THE ENEMY IS CORNERED
Mr. McKay, left to himself, prepared for his all-night watch. His
hiding-place consisted of a crevice which commanded a view of the route
his companions had taken. Standing upright he could also see over the
rock in which he was concealed, though prudence urged him not to show
his head above the gaunt stone walls of his lair.
He rested himself on a convenient ledge, and waited, with his rifle
across his knee. Then, as the sun set and intense darkness brooded
over the land, he braced himself for his task. Instinct told him that
the fugitive would skulk in the rocks till the moon rose; then in all
probability he would prowl for food.
More than once Mr. McKay fancied he heard the crunching of a boot upon
the pumice stone. Twice he grasped his rifle, as a dark shadow seemed
to loom up against the darkness.
"Imagination," he remarked to himself. "What is the matter with my
nerves?" But a finger pressed upon his wrist showed him that his pulse
was beating regularly.
Then came a sound that could not possibly be mistaken--a smothered
sneeze.
Blight was within a few yards of Mr. McKay, but in which direction the
latter was unable to decide.
Then came the scuffling of feet. The fugitive was scuffling blindly
across the rock. At any instant he might pitch into the crevice right
into the arms of his pursuer.
Nearer and nearer he came, cursing under his breath as his feet came in
contact with the ruts and sharp corners of the rocks. Mr. McKay could
even hear the laboured breathing of his quarry.
Realising the danger of making his way over the pitfalls, Blight sat
down, muttering angrily at being baulked, at the same time abusing the
moon for its tardy appearance.
Mr. McKay waited, rifle in hand, feeling almost pleased. He pictured
the fugitive's consternation when the moonlight revealed his tracker
covering him at ten paces. It was the old animal instinct, the joy of
the chase, whether hunter and hunted be human beings or mere beasts of
the field.
Above the tops of the distant palm-trees a pale yellow light dawned in
the eastern sky. Stronger and stronger it grew, till the golden disc
of the queen of night appeared, the brilliant light throwing the rocks
into strong relief.
The escaped prisoner, now that his path seemed clear, prepared to make
his journey towards the trees once more, and obviously fearing no
danger, he scrambled over a flat-topped boulder. Barely had he stood
erect when Mr. McKay, rifle to shoulder, shouted:
"The game's up once more. Throw up your hands!"
So great was Blight's surprise that he stood stock still, with mouth
agape, staring at the silhouetted form of his enemy; then, recovering
himself, rushed wildly towards Mr. McKay, shrieking:
"You'll never take me alive, bad luck to you!"
It was the act of a madman. Ere he could cover the intervening apace,
Mr. McKay could have shot him dead on the spot. But the Australian was
loath to be the rascal's executioner; the business seemed to him to be
mere butchery.
Turning down the muzzle of his rifle, the solitary tracker aimed the
weapon at his enemy's feet. This action had a most restraining effect
upon the rogue. He would welcome a swift and almost painless death,
but to be deliberately crippled, secured at leisure, and dragged back
to his prison, did not appeal to him. He turned swiftly and, dodging
from side to side as he ran, he sped rapidly across the rocks.
Mr. McKay fired, but the shot went wide. He could have perforated the
man's body between the shoulders with the greatest ease, but a pot-shot
in the moonlight at a pair of swiftly-moving legs afforded plenty of
opportunities of missing.
The fugitive uttered a yell of defiance, and sped onwards. Another
fifty yards and he would be lost to sight in the midst of a labyrinth
of fantastically-shaped rocks.
Mr. McKay did not attempt to fire a second shot. The success of his
long vigil depended upon keeping the chase in view. Laying his rifle
on the ground and making sure that the flap of his pistol-holster was
loose, he vaulted upon the rock and set off in pursuit.
Although "hard as nails" and sound of wind, Mr. McKay forgot for the
time being that the result of his accident on board the _San Martin_
had left him somewhat weak in his lower limbs.
With elbows pressed close to his sides he ran, but ere forty yards were
covered he found himself lurching dangerously. Setting his jaw firmly,
he persevered, keeping his eyes fixed upon the form of the fugitive,
yet he was forced to confess that he was losing ground.
Blight was now within twenty yards of the sheltering rocks. Dare the
pursuer use his revolver and stop this headlong flight? The odds were
too great, for with the exertion of running his aim would be erratic.
No, he must continue to run and trust to chance that his quarry might
be cornered somewhere.
Suddenly Blight stumbled, kicking up a cloud of pumice dust that looked
silvery in the moonlight. Two yards he traversed ere he fell headlong
in the soft lava, and before he could stagger to his feet his pursuer
was almost within arm's length.
"Give in, you idiot," shouted Mr. McKay, drawing his revolver.
For answer Blight laughed, and, bending low as he ran, he doubled away
to the right, where the ground sloped downwards towards a line of
irregularly-shaped cliffs. He was crippled. He had twisted his ankle,
and everything was in Mr. McKay's favour.
Unwilling to close with the desperate fugitive, Mr. McKay prepared to
maim him with a bullet through his leg; but even as he levelled the
weapon, Blight disappeared from sight with a shriek of terror.
Instinctively Mr. McKay threw himself flat on his back, digging his
heels into the soft yielding dust; but surely and gradually he found
himself slipping towards the mouth of a gaping abyss. The very ground
on which he was sprawling was moving. He could hear the rustle of the
sand and small stones as they dropped over the ledge into the
apparently fathomless chasm.
Desperately Mr. McKay plunged his arms into the sliding sand; but his
efforts were unavailing. He was being launched towards the yawning
gulf, the horrors of which seemed worse in the moonlight.
Just as he was on the point of slipping over the edge--his heels were
already over the abyss--his hand, buried arm's length in the pumice,
came in contact with a piece of hard rock.
Would it hold? he wondered.
Slowly his outstretched arm began to change from a vertical to an
almost horizontal position as his body still continued its downward
motion. The rock afforded but a slender hold: either the fabric might
become loosened, or his hand might be unable to keep up the strain, and
then----?
Mr. McKay ceased to struggle. He could feel the sand slipping from
under him, streaming past like a solid cataract. So long as he kept
quiet he was comparatively safe, but directly he commenced to find a
foothold, his peril increased threefold. Yet he knew that every moment
his grip upon the small pinnacle that stood between him and instant
death was gradually becoming weaker.
In those awful moments of peril he could hear the laboured breathing of
his enemy, coming apparently from a great depth beneath his feet.
Blight, then, was still alive, but his gasping breaths sounded ominous.
At length, regaining his self-possession, Mr. McKay put forth a final
effort in an endeavour to draw his feet clear of the awful chasm.
Inch by inch he worked himself upwards, against the increasing torrent
of sand, when suddenly the rocky ledge was wrenched from its base, and
the next instant he was swept into the gulf.
Amidst a shower of dust and stones he felt himself hurtling through the
pitch dark air, then everything became a blank.
* * * * *
The first rays of the rising sun filtering through the narrow neck of
the inverted funnel-shaped chasm strove to disperse the darkness.
Stretched upon the thick carpet of powdered pumice were two motionless
figures, partially covered with the flow of dust that trickled from the
open air like the sand of a gigantic hour-glass.
The head and shoulders of one of the victims were pillowed upon the
body of the other, who lay, with arms outstretched, gazing upwards with
sightless eyes at the narrow slit of sky that was visible between the
lips of the abyss.
Blight had gone to his last account.
Slowly opening his eyes, Mr. McKay blinked stupidly at nothingness for
a few seconds, then stretched out his arms. It was the action of a man
awakening from slumber. He felt no pain; he had no idea of where he
was, or of what had occurred.
With the intention of going to sleep again he turned his head on its
ghastly pillow, but on drawing up his arms to compose himself, his head
came in contact with the cold face of his companion in misfortune.
The touch acted like an electric shock. In an instant the details of
the tragedy flashed across his mind. He stumbled to his feet, but
overcome by weakness, he sank once more upon the dust-covered floor.
How long had he been in this hideous deathtrap? he wondered. Was it a
night, or many days and nights? Had his comrades searched in vain and
had they abandoned their quest and left him to his fate?
For quite half-an-hour Mr. McKay sat and thought, striving to collect
his mental and physical powers. He went over the events leading up to
the final tragedy--the ambush, the pursuit, Blight's disappearance, and
his own terrible ordeal on the sliding sand. Then he reflected that
his trail would be fairly well-defined, and that help must be
forthcoming. His watch was still going, so that he knew that it was
only the morning following his night's vigil.
Overhead a dazzling ray of sunlight shone obliquely through the
opening, illuminating the shaft-like sides of his prison, but so dead
black was the colour of the rock that hardly any light was reflected to
the bottom of the pit. He could, in fact, just see his own hands and
the grey features of his ill-fated companion.
Mr. McKay groped about the floor. At first his fingers encountered
nothing but dust. He plunged his arm up to the elbow in the soft
yielding deposit; but nothing solid met his touch.
Fearing that he might be lying on a ledge overhanging a pit of
fathomless depth, Mr. McKay extended his field of exploration, making
wide sweeps with his arms. Presently his fingers encountered a metal
object. It was his revolver.
"At least," he thought, "I can signal for aid."
But on second thoughts he hesitated. Then he remembered his box of
matches. Fumbling in his pocket he found the little case, and eagerly,
like a miser counting his gold, he passed the little sticks one by one
through his fingers. Ten--ten priceless matches.
He struck one. For the moment his eyes were dazzled by the yellow
fire, but ere it burnt out he made sure of two things. He was not
lying on the edge of another precipice; that was reassuring. His
second discovery was disconcerting. His trusty revolver was choked
with fine dust, and had he discharged it he would have assuredly been
injured by the bursting of the barrel.
The match flickered out, and to the imprisoned man the darkness seemed
denser than ever. It pressed upon him like a real substance, till he
felt tempted to shout in his distress.
By degrees he grew calmer, and staggering to his feet he moved his
limbs with extreme caution. To his satisfaction they were still sound,
though he was beginning to feel stiff and bruised from head to foot.
The light of a second match showed that Blight was indeed beyond all
human aid, so, placing his handkerchief over the face of the corpse,
Mr. McKay retired a few steps till a third match became necessary.
He found himself within a few feet of one of the walls of his prison.
The stone, divided by volcanic agency, was almost vertical at the
point, though at others it receded so that the base of the abyss was
several yards beyond the perpendicular height of the shaft. Close to
him was a deep crack in the wall, known by mountaineers as a "chimney."
It might be possible to scale the rock, he thought, but the knowledge
that the edge of the shaft was "rotten" compelled Mr. McKay to abandon
that attempt. He must wait; yet, unwilling to remain idle, he resolved
to sacrifice four more of his precious matches in exploring the
immediate vicinity of the chasm.
Keeping close to the wall, Mr. McKay proceeded with the utmost caution,
till he reached a yawning cavern that descended abruptly.
For a moment he hesitated, fearing the presence of carbonic acid gas,
but on holding the lighted match close to the ground the flame burnt
clear and bright.
To his surprise Mr. McKay found his hand resting on the butt of a
musket. The weapon was lying on the hard, rocky floor of the cave, for
here no dust had penetrated. Another match revealed the fact that the
firearm was of an ancient pattern, the combined flint and matchlock
being of not later date than the end of the seventeenth century.
"By George! This is a find!" exclaimed Mr. McKay.
For the time being he forgot his surroundings, interest being centred
in this relic of bygone days.
Then, unwilling to risk using his remaining stock of matches, yet
mentally resolving to explore this part of the cavern at the earliest
favourable opportunity, he retraced his steps to that part of the chasm
that lay beneath the narrow shaft. Here he sat down and waited, hoping
for the speedy arrival of Andy and Ellerton.