Skipper Simms was dancing about like a madman. His
bellowed oaths rolled up the cliffs like thunder. Presently
Ward caught a glimpse of the men at the top of the cliff
above him.
"There they are!" he cried.
Skipper Simms looked up.
"The swabs!" he shrieked. "A-stealin' of our grub, an'
abductin' of that there pore girl. The swabs! Lemme to 'em, I
say; jest lemme to 'em."
"We'd all better go to 'em," said Ward. "We've got a fight
on here sure. Gather up some rocks, men, an' come along.
Skipper, you're too fat to do any fightin' on that there hillside,
so you better stay here an' let one o' the men take your gun,"
for Ward knew so well the mettle of his superior that he much
preferred his absence to his presence in the face of real
fighting, and with the gun in the hands of a braver man it
would be vastly more effective.
Ward himself was no lover of a fight, but he saw now that
starvation might stare them in the face with their food gone,
and everything be lost with the loss of the girl. For food and
money a much more cowardly man than Bender Ward would
fight to the death.
Up the face of the cliff they hurried, expecting momentarily
to be either challenged or fired upon by those above them.
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