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Governor Printz returned to Sweden, and in his place the warlike magistrate John Risingh came to the Delaware with some soldiers under the bold Swen Schute, and appeared before Fort Cassimer demanding its surrender. The Dutch residents fled to the fort demanding protection; but Bikker the commander said: "I have no powder. What can I do?"
Gloria started and, forgetful of the strange conflict of emotions within her, clutched at his sleeve. "A man here; " "Swen Brodie!" muttered King angrily. Brodie had just clambered up the ridge and came into view only when his head and bulky shoulders were upthrust beyond a boulder.
He was walking around the room more like an animal than like a man. I knelt down in the middle of the floor and prayed. After a while he came and put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Swen, how does it come that you are here?" I said, "I have come to help you, Mike." "Thank you, I am glad you have come; something got into my head and I lost my mind. How is my family?"
An idle crowd for the most part, save when the devil found mischief for them to do, they might be expected to be represented by one or two of their number loafing about headquarters, and King realized that his visit to Loony Honeycutt was not likely to pass unnoticed. What he had not counted on was finding Swen Brodie himself before him in Honeycutt's shanty.
King's shout then was to ring through Gloria's memory for days to come; he bore down on Swen Brodie, caught him about the great body, lifted him clear of the floor and hurled him downward. Brodie struck heavily, his head against the rocks. And where he fell he lay stunned or dead. "Come," said King to Gloria. "Come quick."
After listening for a few minutes the man left. He returned a few minutes later with a youngster not more than eighteen years of age. "Swen, you will be Lieutenant Wilson's assistant. Help him in every way you can. You are under his orders," Herr Domber said. "Heil Hitler," Swen said and saluted. He was a blond, curly-headed kid with a ready smile. Stan grinned at him and said: "We'll get along."
And, among other things, to the skeleton of Gus Ingle himself, sprawling here for sixty years in the dark over a great heap of gold. Swen Brodie, whose will had at all times directed, was now absolute dictator.
For the old man, tottering in the opening of the rear door, was muttering in a wicked sort of glee: "Up with them hands of your'n, Swen Brodie. High up an' right quick, or I'll blow your ugly head off'n your shoulders!" In his trembling hands was a double-barrelled shotgun, sawed off and doubtless loaded to the muzzle with buckshot.
He paused there for hardly more than an instant and then went on, down the further side, out of sight. The man who had seen all this from his own slope caught up his canvas roll again and hurried down toward the lake. For the first time he spoke aloud, saying: "Swen Brodie. There's not another man in the mountains brute enough for that."
And all his talk was of Gus Ingle and the devil's luck of the unlucky Seven, with every now and then a word for Loony Honeycutt and Swen Brodie." "If there is such a thing as devil's luck," said Gaynor with a sober look to his face, "this thing seems plastered thick with it." King grunted his derision. "We'll take a chance, Ben," he said.
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