Little overhauled his instructions from Houten early next morning and by
breakfast time was ready to get down to business with Barry. The day
dawned muggy and windless; one of the native seamen in a commandeered
canoe paddled up from his observation point near the river mouth to
report and get his relief. There was no sign of Leyden's schooner, nor
did the day promise a wind that could possibly bring her in.
The mate left the table early and relieved Vandersee, who went into his
cabin before sitting down, leaving Barry and Little alone for a moment.
"What d 'ye think of Mrs. Goring, and--oh, everything, old scout,"
Little began. "You saw her face last night. Is she stuck on you, or me,
think? Or why the interchange of cryptic eyes between her and little
Miss Mission?"
"Drop the josh, Little," Barry retorted, none too well pleased at the
subject. "How in blazes can she be stuck on either of us, when we only
saw her once before yesterday? As for cryptic glances, I'm not very good
at puzzles."
"Oh, all right, sobersides. But have you figured out how the lady got
here, and why?"
"No. I don't propose to clutter my head with stuff that does not
concern my business here, Little. We're here to check up on Gordon and
call Leyden's hand when he arrives. That's plenty for two ordinary men.
The why and wherefore of mysterious women has nothing to do with me."
"We-ell," Little drawled, lazily lighting a cheroot, "anything you say
suits me, but I'll tell you my idea right now: That Goring woman came
here in this blessed brigantine, Barry!"
Barry stared at his companion in open amazement. Amazement slowly
changed to mild scorn, and a sarcastic opinion of such an idea was on
his lips when Vandersee emerged from his berth, dressed to go ashore,
and halted the expression of it.
"The first part of my contract is completed, Captain Barry," the second
mate said respectfully. He smiled at Little and laid an open letter
before the skipper. "This will explain, sir."
Barry stared at the man for a moment, then frowningly perused the note.
It was in the heavy hand of Cornelius Houten, written on the trader's
business stationery. In brief, it was authority for Vandersee to leave
the ship, if he so desired, immediately he had docked her at the post,
and to rejoin her one day before she was ready to leave. Houten
emphasized the point that Vandersee enjoyed his utter confidence, and
anything he wanted that the ship afforded was to be at his service.
Houten desired Barry to understand that his absolute command of the
_Barang_ was in no way interfered with: simply that Vandersee was
engaged on a definite and separate mission for the house, but had agreed
to act on the passage as second mate and to pilot the ship up the river.
"You know the contents?" Barry queried, peering up at the big man beside
him.
"Perfectly, sir."
"Well? Anything you want?"
"Not much, Captain. Simply permission to go at once and to take a box of
ammunition specially placed on board for my Luger automatic pistol. I
shall send a boy each morning with any news that should interest you and
to receive any information you care to give me regarding the future
sailing of the ship."
"All right, Vandersee. You may go. Going on a still hunt after the gold
dust I'm supposed to unearth, hey?"
"No, sir. I'm not meddling with your affairs in the least. My business
is entirely apart from yours, though our paths may cross to our mutual
advantage. And I wish to say, Captain Barry and Mr. Little, that I am
anxious for your success; far more so than you can possibly imagine. We
have much in common, which I cannot speak of now. But if you need me in
any tussle that may develop, I shall be at hand. I shall not be more
than an hour's run distant, and if you want me at a time when my boy is
not available just say to the dwarf at the stockade gate: 'The Dog
Bites!' and I shall be with you quickly. But I ask you not to turn in
that message until you feel you cannot handle things without me."
Vandersee departed, leaving behind him an impression of subtle power and
iron determination. Little looked thoughtful for a space. He fumbled
with his inside coat pocket, withdrew his hand, hesitated, then went
back to the pocket again, while Barry stared moodily up through the
skylight, listening to the sound of the second mate's retreating
footsteps.
"Mystery, and more of it!" the skipper muttered at last. He regarded
Little whimsically and surmised aloud: "Next thing, I suppose you'll
flash a document that deposes me and puts the cook in charge."
"Hardly that, Barry, but I've got a paper," replied Little, coloring
deeply. He produced the cause of his embarrassment from the inside
pocket. "I wasn't to play this until Gordon was present," he said. "But
since Houten apparently keeps hold of all the strings, even at this
distance, I'd better lay all my cards on the table," and he handed the
letter to Barry.
The skipper glanced through the note perfunctorily, then some part of it
riveted his notice, and he read the rest avidly. Like Vandersee's
letter, it was brief and comprehensive. It authorized Little to
supersede Gordon at the trading station, if in his opinion the situation
seemed to warrant such a course. And, as in the Hollander's orders,
Little's letter concluded with the definite statement that Barry was
not in any degree less captain of the ship and commander-in-chief of the
expedition. In the last recourse, every man who had sailed in the ship
from Surabaya was to hold himself at the skipper's orders.
The two friends regarded each other intently when the letter was laid
down, Little almost shamefacedly, the skipper as if on the border line
of a disgusted withdrawal from the involved business. Presently Little
ventured:
"Sorry Houten thought it necessary to make all this mystery, Barry; and
if you say so, I'll relinquish any powers this letter gives me to you.
We should have no secrets between us; I've simply carried out my
employer's orders. It isn't my wish."
"Don't fuss yourself," retorted Barry grimly. "I don't blame you. Just
don't fancy sailing under sealed orders, that's all. I've got my own
instructions, and I'll carry 'em out, never fear. But I hate to feel
that just when things get tight, somebody may flash another bit of paper
on me and tell me I mustn't shoot, because the green man with the pink
eyes is in charge of that department, or something."
"I can assure you there are no other letters of authority, Barry,"
stated Little definitely.
"All right, then. Since I'm still in command of this fine ship, I'll
stop the order for Gordon's lunch. Come on. We'll go to him and thrash
the thing out at once," announced Barry, rising.
At the station they found a pitiful wreck. Gordon was cold sober, and
it was as if all his vital fluid had evaporated. His face was ghastly,
his nerves utterly out of control, and his tongue stumbled as though it
were hung by the middle with both ends at odds. Yet for all his shocking
physical condition, something in the wastrel Englishman appealed to
Barry as no part of the man had done the previous evening. Something
hinted at a long deeply buried spirit struggling for release, and
Gordon's speech, if stumbling, at least strove to be serious.
"Glad you came, skipper," he greeted them, with a contorted smile that
puckered his face and made plainer the hideous inroads of a life's
dissipation. "Shan't be able to keep that luncheon engagement."
The trembling fingers pushed a heap of papers and books over to Barry
and immediately resumed the task of filling a battered portmanteau with
crumpled clothes.
"We came to talk business, Gordon. For God's sake, take a drink and
steady yourself, man!" Barry jerked out, a great pity for the hopeless
wreck coming over him. Gordon affected the sailor like a fine ship
broken and disintegrating on a devilish reef.
"Thanks, old chap. I'm all right. Business? I'm as capable now as I'll
ever be. Come to chuck me out, haven't you? Go ahead. There are the
records, stock lists, and the rest of the mess. Help yourself."
An inquiring glance and a nodded assent passed between Barry and
Little, and the latter gathered up the records, pushing Houten's letter
over to Gordon as his authority.
"Don't know how you heard of it, Gordon, but that will verify your
supposition. You're not fired, y' know, unless you want to be--at least,
not yet. Simply superseded during the period of the stay of a certain
Mr. Leyden."
The Englishman dropped the packed bag with a bang and gripped the table
to steady himself.
"Go on, Mr. Little, don't mind me," he muttered, groping for the bag
again. "I'm a little off color to-day. Ought not to chuck up the booze
so suddenly, I suppose. But I'll survive it. Go on."
"Only one thing I want explained," said Little slowly. "The rest can be
gathered from your books, I understand." The ex-salesman looked straight
into Gordon's furtive eyes and uttered his words very distinctly. "How
much of Houten's gold dust have you sent to Leyden? And where is the
accumulated result of the past six months of washing?"
Gordon's mouth twitched at the corners, imparting to his face the
expression of a partially decayed skull. The breath whistled from his
tightly drawn lips, while he fought with his nerveless legs for support.
At last he mastered himself and stood upright, for the moment seeming to
expand and straighten into something approximating a clean, complete
man.
"What Leyden has had can't be brought back," he said. "But you'll find
in that leather book--last entry, made this morning--the sum due to me
from Houten up to the end of this month. You'll find it entered in the
credit side of the trade account. If I'm permitted to remain here after
you've cleaned up, a similar sum will go down in the same column until
what Leyden had is paid for. The rest of the dust is packed in bags. It
was all ready for Leyden to call for. You get it now. The gargoyle-faced
dwarf at the gate will show you where it is. Now, if that's all, I'll
thank you both to get to blazes out of here and let me finish packing.
I'm still trader here until I pass out."
"Where are you going, Mr. Gordon?" asked Barry civilly. He was more and
more drawn to this self-wrecked human being, so obviously once a
gentleman. "There's a cabin aboard my ship, if you care to use it."
"It's none of your damned business where I'm going!" Gordon snarled,
with grinning teeth. Then his face softened, and he added: "Much obliged
for the invitation, though, skipper. I'm a beast. But please remember
that I'm a drunken beast trying to become a sober beast. Will you please
go now?"
"So long," Barry gave him shortly, and walked out. Little followed,
calling back: "Better take that cabin, Gordon. Hotels must be pretty
rotten here, hey? No? Well, so long, and good luck."
They passed out by the big gate and caught sight of the brown dwarf on
the parapet of the stockade. Pausing a moment, they debated whether to
immediately demand the gold bags or to go first to the ship and get men
to carry them on board. Barry peered dubiously at the entrance to a
narrow trail winding about the stockade and disappearing into the thick,
odorous jungle. Then he glanced at the sky and the tree tops. The sun
told him it was yet far from noon; the foliage sleepily indicated the
prolonged absence of a breeze.
"Leyden can't get up to-day, Little," he decided. "Go and tell Rolfe to
give you the men you need. Take the dust aboard and lock it in the safe.
It's your job, anyhow. I'm going to hunt up the Mission."
For a moment the Imp of Mischief prompted Little to perilous speech. He
caught Barry's glittering eye in time and merely replied: "Aye, aye,
sir. Don't forget what you told me: with man, woman, or missionary, keep
your gun butt handy. That bush looks shivery. Be good and look after
yourself."
He swung off down the wharf path, and Barry stepped into the side trail.
The sailor had not covered twenty feet, shivering involuntarily at the
uncanny hush of the jungle, when he heard a faint rustling behind him.
Before he could turn, a queer _whirr_ whistled in the air, followed
swiftly by a hollow thudding sound as of an ax biting into a rotten log.
Then an unearthly shriek rang out that chilled his blood.
Just in time he leaped aside and avoided a flying creese that shot from
the outflung brown hand of a fallen Malay. And, sticking in the man's
naked back, between the shoulder blades, was the haft of a heavy
throwing-knife similar to that which had so narrowly missed his own head
on board the _Barang_.
He savagely stirred the dead man with his foot and rolled the body over,
face up. The next instant his shout recalled Little at a run.
"Look, Little! Know this fellow?" he uttered.
"Mindjee--the missing sailor!" gasped Little, wide-eyed.
"Wait," snapped Barry. He plucked out the knife and ran back to the
gate, still plainly in sight. On the parapet, in his old place, the
brown dwarf squatted, expressionless as the Sphinx.
"Here, Johnny, you throw this?" Barry demanded, holding up the knife.
"Me t'row, all right. Give it." The skinny brown paw reached down for
the weapon. All interest had apparently departed for the gatekeeper with
the return of his knife. Barry was not so easily satisfied.
"That won't do for me," he persisted. "Did you mean to hit that Malay,
or did you just miss me, hey? Where did you get this sticker, anyhow?
I've seen it before. Talk quick, now!"
"You savvee dat fella got creese? All right. I send um knife, eh? Big
fella man give it knife to me. You no bodder, Tuuan. You no kill, eh?
Give it knife. I want um." The clawlike hand reached down insistently.
"I tell you no bodder. I Gordon man. Gordon he Houten man. You Houten
man too, eh? An' Houten he all right fine fella. You no 'fraid, Tuuan.
Give it dat knife."
Barry hesitated, not clear as to the man's meaning. He stared curiously
at the stained blade in his hand, then passed it up with a shudder. He
rejoined Little in silence, and they walked to the ship together, the
Mission visit shelved for the time being. Arriving on board, Barry went
to his cabin, made a swift examination, and burst out upon Little.
"I've got the big fellow!" he shouted. "That knife is the same one,
Little. Vandersee is the big fellow, and he stole that knife out of my
room. What the devil is the meaning of this ruddy mess? Mindjee hove
that knife at me first. He was Leyden's man, beyond doubt. He gets his
knife back in the gizzard, and that wipes out one score. What next? What
about Gordon? How did he get his information so soon? Begad! I'm at a
loose end, Little."
"Foggy to me, too, skipper," returned the other thoughtfully. "One sure
thing, though, is that some sweet little cherubs are looking after us,
and that death's-head at the gate is a good Joss, apparently. I'll go
and get the gold bags, Barry, then I'd better take up quarters at the
post. What d' ye think?"
"Go ahead, son. And pick out say four men to stay there with you. The
fun seems to have started. Pack your guns, too. I'll clear out the safe
before you get back."
The sun had passed meridian when Little returned, his men carrying
fifteen small, heavy canvas bags. The dust was duly entered in a brand
new book, after being roughly weighed on the cook's scales. Then the
ship's company went to dinner, while the mate remained on deck until
Barry could relieve him, for they stood watch and watch now, since
Vandersee's departure.
The meal was but half finished when a shout was followed by running feet
on the deck overhead. Rolfe burst into the saloon without ceremony and
reported:
"Schooner coming up, sir! Just rounding the last reach. Got some sort of
launch alongside, towing her. She'll be up in fifteen minutes."
Little sprang up, his animated face aglow. This was the moment he had
dreamed of ever since setting foot aboard the _Barang_. Barry
acknowledged the report but remained seated. He remarked:
"All right, Rolfe. Don't show fight. Keep six men on deck and have them
in easy reach of their arms. I'll be up in a minute. You, Little, sit
down and finish your meal. It may be long enough before you get another
regular lunch. When you're through eating, hike up to the post. You'll
find that gatekeeper worth asking, if you need advice."