung Harrigan here and there, yet he came back to meet the attack, slinking with sure, catlike steps. The heel and pitch of the deck sometimes staggered the captain, but Harrigan seemed to know beforehand what would happen, and he leaped in at every opening with blows that cut the skin.
His own flesh was bruised. He bled from mouth and nose, but what was any other pain compared with the torture of his clenched fists? It made his arms numb to the elbow and sent currents of fire through his veins. His eyes kept on the thick throat of McTee. Though he was knocked reeling and half senseless, his stare never changed, and the wolf pack, with their heads jutting forward with eagerness watched, waited. The “Ha!” of McTee rang with the strength of five throats. The “Wah-h!” of Harrigan purred like a furious panther’s snarl.
Then as the frenzy left Harrigan and the numbness departed from his arms, he knew that he was growing weaker and weaker. In McTee’s eyes he saw the growing light of victory, the confidence. His own wild hunger for blood grew apace with his desperation. He flung himself forward in a last effort.
A ponderous fist cracked home between his eyes, fairly lifting him from his feet and hurling him against the base of the wheelhouse. Then a forearm shot under his shoulder and a hand fastened on the back of his neck in an incomplete half-Nelson. As McTee applied the pressure, Harrigan felt his vertebral column give under the tremendous strain. He struggled furiously but could not break the grip. Far away, like the storm wind in the forest, he heard the moan of the wolf pack.
“Give in! Give in!” panted McTee.
“Ah-h!” snarled Harrigan.
He felt the deck swing and jerked his legs high in the air. He could not have broken that grip of his own strength, but the sway of the deck gave his movement a mighty leverage. The hand slipped from his neck, scraping skin away, as if a red-hot iron had been drawn across the flesh. But he was half loosed, and that twist of his body sent them both rolling one over the other to the scuppers of the ship—and it was McTee who crashed against the rail, receiving the blow on the back of his head. His eyes went dull; the red hands of Harrigan fastened on his throat.
“God!” screamed McTee, and gripped Harrigan’s wrists, but the Irishman heaved him up and beat his head against the deck.
McTee’s jaws fell open, and a bloody froth bubbled to his lips; his eyes thrust out hideously.
“Ah-h!” snarled Harrigan, and shifted his grip lower, his thumbs digging relentlessly into the great throat. This time the giant limbs of the captain relaxed as if in sleep. Then through the fierce singing in his ears the Irishman heard a yell. He turned his head. The wolf pack saw their prey pulled down at last. They ran now to join the kill, not men, but raging devils. Harrigan sprang to his feet, catching up a marlinspike, and whirled it above his head.
“Back!” he shouted.
They shrank back, growling one to the other savagely, irresolute. There came a moan at Harrigan’s feet. He leaned over and lifted the bulk of the captain’s inert body. As if through a haze he saw the chief engineer and the two mates running toward him and caught the glitter of a revolver in the hands of the first officer. The Irishman’s battered lips stretched to a shapeless grin.
“Help me to the captain’s cabin,” he said. “He’s afther bein’ sick.”
CHAPTER 8
And the four of them went aft carrying McTee’s body. On the promenade they passed Kate Malone. She shrank against the rail, her eyes blank and her face white.
“He’s dead!” she cried.
“He’s just beginnin’ to live,” said Harrigan.
The captain was muttering faintly as they laid him on the bunk in his room. “Now get out,” commanded Harrigan. “I will be alone with him when he wakes up. I have something to whisper in his ear.”
“Is it safe?” said the first mate to the chief engineer, gesturing with his weapon.
Harrigan snatched it away and waved it like a club above his head.
“Get out, or I’ll bash your skull in.”
His face was hideous, cut and blood-stained, starved with the long hunger and lighted with the victory. They slunk from the cabin, backing out as if they expected him to rush them. Harrigan locked the door and started to tend the captain. He washed McTee to the waist, cleansed the cut places carefully, and covered them with narrow strips of adhesive tape which he found in a small medicine chest. As the heavier breathing of the captain indicated that he was about to recover his senses, Harrigan performed the same services for himself. It was slow work, for now that the stimulus of action was gone, his weakness grew on him in recurrent waves. Finally a sound made him turn to see McTee propping himself up on the bunk with one elbow; his eyes, unconfused and steady, looked brightly out at Harrigan.
“You beat me?”
“It was the swing of the deck that rolled you over and broke your grip. I’ve stayed to tell you that.”
“Chances or no chances, you beat me.”
“Man, you’d have busted my back if it hadn’t been for that buck of the ship. When your hand came away, it took the skin with it.”
“And that’s why you didn’t finish me?”
“Aye.”
“You’ll never have the chance again.”
“I want no chances; I want no help except my own strength as it was before you withered me with your hellfire.”
“When we stand up again, I’ll kill you, Harrigan.”
“When we stand up again, I’ll break you, Black McTee—like a rotten stick.”
“Lie down here,” said the captain, rising quickly. “You’re sick.”
He forced Harrigan onto the bunk and stretched him out at full length. The Irishman clenched his hands and fought against the sleep which crept over his senses.
“There’s fire in my brain,” muttered Harrigan, “an’ it’s trying to burn its way out.”
McTee dipped a towel in cool water.
“I kept the rest of them away,” went on the Irishman. “When you woke up, I wanted you to hear why I didn’t finish you.”
He raised his shaking hands and gripped at the air.
“Ah-h! When me ould silf is back, I’ll shtand up to ye. Tis a promise, McTee. Black McTee, Black McTee—I’ll make ye Red McTee—red as the palms av me hands.”
McTee tied the cold, wet towel around Harrigan’s forehead.
“I’ll kill you by inches, Harrigan. You’ll read hell in my eyes before your end. Drink this!”
He raised Harrigan’s almost lifeless head and forced the neck of a whisky bottle between his teeth.
“Ah-h!” said Harrigan, blinking and coughing after the strong liquor had burned its way down his throat. “The feel av your throat under me thumbs was sweeter than the touch av a colleen’s hand, McTee! I’m dead for shlape!”
And instantly his eyes closed; his breathing was deep and sonorous. The captain watched him for a long moment, then sat down and laying a hand on the sleeping man’s wrist, he counted the pulse carefully. It was irregular and feeble.
“Time is all he needs,” muttered McTee to himself, and he sat staring before him,