Kitabı oku: «The Motor Rangers' Wireless Station», sayfa 9
CHAPTER XXIII.
A CALL FROM THE SHORE
It was early the next morning that the “wireless alarm” summoned Joe from his couch. Sleepily he made his way to the wireless hut and was soon in communication with Nat. Something had gone wrong with the Nomad’s wireless, it appeared, and Ding-dong’s new station was not in working order. This was the reason that Joe had not been called up the night before.
“Anything happened?” asked Nat.
“Lots,” tapped out Joe sententiously, “but you’ll have to wait to hear all about it till you get over here.”
Nat rejoined that he would be over about noon, and then Joe, in order to keep his mind occupied, set about a general cleaning up of the wireless instruments and a thorough “spring cleaning” of the shanty.
This work occupied him so busily that he had little time to notice the weather, and it was not till a sudden downpour of rain beat a tattoo on the roof of the wireless hut that he looked out. The sky was overcast and quite a brisk sea was running. The wind, too, was blowing pretty strong.
“Nasty weather,” thought Joe, “but that won’t worry the Nomad.”
Just then came another call from Nat. The Nomad was about half an hour away from the island and making good time despite the big seas.
“Will be home to dinner,” flashed Nat, and Joe flashed back “M-M-M,” which, in telegrapher’s language, signifies “laughter.”
The Nomad came into the cove on schedule time. Her white sides were wet and glistening with spray, and Nat and Nate Spencer in their oilskins looked every inch the young seamen when they came ashore in the dinghy, the same one, by-the-way, that had been recovered from Whale Creek.
Over the meal that followed their arrival, Joe told his story amid frequent interruptions. When he came to the narrative of young Dolliver and the mysterious man who was dwelling in the elder Dolliver’s ranch house, Nat agreed with him that in all probability they had, by an extraordinary coincidence, crossed Minory’s trail once more. Of course it might be a mistaken supposition, but Nat agreed with Joe that it was at least worth while investigating.
“I’ll take a stroll around after dinner and look at the weather,” said Nat. “If it isn’t too rough we can run over in the Nomad, but after all, possibly it would be just as effective to call up Ding-dong and let him communicate with the authorities.”
While Joe and Nate washed dishes and otherwise set things to rights, Nat started out on his tramp. It was still raining hard and blowing harder, with a nasty, choppy gray sea running.
“Pretty dusty,” commented Nate, looking out of the window on the dreary seascape.
But within the shanty all was snug and warm and cheerful, and when Nat returned in half an hour or so, he found a picture of comfort awaiting him. He divested himself of his wet oilskins and heavy boots before he spoke, and then he had some remarkable news to impart.
“There’s a small schooner of not more than thirty-five or forty tons anchored off the southerly end of the island,” he said.
Nate looked up instantly. It was clear that to his seaman’s mind the news was puzzling.
“What in the world will she be anchored there for?” he asked in an astonished voice. “If she’s hove to to ride out the storm, why doesn’t she come into the cove?”
“Just what puzzled me,” said Nat. “I watched her from behind some sand dunes, but not a sign of life could I see on her decks. She looks like a fishing schooner, and yet there are no dories piled up on her deck, which makes it look all the more odd.”
“It does that,” agreed Nate; “and anyhow, fishermen wouldn’t heave to for this bit of a blow.”
“I’ll tell you what, Nate,” said Nat presently, “suppose you go and take a look at her. Then come back and tell us how you size her up. You’re sailorman enough to know a craft by the cut of her jib, and maybe you will know what vessel this is.”
“All right,” assented Nate cheerfully. “I’ll slip into my oilers, get around there and be back in two shakes of a duck’s tail.”
“And, oh, Nate, don’t show yourself if you can help it. There’s plenty of cover behind the salt grass that grows on the dunes.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Nate assured him, “I’ll be as invisible as Mort Kennedy, who owes me ten dollars, is every payday.”
The sturdy fellow strode out into the storm, leaving the two boys alone.
“Are you troubled because that fishing schooner is lying to off the island?” asked Joe, as Nate slammed the door behind him.
“Frankly, I don’t quite like the look of it,” rejoined Nat; “if she is lying to because of the storm, the cove is the natural place for her to seek shelter and not the open sea.”
“That’s right, it has a funny look. Say, Nat, you don’t think that old Israel Harley can be on board, do you?”
“I don’t know, Joe; I don’t know what to think. He is a daring old villain, and he has no reason to love us. After what Hank told you yesterday, it behooves us to be on the watch constantly. Till that schooner goes away, we can’t leave the island.”
“Then I’d better send a flash to Ding-dong. I wonder if his station is working yet?”
“It ought to be, but in that case I should think he’d have given us a call.”
“Well, we can try it, anyhow. Come on down to the hut while I get busy with the instruments.”
The two boys tried for a long time to raise Ding-dong, sending out the call “D-B,” the prearranged signal, incessantly. But no answer came for a long time, and when it did it was hardly satisfactory. It was from the Santa Barbara operator, who had been listening in.
He cut into Joe’s waves with a sharp summons for “G. I.”
“Right here,” flashed back Joe eagerly, thinking that it might be Ding-dong at last. He was soon undeceived.
“This is station O at Santa Barbara talking,” came through the air to the Motor Rangers’ aerials. “You been trying to get young Bell’s station?”
“Yes, what’s the trouble?” inquired Joe.
“I don’t know exactly, but something was the matter with his wave lengths this morning. He was trying to get you, but couldn’t succeed. But he reached me all right and left a message for you fellows.”
“A message? What is it?” flashed back Joe.
“Here it is, – all ready?”
“Go ahead.”
“Dear Nat and Joe. Don’t worry. I have left Santa Barbara on a hot clew to you know who. I expect to recover everything before night. – Ding-dong.”
“We-el, what do you know about that?” gasped Nat, as Joe said “Good-bye” and cut off.
“That kid is off along the trail of trouble again as sure as you are a foot high,” exclaimed Joe. “Now what are we going to do? Where do you suppose he’s gone?”
“Looks a good deal as if he might have found out something about Minory, doesn’t it, and is anxious to keep all the credit of recovering the plans and the models to himself,” commented Nat.
“But in that case he may run into grave danger,” protested Joe excitedly. “That fellow wouldn’t stop at a trifle. What are we going to do about it, Nat?”
“There’s only one thing to be done now,” declared Nat.
“And that is?”
“Raise Santa Barbara, notify the authorities of the place where we suspect Minory may be found, and let them take after him. If Ding-dong has gone to the right place, they may arrive in time to get him out of trouble. If he’s gone somewhere else, why, I don’t see that there’s anything we can do but hope for the best.”
“That’s about all,” said Joe, as he turned to his instruments. At that moment the door was flung open and in came Nate with a burst of rain and wind at his back.
“That feller off the point is no fisherman,” he declared positively. “I think that it’s up to us to keep our weather eyes open to-night.”
“For what?” asked Joe, as he tapped out the Santa Barbara call.
“For trouble,” was the brief reply. “Got any shootin’ irons on the island?”
“Only an old revolver,” said Nat. “We’ve never needed them.”
“S’pose you’ve heard about the cowpuncher,” said Nate dryly. “He had never needed a revolver for forty years, but when he did need it, he needed it durn bad!”
“And you think that is our position?” asked Nat.
“I ain’t saying,” was the response; “but that schooner’s got other business off this island than riding out this ten-cent blow.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
WHAT JOE DID
Joe raised Santa Barbara and flashed out the news which he wanted transmitted to the local authorities. In a short time a word of thanks came back and positive assurance that they would set out without delay for the Dolliver ranch. Nat and Joe felt somewhat relieved at this. They knew only too well Ding-dong’s proclivities for getting into trouble, and if he was off after Minory by himself he had done a peculiarly fool-hardy thing.
“We’ve done all we can, anyhow,” said Nat, “and now the best thing to turn our minds to, is that schooner. I think there is not much doubt now that she is here to do harm to us.”
“All the indications point that way,” agreed Joe.
Twice during the afternoon Nate tramped down to the point to see if the schooner was still hove to, and both times he returned with the report that she was still in the same position, although the rain flaws were blowing over the ocean so thickly that at times it was hard to make her out.
Not until the evening meal had been despatched was anything said about laying out the work for the night. It was Nat who broached the subject.
“Joe,” he said, “it has just occurred to me that something may be known of this schooner in Santa Barbara. Suppose you connect with the operator there and see if you can get hold of old Captain Merryweather. He’s a sort of port official and should know if this schooner left there recently.”
“That’s a good idea,” indorsed Joe; “but in the meanwhile what will you be doing, for I see that you have some plan in your head?”
“Well, this is the way I’ve figured it out,” said Nat. “If the folks on that schooner mean to make a landing to-night, depend upon it they’ll come ashore in the cove.”
“Not a doubt of it,” struck in Nate.
“With the sea that is running, there’s not another place on the island where they could land. Within the cove, however, is quiet water and an easy sloping beach to run a boat ashore.”
“Then you think the schooner is still there, Nat?” asked Joe.
“Not a doubt of it in my mind. However, I mean to make sure in a very short time. Nate, I want you to go down to the point and see what you can make out of the suspicious craft. I’ll go down to the cove and turn the skiff over to make a shelter. You can report back to me there. Joe will remain by the wireless till he gets some reply to his message to Captain Merryweather. Then he’ll join us there, too, unless something new and unexpected has turned up by that time.”
Joe would much rather have accompanied Nat, but he said nothing and turned cheerfully to his duty. Like Ding-dong, he had grown accustomed to look upon Nat as a leader, and he obeyed unhesitatingly his orders. Nat and Nate trudged out into the storm and Joe seated himself at the apparatus to carry out his appointed task.
The operator was able to inform him that the authorities had already set out for the Dolliver ranch, and that he would keep him posted as to further developments. Joe then transmitted his message to Captain Merryweather. This done, he disconnected and sat down to await a reply.
Above him he could hear the wind screaming and screeching through the aerials and the steady downpour of the rain on the roof. It seemed hours, and was, in reality, about an hour and a half, before he got a reply to his message.
“Captain Merryweather has learned that a small schooner put into Santa Barbara last night,” was the dispatch. “She must have left some time before dawn. A dockman reports that he saw three strange men being rowed out to her in a dory a short time before she sailed. That is all he can find out.”
“Three men; that sounds like old Captain Israel and his two sons,” mused Joe, as he cut off. “The schooner may either belong to them or to some of their friends; it’s hard telling, but at any rate Captain Merryweather’s information sounds important. I’ll hurry down to Nat with it.”
He extinguished the light and slipped out into the storm. He half ran, half stumbled to the cove, filled with the importance of his mission. But somewhat to his alarm, there was no Nat and no Nate there. Joe began to feel seriously uneasy. It was not like Nat to fail to be at the place he had appointed for a meeting, more particularly as Joe knew his chum would be waiting for a reply to the Santa Barbara message with some anxiety.
However, there was nothing for it but to wait, and Joe, with what resignation he could muster, sat down in the dark under the shelter of the dory, while about him the storm raged and howled. Under the upturned boat he was snug and dry, and if he could have lighted a fire of driftwood he would have been quite warm. But he knew that was out of the question. To do such a thing would be to betray at once that they were on the watch.
Presently there came the sound of hurrying footsteps on the sand. Joe’s heart gave a quick leap, but the next instant he was reassured. It was Nat and Nate.
“Where have you been?” asked Joe anxiously. “You gave me a fine scare when I came down here and found you gone. I thought old Israel must have kidnapped you again.”
“I’ve been down to the point with Nate,” rejoined Nat. “The schooner has just got under way. From her tactics we both believe that she is heading round for the cove.”
“Wow! It looks like trouble then.”
“I’m afraid so. No vessel would lie to in an open roadstead all day and then run into a sheltered cove at night unless she wished the cover of darkness for her work, whatever it is.”
“Humph, I haven’t much doubt what that work is,” grunted Nate laconically.
“Heard from Santa Barbara?” inquired Nat of Joe, as he and Nate joined him under the boat.
“Yes; that’s what brought me down here. A small schooner answering the description of the one that lay at anchor all day off the island left the port last night after taking on three men.”
“Three men; that surely sounds like old Israel and his two precious sons.”
“That is what I thought. It clinches the matter in my mind.”
“Coupled with the actions of the schooner, I’ve reached the same conclusion,” said Nat.
“How long will it take the schooner to get around here, do you think?” asked Joe presently.
“Oh, quite a while yet,” responded Nate. “She’s got to beat up against the wind and take several tacks to make it.”
“To my mind that fact again puts this up to Harley,” said Nat. “He knows this island like a book, Nate says, and could get into the cove at any hour of the day or night. A stranger would never take a chance on running in in the dark.”
“Particularly on a night like this,” said Joe, as a long, shuddering blast of wind swept over the upturned boat.
Nat crept out from the shelter and made his way toward the cove. He was back in a short time with information that thrilled them all.
“The schooner is coming into the cove,” he announced in a tense voice.
“Now the show is a-goin’ to begin to commence,” muttered Nate under his breath. “Better get that gun of yours, Nat. Joe and I will do the best we can with our fists and oars in case there’s a scrimmage.”
CHAPTER XXV.
LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
The wind was dropping, and against the scurrying clouds, behind which shone a pale and sickly moon, they could see outlined a pyramid of canvas – the schooner!
“Don’t talk more than you have to,” said Nat, who had secured his firearm and brought oars for Joe and Nate. “If they come ashore, just follow them without exposing yourselves to view. There’s a chance that they may, after all, be honest fishermen, and we don’t want to attack the wrong men.”
“That chance is a pretty long one, I’m after thinking,” said Nate under his breath.
“We’ll see how they come to anchor,” he said presently. “If they let go their mudhook with a rush and a rattle, it may be that they are all right. But if they sneak in and let it go easy so as not to alarm anybody, why, then, it’ll look as if we’ve had ’em sized up right.”
The watchers crawled out and made their way through the spiky grass along one arm of the cove. They gained a point where it was possible even in the darkness to see the tall spars of the schooner and the black bulk of her canvas as, noiselessly as a phantom craft, she glided into the cove. Suddenly her “way” was checked and she came to a stop with all her canvas still standing.
“They’ve let go the anchor with all the sails set,” murmured Nate, “and they dropped that mudhook like a cat stalking mice. I reckon they’re honest fishermen – not. That’s a regular smuggler’s trick, that is, all right.”
“Why don’t they lower the sails?” was Joe’s not unnatural question.
“’Cos they don’t want the rattling of the blocks and the cordage to be heard,” rejoined Nate. “Seein’ no lights up above, I suppose they’ve figured that we are all asleep and dreaming. But we ain’t, not by a jugful,” he chuckled.
Then came the sound of oars as they creaked in the rowlocks of a small boat. Joe’s heart beat wildly with excitement, and even Nat felt a thrill, as there no longer remained any doubt that hostile men were about to land on the island. When Hank had told Joe the day before of old Israel’s plans of vengeance, he had not taken them very seriously. Now, however, they faced the fact, and faced it to all intents and purposes unarmed.
“Lie down,” ordered Nat, as the sound of the oarsmen became more distinct; “we don’t want them to see us yet.”
They all threw themselves flat amidst the spiky dune-grass and waited for what was to come. Presently they saw a small boat grounded on the beach, and five men leaped out. They grouped themselves about one figure, which Nat instinctively felt must be that of old Israel himself.
At any rate, he appeared to be giving orders to the others. The group split up. Two of the men started in the direction of the shanty, while three, including the one suspected to be old Israel, set out to the southward.
“Now what in the name of time does that mean?” demanded Nate in an astonished voice.
“It means that our job is just twice as hard,” rejoined Nat. “I can’t make out myself exactly the object of it, but I reckon we shan’t be long in finding out.”
“We’d better follow them,” suggested Nate.
“Yes, we had better. Nate, you take the two men that went toward the hut. Joe and I will trail that group of three.”
“All right, Nat; and say, if you’re in trouble, just fire a shot from that shootin’ iron of yours and I’ll come on the jump.”
“All right, Nate, I won’t forget. We might need you badly in case of a mix-up.”
“You can sure count on me,” the sturdy waterman assured them.
Then they parted, Nate striking off toward the shanty, whither two of the strangers had preceded him, and Nat and Joe taking the trail after the trio, one of which they firmly believed was none other than old Israel himself.
Through the darkness they made the best speed they could after the old smuggler and his two sons, for they now knew by the sound of the voices that had been flung back to them on the wind that their surmise had been correct. It was old Harley himself and his rascally offspring who had landed on Goat Island under the cover of night.
At first their motive in so doing had been plain enough to Nat, or at least he had thought it was. Now, however, he was by no means so certain that the destruction or injury of the wireless was the sole object of their call. This striking off through the dark to the southerly point of the island was inexplicable to the boy, and as they made their way along, sometimes stumbling over rocks and clumps of beach-plum bushes, he confided his bewilderment to Joe.
“I wonder what all this means?” he said. “There’s nothing to the south, so far as I know, but some low cliffs and waste land.”
“I’ve no more idea than you have,” rejoined Joe, equally puzzled. “One thing is sure and certain, though, they are not out for a pleasant stroll.”
“No, they’ve got some definite object in view, and I’m inclined to believe that we don’t figure in it as prominently as we thought we did,” was Nat’s rejoinder.
They paced on in silence, always keeping the three figures in front of them in view, but creeping along as close to the ground as they could and taking advantage of every bit of cover that offered.
“Say, Nat,” exclaimed Joe after a while, “it’s my belief that they are making for those old ruins!”
“You mean the remains of that mission that the early missionaries from Spain built here?” asked Nat, referring to a jumbled pile of adobe ruins which were supposed to mark the site of one of the early religious houses of California.
“That’s what. See, they’re striking off to the right.”
“That is the direction, sure enough, but what would they want there?”
“We can only find out by following them. Hullo, what are they doing now?”
The group ahead had halted not far from the pile of debris and heaped-up stone and wood that marked the remains of the monks’ establishment.
One of them stooped low while the others shielded him from the wind. Then came a sputter of flame as a match was struck, and then the steady glow of a lamp or lantern. With this means of illumination kindled, the party that the boys were breathlessly trailing proceeded once more.
Suddenly Nat stopped short and seized Joe’s arm.
“The lamp, Joe, it’s gone!” he cried, pointing to the midst of the ruins where the lamp had been last seen.
Sure enough, the lantern had suddenly vanished, leaving the boys deeply mystified as to the cause of its sudden disappearance.
“They must have some hiding place among the ruins,” exclaimed Nat excitedly, “That is why old Israel was so mad about our being on the island! What shall we do?”
“Follow them,” said Joe determinedly. “We’ve started on this thing, let’s see it through.”
They struck out toward the ruins at a half run. In their excitement, prudence was temporarily thrown to the winds. Soon they were stumbling and barking their shins amidst the ruinous pile. In the dark it was almost impossible to see their way. All at once Nat, who was in the lead, gave a sharp exclamation:
“Get back, Joe! Back, as quick as your legs will let you!”
