Kitabı oku: «The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XXIII.
HEMMED IN BY FLAMES
“I guess that this is as far as it will be safe to come.”
It was Mr. Chillingworth who spoke. The little party had, by painfully creeping forward down the side of the jutting headland, managed to reach a position in the rear of the big shed which housed the Chinese under ordinary conditions. It now appeared, though, that it was empty. Doubtless its occupants had either fled in terror or had joined in the mad rioting.
From their point of vantage they had a clear view of all that was happening within the settlement itself, lit up as the place was by the glare-light.
They could see men rushing about the streets, if such the thoroughfares between the shanties could be called. The red glow of the flames shone on their faces, swollen and heated by the fire and excitement, and perhaps by liquor, too. For they could see where a group had gathered about a big cask and was broaching it freely.
“Good heavens,” exclaimed the rancher, “if they have started drinking what will happen?”
The professor uttered a groan. Anxiety for his boy was preying cruelly on him. He had all he could do to keep himself from rushing out from their hiding place and boldly demanding the lad, be the consequences what they might.
Hitherto, however, the counsel of the others had prevented his taking such a mad step. In the present mood of the men there was no telling to what lengths their folly might lead them. All felt that it would be dangerous to cross any of them for the present at least.
Suddenly a louder shout than the frenzied whoops and yells with which the mutineers had been making the night hideous, rent the air. It came from the neighborhood of the flames which were now dying down. Evidently something was taking place out of the ordinary.
“They’re coming this way!” shouted the professor presently; “what can have happened now!”
Nearer and nearer grew the babel of shouts. All at once, from around the corner of one of the huts appeared the figure of a man. He was running. Even at the distance at which they stood they could catch his sharp, quick breaths. Whoever the runner was he was almost spent. He carried some object in his arms, too. It looked like a sack of some sort.
Hardly had the figure appeared before around the corner in close pursuit of the runner there flashed a dozen or more forms. They were shouting wildly, and as they caught sight of their quarry they set up a yell.
“After him, boys!” came a shout from one of them.
“Kill the dirty dog!” came another yell.
“Yes, he is the cause of all our troubles, the beast!” screamed another voice.
“Good heavens, it’s Hunt!” cried Tom suddenly.
“And he has my boy in his arms!” shouted the professor the next instant. Casting all prudence aside, he dashed out of his hiding place toward the almost spent runner. Hunt ran staggeringly, reeling from side to side. He seemed to be wounded.
“It’s all up now,” groaned Tom, as he saw the lanky form of the scientist spring out.
“Well, I don’t know that I blame him,” said Chillingworth, “it’s his boy, you know.”
Tom nodded soberly, but made no verbal reply. His wits were too hard at work trying to devise something to do to get the professor out of his predicament, for, as the scientist had rushed up to Hunt and seized his boy from the red-headed mate’s arms, the frenzied mutineers had opened fire.
“Follow me! Quick!” shouted Tom, as he perceived the scientist’s danger. With the others close at his heels he dashed out with a loud “Whoop!”
He calculated on the effect of his wild cry and sudden appearance to check the onrush of the mutineers. It worked as he had expected. Stricken with astonishment they halted for an instant. But that instant was enough.
“Here – get in here quick!” shouted Tom as he grasped the professor and whirled him about. The next moment the scientist had been propelled by Tom’s strong young arms into the dark interior of the deserted Chinese barracks. An instant later his son followed him, and then came Tom with the Kanakas and Mr. Chillingworth who helped him in dragging Hunt’s limp form for the mate had collapsed as the professor seized the boy from his arms.
As they all got safely inside Tom slammed the big door to, securing it with a heavy bar which, to his great delight, he had found on the inside. This gave them breathing space and a chance to lay Hunt, who seemed to be badly wounded, on a pile of bedding in one corner of the place. The man lay there panting for a few minutes, and then opened his eyes.
“What has happened?” he demanded, and then he gasped out, “Oh, I know now. You caught me and dragged me in here. It was pluckily done of you, lad. But we are in a bad fix.”
“You think the mutineers will attack us, then?” asked Tom.
“Not a doubt of it. I don’t know how you come to be here, and there ain’t no time to ask questions, but I’ll tell you what happened soon after you left with Lake. A bunch of them fellers came to ther store and said they had decided that the time had come to make a general distribution of all the grub and then set sail on the schooner.
“Of course, I told ’em to go about their business, but they said that they was a committee, and that if I didn’t let ’em ransack the provision house there’d be trouble. It seems they thought that Lake was lying to them about there being little grub left, and that they had an idea there was plenty. Well, to make a long story short, when I refused to let ’em have the keys they went away grumbling. Nothing happened till sundown, when I shot down one chap I saw sneaking up to the back door of the place.
“That was the signal for the trouble that had been smoldering. They charged down on the place like a lot of angry wasps, and I grabbed up the kid and ran. I saw it was no use to make a fight. I hid in a disused hut till just now, when they routed me out. Through a crack I watched ’em loot the storehouse. All the time they was sayin’ what they’d do to me when they catched me. Pretty soon they found kegs of rum in the cellar, and then I knew it was about all over but the shouting.
“One feller suggests that they set the storehouse on fire when they’d got everything out of it, and presently I seen them touch a match to a pile of tinder and start the blaze up.
“I watched for a while and then figgered that if ever there was a chance of my escaping with the kid it was right then. So I crept out of the hut where I’d lain hidden. But as ill-luck would have it, just at that instant a bunch of them ran upon me. I started off in this direction, expecting every minute to feel a bullet in my back. The rest you know.”
All this time there had come no sign from the mutineers. Outside things had, in fact, grown quite quiet. Ominously so. It meant, according to Tom’s way of thinking, that they were hatching up some plan of attack on the big shed, and – not one of its occupants had any more dangerous weapon than a pocket knife.
Suddenly a voice outside hailed them:
“Ahoy thar! in ther shed!”
“Well, what is it?” shouted back Tom.
“Will you give us up Zeb Hunt?”
“What do you want to do with him?” asked Tom, while Hunt watched him with an agonized look on his rough features.
“String him up!” came the savage rejoinder. “Send him out here and you shall all get off without any bother frum us. But ef yer keep him thar we’ll make you sorry fer it.”
“You hear what he says,” said Tom, facing round on the others, “what shall we do?”
“We would be a fine lot of cowards to give this man up to them after he has saved my boy at the risk of his life,” said the professor.
“That’s what I say,” chimed in Mr. Chillingworth.
“So do I,” agreed Tom, while Hunt sank back with a breathed “God bless you!” It was the most fervent wish that had ever left those lips.
“Wall, what be you a-goin’ ter do?” came the voice. “The boys is gittin’ impatient.”
“You can’t have Hunt!” hailed back Tom in decisive tones.
“What!” roared the fellow outside, “think of what you’re a-doin’ of, youngster. It’s his life or yours – now kin we hev him?”
“Not in the longest day you ever lived!” shouted Tom, “now be off and do your worst.”
“No fear of that, younker,” the voice assured him; “look out fer squalls!”
“If only we had some weapons,” exclaimed Tom. He stepped over to Hunt, thinking that perhaps the man had a pistol on him. But Hunt, when addressed, did not answer, and Tom soon made out that he had swooned again. Striking a match Tom bent over him. The man’s shirt was blood-stained, and he had, apparently, been wounded in the shoulder.
“He’s got grit, anyhow,” thought Tom. “He never said a word about his wound.”
Tom would have liked to doctor him there and then, but that was out of the question. Before the hastily struck match had died out there was a wild yell from outside as the mutineers rushed upon the place. But if they expected the stout doors to yield they were mistaken. The portals shook and swayed under the onslaught, but they held firm.
After battering furiously upon them with blood-curdling threats as to what would happen when they did get them open, the mutineers gave over their fruitless task. Apparently they retired to talk over some other plan of attack.
This looked ominous. Enraged as they were by their failure to carry the place at the first assault, it was not likely they would risk a second failure.
“I hope they don’t think of making a battering ram,” thought Tom, “they’d have those doors down in a jiffy if they did.”
For some minutes thereafter they sat in silence, listening intently for some sound which might inform them of what the mutineers intended to do next. In the meantime, the half-famished refugees munched on some rice and bread they had found spread out upon a rough table just as the Chinamen had left it, apparently.
All at once Tom heard a queer sound – a sort of scratching, scraping noise at one end of the barn. It sounded as if something were being piled against it.
What could the mutineers be doing? Tom racked his brain in vain for a solution of the queer sounds for some minutes. Then he hit upon an explanation. It was such a horrifying one that every drop of blood seemed to leave his heart at the bare idea.
It was brush that was being piled against the barn from the outside. Such a thing could have only one meaning. The mutineers meant to set the place on fire.
Rapidly he communicated his fears to the others. But before they had time to formulate any way of facing this new peril there was the quick, sharp scratch of a match outside.
At the same instant a red glow shone through the chinks of the boards. As the flames rose higher, licking the sides of the barn, the mutineers broke into brutal cries and taunts.
“You cowards!” shouted Tom desperately; “do you mean to burn us alive?”
“Yes; you can all shrivel up like a bunch of rats or else come out and be shot!”
This utterance from one of the wretches outside was greeted by a chorus of approving shouts and yells. Tom turned despairingly to the others. As he did so the barn began to fill with smoke and hot sparks showered them. It was evident that they must soon adopt one of the alternatives hurled at them by the brutal mutineers.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE ROUND-UP. – CONCLUSION
As the hot breath of the flames grew more ardent, Hunt began to stir uneasily upon his couch. Suddenly the wounded man came out of his swoon with a shout. He sat upright, staring wildly about him, his blood-stained, wan face illumined by the flames. But after his first instant of confusion he perceived at once what had happened.
“The dogs!” he exclaimed, reeling to his feet, “they’ve set the shed on fire. But we’ll outwit them yet.”
Tom was at his side in an instant.
“You know a way by which we can get out of here?” he exclaimed.
Hunt nodded.
“It’s a good thing I come to when I did,” he said, “or we all might have roasted in here.”
He shuffled rapidly to the other end of the shed, and kneeling above a big, flat stone which apparently served as a hearthstone for an open grate, he pressed some sort of mechanism. Instantly, before their astonished eyes, the stone swung open, revealing a flight of steps.
“A secret passage!” cried Tom, while the others uttered exclamations of astonishment.
“That’s right,” said Zeb, with a grin, “and the best of it is that there are only two persons on this island that knows of its existence. One’s me, and tother’s Bully Banjo. We made it in case a revenue should drop in here some day. Then, d’ye see, all we would have had to do would have been to herd the Chinks through it and bring ’em out in the brush half a mile away. But we never thought that we’d have to use it to get away from our own men.
“By the way,” he said, gazing about stupidly under the pain of his wound, “where is Sim Lake?”
“I’ll tell you about that later,” said Tom, “the thing to do now is to get away. You go first, you know the way.”
Led by the wounded man they plunged into the dark abyss, the professor’s boy whining a little at the idea of descending into the dark, damp place. Tom came last, and he closed down the big stone behind them.
The passage was fairly commodious, and walking single file and slightly stooped it was not long before they reached the end of it and emerged in a clearing in the brush.
Looking around they could see behind them the red glare of the fire and the figures of the mutineers about it.
“They little think what a march we’ve stolen on them,” chuckled Tom as he gazed.
“I suppose the cold-blooded rascals are waiting for us to appear, or to see the shed cave in on us,” added the professor.
“Well, they will be disappointed this trip,” said Mr. Chillingworth, “but surely I am not mistaken. By some strange chance that passage has led us almost to the other side of the headland where we left the boat.”
A few seconds of reconnoitering proved that this was correct. They were, however, on the hillside above the headland, so that they could see down on the blazing building. It was not a great way to the water, and they soon emerged at the spot where they had left the boat. They found everything as it had been when they came away.
“Well,” said Tom, “I guess we had better get on board.”
“What is your plan?” asked the professor.
“Rather a desperate one,” rejoined Tom; “but it is the only thing I can think of. We can’t put to sea without provisions or water, that’s certain. Now, on the schooner we can find both. She is unguarded, and the only risk we run is being seen from the shore.”
“By Jove! that’s a great idea,” cried Mr. Chillingworth. “As for being seen from land, I don’t think there is any serious danger of that. Those rascals are all too busy about their own devices.”
“I agree with you,” said the professor. “It might even be feasible to sail the schooner out.”
Tom shook his head at this daring suggestion.
“We don’t know the water hereabouts well enough,” he said, “and might only pile her upon shore. No; my idea was to stock up the boat and then pull out to sea. We ought to be out of sight of the island by daylight. Surely we can either sight a steamer or the mainland by the time our provisions get low.”
With the Kanakas at the oars, and the wounded man lying in the stern, the boat was cautiously pulled toward the schooner. Tom’s plans went through without a hitch. The men filled six water kegs and selected all the biscuit and provisions they wished, Zeb Hunt helping them with suggestions as to the best stores to take. During this time Tom found a chance to tell him of the fate of Simon Lake. Hunt sank down on a coil of rope, his head in his hands, as he heard. He was genuinely affected, for he had been fond of his leader in his rough way.
“Poor Bully Banjo,” he said at length, rising to his feet. “It’s the way he’d have wished to die. But it’s sickened me of this business. If ever I get clear of here I’m goin’ ter live honest and clean. I’ve tried the other way, and it don’t pay. For every bad deed a man does he has to pay in just so many days of unhappiness – that’s been my experience.”
“I believe you are right,” said Tom, “badness never pays. It’s only men and boys who live right who are happy.”
Presently a soft hail from the professor apprised them that the boat was ready.
One by one they slipped down the Jacob’s ladder, which was always hanging from the schooner’s side when she was at anchor. Before many minutes had passed the boat, with her anxious passengers, had cleared the point and was being headed around the further point of the island toward the east. They knew that by keeping on in that direction long enough they would strike land. As they had provisions and water enough for several days on board they felt no anxiety on that score, and their hearts were light as they rowed through the darkness.
Before long the professor and Mr. Chillingworth dropped off to sleep. Tom and Zeb Hunt sat alone in the stern talking in low voices, while the two Kanakas rowed steadily as automatons.
All at once Tom gave a shout.
“Look! Look! A steamer’s lights!”
“Whereaway, boy?” came Zeb Hunt’s fog-horn voice.
“Off to the south – look, she’s coming toward us!”
“You’re right, boy,” growled Hunt. If it had been light Tom would have seen that a curiously anxious look crept over his companion’s face. The coming of a steamer meant to Zeb Hunt that he would be placed in irons and taken back to the United States to work out the penalty for his crimes. But he said nothing, and presently the entire boatload was watching the oncoming steamer.
As she drew closer Tom made out that she was a small white vessel like a yacht. Her lights glowed brightly, both from her portholes and on deck. Evidently her company was up and about. Perhaps they had sighted the fire on the island, which was casting a blood-red glare on sea and sky.
“Ship ahoy!” hailed Tom suddenly as the vessel drew closer.
“Ahoy yourself!” came an amazed voice from the foredeck of the vessel, “who the dickens are you?”
“A crew of castaways!” rejoined Tom. “Throw us a line, will you?”
But now another voice struck in from the strange vessel’s deck:
“Tom! Oh, Tom!”
“Jack!” cried the amazed lad, recognizing his brother’s voice.
“Hooray, we’ve found them!” came another voice, that of Sam Hartley. “Hooray, my lads! Three cheers!”
They were given with a will while the small boat was rowed alongside the larger vessel. A gangway was lowered and a perfect bombardment of questions began to rain down. It was impossible to answer them all, but in the babel the rancher recognized the voice of his wife.
Well, there is no use trying to give the details of the scene that ensued when the castaways were all safely on the deck of the big steam yacht – for such she was – and the small boat was towing astern.
In the first place everybody talked at once, and Mrs. Chillingworth laughed and then cried, and then cried and laughed again. It was the most joyous reunion the high seas had ever witnessed. And through it all only one figure stood apart – that of Zeb Hunt. Presently he slipped away and made his way to the stern, where the boat with her provisions and water on board was towing along.
Taking a swift glance around Zeb, despite his wound, hoisted himself over the stern rail, and with the agility of a sailor, dropped into the small craft. Then he drew his knife and slashed the rope. Free of the yacht the boat dropped rapidly astern in the darkness. As the large vessel’s lights grew dimmer and died out, Hunt took up the oars.
“It ain’t so very far frum here to the Canady shore,” he muttered; “and once there I’ll be safe frum the law.”
He gave a shudder.
“I guess what that kid said was right,” he muttered, “it don’t pay ter be bad, an’ frum now on Zeb Hunt’s goin’ ter turn over a new leaf.”
In the meantime, in the lighted saloon of the yacht, the castaways had told their story, and then Mr. Dacre and Sam Hartley started in on theirs, part of which we know. On a lounge sat Jack and Tom, their arms entwined round each other’s necks, while Mr. Chillingworth and his wife sat happily side by side listening to the excited hum of talk. At some distance from the rest sat the bottle-nosed man; still he was a sharer in the general jubilation, too, for it was he who had piloted the yacht to the island.
But we are running ahead of Sam Hartley’s narrative a little. Our readers will recall what Mr. Chillingworth and Tom did not, of course, know, namely, the Secret Service man’s visit to the captain of the “Islander.” From the description of the schooner the bottle-nosed man recognized Bully Banjo’s craft, while Sam Hartley easily identified Tom from the description the captain was able to give of the boy who had sprung into the shrouds and hailed them.
This done, the next thing to do was to get hold of Mr. Dacre and telegraph to Washington about the results that had been attained. A dozen assistants had been rushed to Sam at once, and a week later the trim yacht “Idle Hour,” under the flag of the U. S. Treasury Department, had set sail from Puget Sound for a mysterious destination.
They had sighted the fire a few hours before they picked up the boat and it had caused them a lot of apprehension. It looked as if things had come to a crisis too soon. But as it happened, things could not have fallen out better for Sam Hartley’s purposes.
They anchored that night off the island, while all hands took a much-needed rest, and in the morning they landed. The followers of Bully Banjo, stupefied by drink and reckless rioting, were an easy prey for the Secret Service men, who soon had them transferred to the schooner. It had been decided to tow the vessel into the nearest port, using her as a prison ship in the meantime.
The Chinamen who had fled in terror to the brush when the rioting broke out, drifted back one by one. They were rounded up and the situation explained to them. As it was impossible to take them on the schooner they were left on the island with plenty of provisions from the yacht till a Canadian government schooner could call for them and deport them to China.
A few days after these arrangements had been completed, the “Idle Hour” sailed for Seattle with the schooner in tow. In the meantime, the mine had been visited once more – by way of the cove – and several samples of ore taken from it, which the professor decided to assay when they reached port. He thinks, however, that they will prove to be very rich, and already negotiations are under way to acquire the mine. When the Bungalow Boys and Professor Dingle do secure a right to work it the Kanakas will have a goodly share of the proceeds, and Mr. Chillingworth will not be forgotten.
Once more in Seattle Mr. Chillingworth was anxious for the party to return to his ranch, but the boys and Mr. Dacre both felt that they had seen about all they wanted of that part of the country. They therefore accepted the professor’s invitation to visit him later at his home on the Great Lakes. First, however, they gave their evidence against the captured mutineers, all of whom were given sentences of more or less severity, including the treacherous Fu.
We could tell many things about the pleasant times the boys spent in the great metropolis of the northwest, and of some of the wonders they saw in that part of the wonderful Pacific Slope. But it is now time to leave them for a brief space.
We shall meet them again in a new tale of their adventures, even more exciting and thrilling than its forerunners. This volume will be called “The Bungalow Boys on the Great Lakes.”
