Reaching the strip of sand, the Kanaka paused and gazed earnestly around him. I was behind a wild berry bush and I took good pains that he should not see me.
The man appeared to be searching for something on the river. But he was disappointed, as he uttered a grunt of disgust and then backed to the bush in front of me. Presently he threw himself down on a rock, resting his head on one elbow, his long fingers running through his kinky, black hair. The fingers of the other hand held the revolver, the muzzle of which was pointed before him. Evidently he was charmed over the weapon, which, being nickel-plated and new, was very bright, and he turned the pistol over and over.
The bush was between us, but we were not over five feet apart. For fully a minute I deliberated, then raised my club, leaped forward, and struck him on the arm. The Kanaka gave a yell of pain and dropped the pistol, and in a trice I had it in my hand and had the muzzle pointed at his head.
"Don't you stir," I cried. "If you do, I'll fire."
I do not believe he understood the words very well, but he understood my meaning, and dropped back on the rock, at the same time lifting both hands in token of submission.
