Kitabı oku: «The Boy Aviators in Nicaragua; or, In League with the Insurgents», sayfa 6
CHAPTER XI.
BILLY BARNES IS TRAPPED
Billy Barnes, impulsive as the dash he had made seemed, had not taken the step without duly balancing the dangers and difficulties that would attend it. True, he had come to his decision with what appeared to be careless haste, but the truth was that he was a young man who was by training quick to arrive at conclusions and just as speedy to execute them. He knew perfectly well that if he had talked over his meditated course with the boys, that they would have vetoed his undertaking, and since the adventure of the jaguar, in which he felt he had not shown up to very good advantage, he was eager to distinguish himself in some way.
Moreover, he was urged forward by his newspaper pride, which counseled him to attempt, at any rate, to accomplish what would be the biggest “scoop” of years and make a story that would be talked about for many days, even by the short memoried denizens of Park Row. So Billy plunged forward into the jungle with a light heart. He knew nothing whatever of woodcraft, but that fact did not daunt him in the least. He was well provided with money, and so felt no particular apprehension that he would starve, or suffer any serious discomforts. He figured on reaching Rogero’s camp in at least two days’ time. What action he would take after he arrived there he had decided to leave according to the way things shaped themselves.
The first day of his journey nothing of note occurred. At Amagana, a village on the San Juan river, he had hired a horse, a decrepit, antiquated animal with plenty of “fine points,” its owner averred, – “you could hang your hat on some of them,” remarked Billy to himself. The steed, however, came up to his simple requirements and his owner assured him that there wasn’t a kick in the beast. The young reporter also stocked up his food bags with such portable provender as he could obtain and struck out in the direction in which the last reports had placed Rogero’s forces.
He made camp the first night out with a number of wild-looking Nicaraguans from the interior on their way to the coast with a shaggy herd of small cattle. They were in a big hurry, as either Rogero or Estrada would undoubtedly have levied on their cattle if they had encountered them. From them Billy learned that they had heard heavy firing the day before at a place about twenty-five miles from where they were then encamped, and by signs and such English as he could command the leader of the herders indicated to Billy that by following up the river he would undoubtedly get within the line of the government troops which were following its course on their way to Greytown.
Bright and early the next morning Billy saddled his disreputable-looking steed, amid much merriment from the graziers, and jogged off along a trail that led through the jungle along the river bank. He rode hard all that day and at nightfall was rewarded for his progress by a number of uniformed men suddenly appearing from the jungle at his horse’s head and pointing their rifles at him.
“Americano – me Americano!” shouted Billy in all the Spanish he knew, “take me to General Rogero.”
All that the soldiers of Zelaya could make of this speech was Billy’s explanation of his nationality and the name of their General. One man, who seemed to be their leader, motioned to Billy to dismount, and then briefly ordered one of the privates to take charge of the reporter’s horse. This done, the man who had given the order signed to Billy to follow him and struck off into a path that wound in a direction away from the river bank.
Now, Billy had as stout a heart as most of his craft, and he had been in tight places before, – most reporters have, – but to say that it did not beat a little faster as he stepped out after his guide, would not be true. It was a bold bit of bluff that he had decided on – a plan that if it made good, would result in the complete discomfiture of Rogero – but, on the other hand, there was more than a chance that it might fail, in which case, as Billy fully realized, he would find himself in a mighty tight place.
He had an unpleasant consciousness also that the soldiers, one of whom was leading his horse, had closed in about him so that even if he had changed his mind at the eleventh hour and decided not to risk putting his head in the lion’s mouth, escape was now impossible.
“You’re in this thing for fair now,” he remarked to himself, “so go through with it with a good front.”
After about half-an-hour of threading the winding path they emerged suddenly on a sloping hillside bare of trees, and here was camped Rogero’s army. Billy had seen the Greytown contingent on the day that they marched away from the coast, and the men that he saw scattered about the camp now engaged in cooking the evening meal, gambling or strumming guitars differed in nowise, except in degrees of raggedness, from the soldiers he and the boys had been so amused at.
His arrival in camp seemed to create a lot of curiosity and excitement, but his guide paid no attention to the men who thronged about, pouring in questions upon him, but marched Billy up to a tent over which floated the blue and white standard of Nicaragua. There were angry voices inside the tent as he approached; one of which he recognized as that of Rogero.
A ragged orderly paced up and down in front of the tent-flap, which was open to admit the cool air of the evening, and after Billy’s guide had rapidly jabbered a few words to him, he abruptly marched into the tent and in a moment emerged and beckoned to them to enter. A second later Billy Barnes stood face to face with Rogero and a little dark-skinned Nicaraguan officer. Outwardly he was calm enough and bowed to the commander of the Zelayan forces with all the Chesterfieldian grace at his command. Inwardly, however, his heart beat fast and thick for he realized that the time to make good his bluff had at last arrived.
Rogero’s face, as his eyes fell on Billy, was a study. He had been rolling a cigarette when the reporter was ushered in, but he set down his tobacco and papers while he palpably allowed the situation slowly to dawn on him, and stared at Billy as if he had been some strange wild beast or natural curiosity.
“You seem to have a strange liking for putting yourself in dangerous places, Mr. Barnes,” he said at last, then turning to the little officer:
“Leave us alone,” he continued sharply in Spanish, “and,” he added, “if the thing is seen anywhere near the camp, fire on it with the machine-guns.”
Naturally Billy didn’t understand this, but the reader may be informed that the general’s remark referred to “a strange thing” that some of the scouts reported having seen in the distant sky the preceding day. Of course it was the Golden Eagle on her way to the mountains. This Rogero had been shrewd enough to guess, but that of the ship’s destination he had no knowledge, goes without saying. The failure of the spy that he had sent to La Merced to disable the craft, had, however, been reported to him and had not tended to put him in an amiable frame of mind. He realized fully that if he attempted to damage Mr. Chester’s property or that of any of his friends, that the Golden Eagle would be able, in the hands of her young navigators, to work terrible reprisals upon his army.
“How did you come here and what do you want?” demanded Rogero the next minute. “If you are anxious to be shot, I shall be glad to accommodate you,” he went on with an amiable smile.
“No, I don’t think I’m quite ready to follow your pleasant suggestion yet,” retorted the reporter, “and I think that my country would make it pretty hot for you if you carried it out. I came here to talk business,” he went on.
“What business can you have to discuss with me?” demanded Rogero sharply.
“Just this,” answered Billy, whose nerve was fast returning. “As you know I have a picture of yours which I don’t think you would like to see put to the use for which I snapped it. Now, it’s not a professional thing of me to do, but I want to help out my friends as much as possible. I will destroy the negative, and refrain from notifying the New York police of my suspicions of you, on one condition.”
“And what is that?” demanded the Nicaraguan general, his face growing black as thunder and tapping impatiently with his riding-boot on the dirt floor of the tent.
“Well, you might call it a double-barreled condition, as a matter of fact,” replied Billy easily; “it’s simply this, – I want you to give a written pledge not to injure, or permit any of your army to injure, any portion of Mr. Chester’s or Don Pachecho’s estates or to destroy any property owned by Americans – ”
“In time of war more or less injury is unavoidable,” parried Rogero.
“Not in your case,” replied Billy; “you see you have been advertised by your loving friends – as the wash-powder folks say – and your views on American property-holders are pretty well known. I don’t think you’d have a chance to wreak your spite on them.”
“Well, get on to your other condition – what is it?” growled Rogero.
“Just this,” responded Billy sweetly, “Frank and Harry Chester are good friends of mine. I haven’t known them very long, but Frank saved my life the other night.”
“Another grudge I owe him,” intercepted Rogero.
“Quite likely,” went on the unruffled Billy, “but I’d like to do something for them. Now, if I give you this picture will you agree to take a fourth share with the Chester boys and myself in certain mines that you know of – you see I am on to a good many of your secrets.”
“What mines?” demanded Rogero evasively, “I know of no mines.”
“Well, they haven’t been worked very much recently, and that’s a fact,” rejoined Billy; “but I rather think that you have a bit of parchment in your possession which contains the clue to them, and if they are as rich as the legend has it, then you should be quite willing to take a fourth share, particularly as you are getting back a picture and saving yourself a trip to the States that might have an unpleasant termination.”
Rogero sat silent, as if in deep thought, for a few minutes and then, suddenly throwing off his disagreeable manner, he said quite amiably:
“There is a good deal of reason in what you say.”
“Ah,” cried the delighted Billy, “I thought that you’d see the good sense of it.”
The general gave a peculiar smile. It was almost dark in the tent, but Billy could see his companion’s teeth gleam in their setting of black beard and mustache.
“If you will excuse me while I order some lights we will talk more of this,” he said slowly, like a man who has come to a sudden decision.
“Certainly,” politely replied the reporter, who was feeling so elated over his success that the danger of his situation had completely slipped his mind. Rogero stepped briskly out of the tent into the darkness. He had only been gone a few minutes, when from the darkness, which falls rapidly after sundown in the tropics, the startled reporter heard the loud scream of an animal in pain. He sprang to his feet and made for the tent door.
He ran almost into Rogero’s arms as he reached the entrance.
“What was that awful cry?” he asked anxiously.
“I rather think it was some of my men cutting your horse’s throat,” was the calm response. “You see they haven’t had much fresh meat lately.”
A hot flame of anger swept over Billy. The wanton cruelty of the deed enraged him. He raised his voice in an indignant protest when Rogero held up his hand.
“You are exciting yourself unnecessarily, Señor,” he protested; “you will not need the horse any more.”
“What – what do you mean – ?” demanded Billy angrily.
“Because I like your company so much that I am going to keep you with me for a time;” replied Rogero with a laugh.
Hardly realizing what he did, Billy made a dash for the sneering figure that stood mocking him. Rogero stepped nimbly to one side before the reporter’s furious onslaught and the next minute Billy felt a crashing blow descend on the back of his head. The sky seemed to be filled suddenly with shooting stars that roared and crackled. There was a bright flash of light before the young reporter’s eyes and everything grew black.
CHAPTER XII.
THE AVIATOR BOYS’ BOLD DASH
In their excitement at their discovery of the figure of the quesal the boys lingered till late in the afternoon at the foot of the cliff scanning it from every possible point of view in an effort to ascertain if there were not some hidden opening in it or at least some precipitous trail leading to its summit. Their scrutiny was a failure so far as any discovery of the kind was concerned, and somewhat disheartened at the impossibility of solving the significance of the quesal they started back for camp.
It was after dark when they reached it having come the last part of their way with the greatest difficulty owing to the failing light. Frank’s skill as a navigator however availed them and with the help of his pocket compass which he wore attached to his watch-chain, they finally made camp. Harry had over his shoulder his pig and after the lantern had been lit in the tent and the fire started the younger boy took out his skinning knife and started to dissect his prize.
As butchers the boys were not a success but they managed nevertheless to cut off some very appetizing chops and when these were placed on the tin cover that Harry rigged over the fire and greased with some of the pork fat the boys made a very good meal indeed. Their supper concluded they sat round the fire and discussed the adventures of the day.
They threshed the mystery of the figure of the quesal over and over in all its bearings but without arriving at any conclusion. It seemed to be a hopeless mystery why the bird had been put on the cliff-face.
“There must have been some purpose in it,” muttered Frank, for the twentieth time. “Men wouldn’t place the figure of the sacred bird on a cliff without intending to convey some meaning by it.”
“They may have just decided that the cliff needed decorating and put it there for ornament,” weakly suggested Harry.
“Not likely,” replied the elder boy. “No, Harry that quesal was put there for some good reason. It was meant to point out” – he stopped suddenly and then jumped to his feet with a wild whoop that made the jungle round about ring.
“By jove I’ve got it,” he cried exultingly.
“Got what,” questioned Harry, “hydrophobia or St. Vitus’s dance?”
“No,” roared Frank, “I’ve got it. The quesal – the secret it points to.”
“Well, go ahead. What have you made of it? Don’t keep me in suspense while you caper about like a Salome dancer,” shouted Harry.
“Its bill was pointing down, wasn’t it?” demanded Frank.
“Yes; but what has that to do?” – began Harry.
“It has everything to do with it,” exclaimed Frank. “It would be impossible for there to be an opening in the cliff face itself, wouldn’t it?”
“You are right. I guess we about settled that,” was the reply.
“Well, I may be wrong,” went on Frank, more seriously, “but I don’t think I am. My idea is that if we dig a bit at the foot of the cliff, about under the quesal’s beak, we shall find something interesting.”
“Buried treasure, hurray!” shouted Harry.
“More likely to be buried pottery,” laughed Frank. “I don’t take much stock in these buried treasure stories; but at any rate, even if we only find an old mule’s bones, it would be worth investigating.”
“We’ll start digging to-morrow morning,” gleefully cried Harry.
“No, I am afraid that we shall have to postpone that job,” rejoined Frank seriously, “we had another object when we started on this trip. The Chester expedition is out to get hold of Billy Barnes and yank him out of the peck of trouble we both know he’s walked into.”
“You are right, Frank, as usual,” cried Harry abashed, “I simply forgot for a moment.”
His eyes swept over the edge of the plateau and rested on the dark sea of jungle which lay stretched apparently into infinity beneath them.
“By jove,” he cried suddenly, “look there!” The lad pointed eastward excitedly. As Frank’s eyes followed the direction of his finger he saw something that made him get into the tent and out again with field glasses in two jumps. Harry’s sharp eyes had spied out half-a-dozen tiny points of fire ranged in a circle so far off that they seemed little more than bright pinpoints on the black curtain of night.
With night glass in hand Frank gazed long at the tiny glowing sparks. At last he handed the glasses to Harry with the remark:
“They are camp-fires all right but whether Rogero’s or Estrada’s we have no means of knowing at this distance.”
Harry confirmed Frank’s opinion after a long period of careful gazing.
“They must be a big distance from here,” he commented, “even with the glass they seem hardly more than blurs.”
“If they are Rogero’s camp-fires,” went on Frank without replying to Harry’s last remark, “it’s ten chances to one that Billy Barnes is there now. The only question is how we are to get to his aid without being ourselves discovered. They have machine guns undoubtedly, and if we were to be seen in daylight hovering about the camp it would be easy for them to bring us down and worst of all we should not have done any good.”
“That is true,” agreed Harry, “but what do you propose to do about it?”
“Go at night,” answered the practical Frank.
“At night?” repeated Harry in an amazed tone.
“Yes, – and to-night at that,” quietly went on Frank. “We couldn’t have a better object to aim for than those camp-fires and we shall be able to do a little scouting and be back here before daylight. I don’t want Rogero if that is his camp to discover our hiding-place.”
“How do you propose, even at night, to get near enough to the camp to do any good without being discovered?” asked Harry.
“My plan is this,” replied Frank, while his younger brother listened with rapt attention, “you will drop me from the Golden Eagle by the rope ladder when we near the camp. I will make my way there and see what I can find out. When I want you to pick me up I will flash my electric pocket-lamp twice and you who have been on the lookout, must sail slowly over me so that I can catch the end of the ladder.
“Of course the success of the plan depends upon if we can find an open space to swoop down on,” he went on. “I infer though from the fact that we can see the camp-fires at this distance that there must be a cleared space there.”
Harry had been silent while Frank outlined his scheme. As his brother ceased talking he shook his head determinedly.
“Do you think I’m going to stand for you taking all that risk even supposing you could do it,” he burst out. “Where do I come in? It isn’t fair.”
“When we left New York who did we decide was to be captain of the Golden Eagle?” asked Frank quietly.
“Why, you, of course,” rejoined Harry, “but we didn’t say anything about your assuming all the perils. If you are going to risk your life I want to run an equal amount of danger – you can’t go into this thing alone.”
“You will be running risk more than you imagine,” replied Frank, “you will have to run with the engine muffled down to a dangerously slow pace. There is a chance too of our coming to grief altogether in making a landing but we are in this thing now and we must see it through. If Billy Barnes is in that camp we are going to get him out of it no matter what may happen.”
“Well, of course you are captain and I have to obey orders,” said Harry, “if you finally do get in a tight place, though I shall try and take the ground even at the risk of wrecking the machine. If there’s going to be any fighting, we’ll be side by side.”
“That’s just the very thing I hope won’t happen,” was Frank’s reply. “I want to get Billy out of there with as little fuss as possible, if he’s there at all. I’ve got a plan that I think will be successful.”
“What is that?” asked Harry eagerly.
“Wait and see how it works,” laughed Frank, “and now come on we’ll turn in till midnight for we shall need all our wits and energy about us to-night.”
Both boys had formed the habit of waking at any hour they desired almost to the minute; a habit which some people possess naturally and others can acquire by practice. It was only a few minutes past twelve then by Frank’s watch that they both awoke and strapping on their revolvers hurried over to the Golden Eagle.
“We’ll have to lighten her of everything not absolutely necessary,” declared Frank, “you see I hope we shall have an extra passenger to bring back with us and it won’t do to risk her buoyancy by overloading.”
The provision basket was unstrapped, in accordance with the lightning plan, and everything not absolutely necessary to the operation of the craft cast remorselessly away. The sides and seats of the pilot house were removable and it didn’t take long for the boys to unclamp these and store them in the tent. After about an hour and a half’s work the Golden Eagle was pronounced by her young owners to be ready for flight.
“I don’t like to chance it but we’ve got to have a light,” said Frank as he switched on the searchlight, so that he could see where to drive the Golden Eagle on the “take-off.”
“I hardly suppose though,” he went on, “that it will be noticed away up here. We can shut it off as soon as we get underway.”
The rays of the light showed the young aviators that they would not have very much room for a running start unless the engine was driven at capacity. Even then the boys decided that in order to run no chances it would be necessary to back up to the extreme edge of the jungle that bordered the cleared plateau on its western edge. Accordingly Frank threw in the clutch that operated the bicycle wheels and as soon as he pulled over the reverse lever the Golden Eagle ran backward to the desired point as easily as an automobile is backed in a crowded street.
A great flock of shrieking parrots arose from the surrounding tree-tops with cries of alarm as the brilliant white rays of the searchlight cut through the night. They settled back again, however, after a few scared revolutions about the strange, glowing-eyed monster that they saw beneath them.
As Harry gave the “all-ready” signal, Frank started the engine, which fell to work as usual without a hitch. The Golden Eagle dashed forward as he threw in the first, second and third speeds in rapid succession and with her twin-propellors revolving at 1,200 revolutions a minute, rose in a graceful, upward curve just clearing the tree-tops under Frank’s trained manipulation.
As she shot forward and upward, heading as straight as an arrow for the twinkling pinpoints – the objective of the midnight trip – both boys gave a sudden startled cry of “Hark!”
Ringing till the whole mountain resounded with the clangor of his wild tocsin, the bell-ringer was at work again!
