THE RED STAIN.
For a moment Lynch seemed to leer triumphantly at Brad, who realized
only too well his own desperate plight. The Texan knew the probable
result of losing his hold and being carried beneath the swiftly moving
launch. In a moment almost the boat would pass over him and the whirling
screw would cut and mangle him with its churning blades. It was sure
death to let go.
And still he knew his hold would be broken unless he received aid within
a very few seconds. He could feel his fingers slipping on the smooth,
moist rail of the launch—slipping, slipping, slipping. Above him bent
the face of a fellow who hated him with an intensity that was really
deadly. Lynch was a vindictive, revengeful fellow, who would stop at
nothing in order to injure a person who had aroused his enmity. In those
moments of distress and anxiety, Buckhart was struck by the thought that
this malicious young ruffian had deliberately brought about the running
down of the _Sallie_. Having seen Dick and Brad in the rowboat, Mike had
deliberately cut them down.
But where was Dick? As this question flashed through the Texan’s brain
he was seized with a shuddering, sickening sensation of horror.
Merriwell had vanished as the launch smashed into the rowboat, which was
cut in two like a frail eggshell. If overwhelmed and carried beneath the
launch, of course Dick had been struck by the propeller.
That meant death. It meant that the boy’s mangled body might be found
drifting at the will of the harbor tides. It meant that he might be left
lifeless, gruesome, and ghastly, upon the muddy flats when the tide
receded. Perchance he might be carried out into the great Sound, the
blue waters of which were traversed by hundreds of sailing vessels, huge
white passenger steamers, and the magnificent pleasure yachts of
money-squandering millionaires. It was murder, and this creature Lynch
had committed the crime!
With a snarl, a showing of his strong teeth, a fire gleam of his eyes,
the Texan strained and lifted himself in the effort to swing over the
rail and reach the wretch who hovered above him.
Little chance he had of doing that through his own efforts. Apparently
Mike understood what Buckhart was trying to do, for in a moment he
seized the Texan’s hands and tore them from the slippery rail.
“You cur!” groaned the helpless boy.
But even as he expected to be dropped into the hissing water Mike
shouted for assistance, and a second person joined him, bending over the
rail and getting a grip on Brad’s coat between the shoulder blades of
the Texan.
“Hoist away!” cried Lynch.
An instant later the bewildered boy was dragged over the rail and found
himself floundering in the bottom of the launch.
There were four persons in the boat. The one at the wheel was a rather
rough-looking, bearded man. The others were Mike Lynch, Duncan Ditson,
and Harold Du Boise.
Ditson had assisted Lynch in lifting Buckhart to safety. Du Boise,
sitting in the stern, stared at the rescued youth with an air of dopey
comprehension. Lynch swore, and Ditson expressed his feelings by crying:
“Well, what do you think of that? What the dickens were you trying to
celebrate, Buckhart?”
“Just pulled right in front of me,” said the man at the wheel. “Couldn’t
help hitting his boat. She’s gone, and he can consider himself mighty
lucky that he didn’t go under with her.”
The Texan sat up.
“You lunatic at the wheel!” he roared. “You deliberately ran us down! My
pard—where is he? You’ve killed him! You’ve murdered him!”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Lynch. “Was there any one with you in the boat
we struck?”
“You know there was.”
“We didn’t see you at all,” asserted Ditson. “We were sitting aft when
we heard the crash and felt a slight shock. Even then I didn’t know what
had happened. Berger said we’d hit a rowboat.”
“I sprang forward and looked over,” said Lynch. “Saw you clinging to the
rail. This is mighty bad business.”
“Turn back—turn back!” cried Buckhart. “Dick Merriwell was carried down
when you smashed my boat.”
“Turn back at once, Berger,” commanded Ditson. “By Jove! this is bad.
There are the pieces of the boat, but I can’t see a sign of Merriwell.”
The débris of the wrecked boat lay floating on the orange-tinted waves,
but Duncan spoke truly when he said there was no sign of Dick. Buckhart
rose to his knees and stared heart sick along the wake of the launch.
“Gone!” he said. “He could swim like a fish, and we’d see something of
him if he had not been injured.”
The man at the wheel brought the launch round with a sharp, sweeping
curve.
“Slower, Berger,” commanded Duncan. “Here, let me have that wheel. You
look after your steam. Keep your eyes open, Mike. Can you see anything
of Merriwell?”
In the stern Du Boise stirred slightly and drawled:
“Didn’t you say you were going to hit the boat before we struck it,
Mike? I thought you said something about a rowboat.”
“You’re dreaming!” snapped Lynch. “You didn’t hear us say anything of
the sort. Did he, Berger? We didn’t see the boat, did we?”
“Not until it was too late to avoid it,” answered the bearded man, who
was now monkeying with the steam valves. “I’m not running down rowboats
for pleasure, although it’s a wonder the fools who row around the harbor
don’t get run down oftener than they do.”
Buckhart was saying not a word now. With his strong hands gripping the
rail, he leaned forward, gazing at the placid water where the golden
tint was gradually changing to a dull reddish color like stagnant blood.
They slipped past a huge black hulk that lay anchored near the spot
where the catastrophe had occurred. Under the eastern rail of this
vessel the shadows were almost inky black.
“We’ve passed the spot, Lynch,” muttered Ditson. “I’m afraid Merriwell’s
gone down for good.”
“I’m afraid he has,” whispered Mike huskily.
“Turn back,” came hoarsely from Buckhart’s lips. “We’ll cruise around
this locality as long as there’s a ghost of a hope left.”
Duncan brought the boat round, and they retraced their course. This was
repeated over and over until the afterglow of sunset had faded in the
west and darkness shrouded the entire bosom of the harbor. Not until
Buckhart huskily confessed that he no longer hoped did Lynch or Ditson
propose abandoning the search. They had been questioned by other
persons, and a number of boats were moving about in that vicinity, while
the report of a collision and a drowning had been carried to the shore.
The Texan seemed completely overcome by the horrible thing that had
happened. Not a word did he speak after the search was abandoned until
the launch swung alongside a float where they were to disembark.
“You’ve tried all sorts of tricks to down my pard and myself,” he
observed, fixing his gaze on Lynch and Ditson. “At last you’ve succeeded
in murdering one of the whitest lads who ever lived. I said murder, and
that is the word I meant to use. Don’t tell me you didn’t see our boat.
Don’t tell me you didn’t run us down intentionally. And don’t you think
for an instant that you’re going to escape paying the penalty for the
crime. You can’t lie out of it. There are four of you in the secret, and
some one of you will make a false step and trip you all up. This thing
shall be investigated, I give you my word. If the body is found, you’ll
have a chance to face the coroner’s jury. If it isn’t found, you’ll have
a chance to face a jury just the same.”
“Why, you’re daffy, Buckhart!” exclaimed Ditson. “You must be bughouse
to think we’d deliberately do anything like that.”
“I know you wouldn’t stop at anything. Perhaps you didn’t mean to drown
either one of us when you ran us down. Perhaps you thought it would be a
fine joke to smash our boat and give us a ducking. Well, you see what’s
come of your fine joke. Dick Merriwell is at the bottom of the harbor,
and you, you miserable spawn of the earth—you have his blood on your
hands! You can’t wash it off. The stain will cling there even as it
clung to the hands of Lady Macbeth. And retribution is as sure for you
as it was for her.”