IT was as though the blade of the knife touched a spring of life within Black Pawl. He came to his feet with a swift, fierce movement that flung Spiess off his back and sent the man sprawling to one side. Then Black Pawl turned, and stared down at him, and Spiess got up, the red knife in his hand. He watched Black Pawl; and he crouched a little, his knees bent for a spring.

Black Pawl looked at Spiess, and then he looked at his son. The mate was standing on the quarter, watching as though what passed did not concern him. Black Pawl understood, then. Red had planned this, permitted it.

Black Pawl laughed at Spiess; and then he walked slowly past the man, toward the quarter-deck. He paid no more attention to Spiess; and when the man saw this, he wiped his knife on the leg of his trousers and thrust it back into its sheath. Then he looked at Red Pawl; and when the mate said nothing, did nothing, Spiess got down on his hands and knees and went back to his scrubbing.

The other seamen, who had been sharing this work with him, and who had sprung to their feet at the first hint of the tragedy, stood in a little whispering group now, watching. All had passed so quietly; there was no word spoken now. The ship was as still as death; for Death was hovering over the Deborah’s decks in that hour.

Black Pawl walked to the quarter; and the men saw a red stain spreading through the coat upon his back. He climbed the steps to the quarter-deck; he hesitated for a little, then turned aside and sat down on the deck, his back against the rail. Then his eyes half closed, and his head lolled on one shoulder. He might have been dead even then, for all seeming.

But he was not dead. His mind had never been so clear, so acute. His body was numb; but his brain was vividly alive. He felt no pain, felt no sensation except a warm, moist stickiness that spread down his back. Also it was a little hard to breathe. There was a bubbling in his throat, and something wet upon his lips; and when he touched his lips with a weak hand, the fingers came away red.

He saw this through half-closed eyes, still sitting there, head drooping on one side.

All had passed so quietly. This was the horror of it. There had been an instant’s scuffle, then nothing. The work of the schooner was going on now. Spiess was scrubbing the deck, not looking toward Black Pawl. The mate stood against the rail idly, as though nothing had happened. The little group of men by the mainmast whispered together, their faces white. They were the only jarring note in the peaceful scene.

Black Pawl was thinking. He was thinking hard and swiftly, considering what had been done, what must be done. His thoughts covered vast spaces in seconds of time. They were racing like trained runners.

He decided that he was dying. He would be dead very soon. So! Well, he was not afraid to die—not afraid to die, so he died with clean books. But—were his books clean? There was Red Pawl—his son.

Red Pawl had killed him. This was as certain and as true as though Red’s own hand had whipped that knife between his shoulder-blades. Red had encouraged Spiess; no doubt he had promised the man protection. If proof of this were needed, the proof lay in Red’s attitude now. If there were any innocence in the man, he would have struck Spiess down. Or—Black Pawl knew the mate always carried a revolver—he would have shot Spiess dead within a matter of seconds after the striking of the blow.

Aye, Red Pawl had killed him—Red Pawl, his son.

The Captain felt no surge of anger at Red Pawl, with this conclusion. He was not surprised. For—Red Pawl was as he, Black Pawl, had made him. He had shown Red the ways of violence and ruthlessness. He had taught Red never a virtue of them all, save bravery, perhaps. He had taught the boy strength, and brutality, and outrage; he had taught him cruelty; he had taught him to hate the world. He had taught him to bully men and despise all women. He had made Red into the man he was. And if Red had killed him, that too was Black Pawl’s teaching. He had shown Red how to kill.

Red would be master of the Deborah now. He would step into Black Pawl’s shoes as captain. He would enter this incident in the log. No doubt he would make it most favorable to the man Spiess. And no doubt Spiess would have a chance to escape before ever they reached port. That was to be expected; that was an essential part of the whole. Red had moved Spiess to kill Black Pawl; now Red must save Spiess from the consequences. So be it! Black Pawl had no grudge against Spiess. He hated him as little as he hated the knife Spiess had thrust between his ribs. Spiess was the instrument; Red Pawl was the murderer.

Black Pawl’s senses clouded for a little; his life was ebbing. Silence still held the ship. The sun climbed higher, striking into Black Pawl’s face. The wind soothed him; the circling birds squawked their unmusical cries. The men whispered by the mainmast. Spiess scrubbed on. Red Pawl leaned against the rail, watching his father die.

But Black Pawl was not yet ready to die. There were still problems to be solved; there was still life to be met and conquered. He could not die. He came slowly back to consciousness again, his mind keen and lucid and unswerving.

Red Pawl would be master of the Deborah. He would save Spiess from punishment. What else would he do?

Black Pawl nodded his weary head. Now he was coming to it, the crux of it all. Ruth? What of her? What would her life be, with Red the master of the schooner’s tiny and constricted world? What would come to her?

There was no mercy in Red Pawl. The Captain knew that. There was no scruple in him to stay his hand. And that was Black Pawl’s doing. Red was dark peril personified. He was a living threat, a red danger to the girl.

The missionary? That is to say, God? Perhaps. But—men must do their share. He had promised that he would do his share. Must God do everything?

Dan Darrin, then? Could Dan guard the girl who loved him? Perhaps—perhaps not. Dan was brave enough, strong enough. But—he was straightforward, fearless, strong, and that was all. There was no craft in him. Red Pawl might easily befuddle him, blind his eyes, strike when Dan was off guard. And—Red had killed his father; he would scarce scruple to kill Dan Darrin.

So Dan was no sure shield. Who else remained? One by one, Black Pawl considered each expedient. And there was none that satisfied him; there was no power aboard the Deborah to protect the girl, once he, Black Pawl, was gone.

There was no evasion in Black Pawl, no shirking his responsibility. Red was his responsibility.

The conclusion was inescapable. There was no anger in him toward his son; there was no hatred. There was only a deep love, and a deeper sorrow and grief. He stirred where he sat; and slowly, by infinite degrees, he opened his eyes.

He saw the Deborah, the schooner he loved, the world he had ruled. He saw the blue sky above him, and the furled canvas on the boom. He saw the group of white-faced men by the mainmast, and he saw Spiess scrubbing grimly at the deck, oblivious of all that passed. He wondered if Dan Darrin would be coming on deck soon. Dan and the missionary and the girl must still be asleep in their cabins, below. It was as well.

He swept his weary eyes about the whole spread of deck before him; and he found Red Pawl. Red had not moved. He was still leaning against the rail, watching his father die.

Black Pawl tried to speak; but there was a bubbling in his throat, and it was hard. He conquered that handicap by sheer will to conquer; and he said in a voice that was firm enough, though it was very low:

“Red, he’s killed me.”

Red Pawl did not answer for a moment; then he said evenly: “Aye, he’s killed you.”

The Captain was mustering strength. “Come here, Red,” he said. “I’ve—things to say. And it’s hard—talking.”

Red hesitated; then he came slowly across and stood above his father, looking down at him.

“He’s killed me,” said Black Pawl again. And Red nodded.

“I don’t—mind dying.” Black Pawl whispered. “But Red, I—hate to be—stuck—like a pig.”

Red Pawl looked at Spiess, and back at his father again. “Aye, like a pig,” he said. There was no softness in his tone, nor any relenting.

Black Pawl looked toward Spiess. “Shoot him down for me to see, Red,” he murmured.

Red shook his head at that “No. There’s been enough quick death. I’ll see to him, in due time—no fear.”

“Shoot him,” Black Pawl begged.

Red shook his head. The Captain lifted a weak hand. “Then—Red—get me my gun. In my cabin. I’ll shoot him. Do that much for me.”

The mate considered; then he said: “No. He’d finish you while I was below.”

Black Pawl’s head drooped. “Aye,” he agreed. “He’d finish me.” He was thoughtful, silent for a little. Red saw his shoulders heaving with the hardly won breath. Then the Captain looked wearily up at him.

“Give me your gun, Red,” he whispered, “—if you’ll not get mine.”

Red Pawl hesitated; and he thought swiftly. He was cold and without scruple. Would this profit him? Suppose Black Pawl shot at Spiess—and missed! Then Spiess would be an enemy to be reckoned with; he would consider Red Pawl had betrayed him. But—Red was not afraid of Spiess. He could always handle the man. On the other hand, suppose Black Pawl shot straight. Then Spiess would be out of the way. There was virtue in that; it would be convenient. It would clear his own skirts; it would remove the evidence against him. Yes, he could bear to have Spiess die. And thus—there would be justice in it, and no difficulty with the log. Black Pawl would probably miss. His hand must be weak and nerveless by this; yet he was a crack shot, had always been. There was a good chance.

He looked toward Spiess, and he winked as he caught the man’s eye. That was for reassurance; it would give him a talking-point to explain that he had known Black Pawl would miss—if the Captain did miss. If he shot straight, then the wink had done no harm. Spiess went stolidly on with his scrubbing.

Black Pawl had seen his son’s glance at Spiess. He read it.

Red said curtly: “All right—if you like.” He took his revolver from the pocket of his coat and held it toward Black Pawl. The Captain took it in both hands carefully.

It might not be loaded. He fumbled with the mechanism, “broke” the revolver and saw the fat cartridges in their chambers. Loaded!

So, he was ready. He looked up at Red Pawl. “Kneel down,” he said. “Hold me up. I am very weak, my son.”

If Red Pawl had any friends among the fates, they forsook him then. He stepped toward his father, and knelt down before him, and put his arms on Black Pawl’s shoulders to draw the Captain to a sitting posture.

Their faces were not six inches apart. Black Pawl said softly: “I always loved you, son.”

Red Pawl grinned sneeringly at that. While the grin was still on his face, the dying man mustered the last ounce of his strength. He lifted the revolver. He jammed the muzzle against his son’s breast, and shot Red Pawl through the heart.