Turn them over to Mr.
Sheldon.

We won't need them." "If you are really bent upon going--" Sheldon began.
"That's settled long ago," she answered shortly.

"I'm going to pack now.
But I'll tell you what you can do for me--issue some tobacco and other stuff they want to my men." An hour later the three men had shaken hands with Joan down on the beach.
She gave the signal, and the boat shoved off, six men at the oars, the seventh man for'ard, and Adamu Adam at the steering-sweep.

Joan was standing up in the stern-sheets, reiterating her good-byes--a slim figure of a woman in the tight-fitting jacket she had worn ashore from the wreck, the long-barrelled Colt's revolver hanging from the loose belt around her waist, her clear-cut face like a boy's under the Stetson hat that failed to conceal the heavy masses of hair beneath.
"You'd better get into shelter," she called to them.

"There's a big squall coming.