"Then git off back to your mothers and mind your own business, afore ye git killed," hiccupped the first, who carried a lantern in one hand and a revolver in the other. The next moment he was lying on his back, for Dr. Campbell had wrenched the pistol out of his hand, and, with a single blow of his fist, had knocked him clean off his feet. The second man put his hand in his pocket, doubtless in search of a pistol, but, without waiting to make sure of that, Mayne had him round the arms and waist and was soon squeezing half the breath out of his body. The third man turned to give the alarm, but a petty-officer sprang after him and dragged him back by his shirt-collar. "Take away their weapons," cried Mayne as, with a smart trick of the heel, he threw his captive violently to the ground. "No time for prisoners.--Forward!" A few steps more and the sailors were past the trees, and in full view of all that was going on. And a pretty sight it was. Thirty or more miners, many of them delirious with drink, were capering round one or other of the fuel and fodder stacks to which they had set light; Indians and white men, to the number of a score, lay on the ground dead or wounded; and, beyond the stacks, was a heaving, struggling, shrieking mob of miners and redskins, the former brandishing knives and pickaxes, and shouting to their drunken allies to come to their assistance; the latter spending all their savage energies in defence of their homes and families. A whisper of indignant disgust ran through the little knot of sailors; a fair and square sea-fight, or even a "set-to" in a Portsmouth or Chatham slum, was respectable in comparison with all this. The men at the fires were the first to be aware of the new arrivals; they broke off their dancing and, some awestruck, others bombastic, lurched towards them. "Halt!--Now listen to me, you sweeps, if you've got sense enough left," cried Mayne, drawing his sword. The wild-looking, drink-sodden crowd--English, German, French, and Yankee--ceased their babel for a moment. But when they saw that the little force consisted of only sixteen men led by what they considered a couple of boys, their appearance became mere matter for uproarious jesting; the noise broke out afresh and was echoed by despairing wails from the Indians in the background, who only saw a powerful addition to their persecutors. "Who's your leader?" shouted young Mayne. "That's me, gov'nor," said a tall Englishman, who carried "escaped convict" in every line of his face. "All right, boys; they've only come to lend a hand; why, they've got some Injun pris'ners. Come on, Lootenant; I was a seaman afore you was born. Shake hands."