After what seemed a century he found it, and applied and
turned the key in the stiff lock. With a fierce shove he
pushed open the door. Then as he was about to bound forth
into the glory of the sunset, he started back convulsively.

One moccasin had evidently sought outer air. With this in
view it had stretched itself along the crack of light at the
foot of the door. Now as the door flew wide the snake coiled
itself to strike at the man who had all but stepped on it.

Down whizzed the narrow strip of iron Gavin had wrenched from
the box as a possible weapon. And, though the impact cut
Brice's fingers afresh, the snake lay twisting wildly and
harmlessly with a cloven spine.

Over the writhing body sprang Gavin Brice and out into the
sandy open, filling his smoke-tortured lungs with the fresh
sunset air and blinking away the smoke-damp from his stinging
eyes.

It was then he beheld running toward him three men. Far in
the van was Roke--his attention no doubt having been caught by
the smoke pouring through the ventilator. The two others were
an undersized conch and a towering Bahama negro. All three
carried clubs, and a pistol glittered in Roke's left hand.

Ten feet from the reeling Gavin. Roke opened fire. But, as he
did not halt when he pulled trigger, his shot went wild. Before
he could shoot again or bring his club into action. Brice was
upon him. Gavin smote once and once only with the willowy metal