CURLIE GETS THEIR GOAT
You have not forgotten the strange plight into which a jeweled monkey, a
storm and a strange craft had led Johnny and Doris. They had arrived at
night on some strange shore. This must be an island. But what island and
how inhabited? Who could say? There were questions enough in their minds
but none were asked as Doris and Nieta, in the prow of the strange ship,
following Johnny began feeling their way out of the dark little forward
cabin into the moonlight.
As they stood upon the gunwale ready to drop silently to the sandy beach,
they saw circling to the right and left of them a narrow bay. Back from
the beach was a fringe of palms.
The night was still. Only the faintest murmur of wavelets lapping at the
sand whispered of the ocean's age-long unrest.
Back from the shore all seemed lost in slumber. Not a light glimmered,
not a camp fire glowed. There was no sound. Even the soaring bats
appeared to have gone to rest.
"Wha--where are we?" Doris shivered though the night was not cold.
"Who knows?" In a few words Johnny told all he knew of the night's
curious adventure.
"All we can do," he said in conclusion, "is to find some sheltered spot
where we can hide till morning. Then I'll have to go out scouting to
discover if I can find what island this is and what sort of people live
upon it."
Even as he spoke he was conscious of the fact that he was reading into
the present some of the romance and adventure of the West Indies'
colorful past. But for all that their position, two girls and a boy on a
strange shore at night, was perilous enough.
Silently, in single file, they crossed the sandy beach to come at last to
the edge of the cocoanut grove. There, by following the shore for a short
distance, they found a well trodden path leading into the forest.
"We won't follow that, at least not to-night," said Johnny. "There are
dogs, dangerous native dogs. Natives always have them. And the
natives--who knows?"
They continued along the beach until they came to a spot where the land
rose quite abruptly up from the sea.
There they found a second trail, little more than a wild animal's trail
to water. The tracks they found there were the sharply cut marks of
goats' hoofs.
"We'll go up here," said Johnny leading the way. "We'll get up high where
there are no mosquitoes. There we can rest and think things over."
A half hour later they found themselves seated upon a mossy bank beneath
low-growing palms. The night was soon to end. Then would come morning.
What of that morning? Who could answer?
As Johnny sat there listening for some sound that might spell danger,
trying at times to peer into the darkness, his mind was filled with many
strange thoughts. At times he found himself wondering about the secret
Curlie Carson had hidden away in his laboratory up there in the Citadel.
"He's something like my old pal, Panther Eye," he told himself. "Always
working something out, springing some surprise; always mysterious. Wonder
where old Pant is now."
He thought of the 'Rope of Gold'. "Guess we'll never find it," he told
himself gloomily. "Never can tell, though. One thing's sure--never will
find it by chasing jeweled monkeys and getting caught out all times night
and day on boats and islands with a pair of girls."
He couldn't be sure he regretted his latest experience. Doris was a
regular sport. He liked her. Hadn't made the least fuss when she found
herself marooned on a strange island. "Be a great joke if she and this
native girl really followed up that jeweled monkey and found the black
queen's treasure and we never as much as had a look at the 'Rope of
Gold'. Things come out that way sometimes."
He thought of the natives who tried to kidnap him. "Something strange
about that," he thought. They had not laid a hand on him from first to
last. He wondered what would have happened if he had really resisted. As
it was he had walked out on them and they were quite powerless to stop
him. He wished now that he had seen the thing through.
"That's the way with life," he whispered to the darkness. "We have a
feeling that life is short, that we must hurry here, hurry there, get out
of this and into that; that we really haven't time to see things through.
And the joke of it all is life is very, very long and we've time for
almost everything, plenty of time if only we think so."
In the meantime Dorn, with old Pompee at his side at the camp by the
Citadel, watched and waited for Johnny's return. At times he wondered if
Doris and Nieta had found their way safely home.
"Of course they did," he said aloud once.
"Did what?" Pompee asked.
"Did find their way home. The girls."
"Yes, yes. To be sure."
Had he seen what at that moment was happening at his home he would have
been not a little startled. Curlie Carson, Dot and the aged native woman
were at the gate prepared to follow the sound of the drums in search of
the secret meeting of the would-be rebels, when there sounded on the
flagstone walk outside the rattle of a donkey's hoofs.
"It is Doris," Dot exclaimed. "Doris and Nieta. I am glad. We have been
worried about them. Of course, we thought they might have stayed at your
camp two nights, but that they did not intend to do. The storm must have
delayed them. But now here they are. They--
"Who--what?" She stared as the donkey came into view. His baskets were
empty. He was riderless and alone.
"What can have happened?" She looked at Curlie as if expecting an answer.
But Curlie had no answer for her. When he had reached his camp that day
the girls were already gone. This he told her in the kindliest tone he
knew.
At once there was commotion in the household. Doris and Nieta were lost;
lost alone in the night and the jungle, perhaps kidnapped, robbed,
killed. Who could say? Curlie thought of Johnny's disappearance and of
the strange camp on the mountain; thought too of the plotted rebellion.
"We can do nothing to-night," said Dot. "We must be up and away on the
search at dawn."
"In the meantime?" said Curlie.
As if in answer to his question, to their ears there came once more the
distant tum--tum--tum of native drums.
Curlie looked at Dot. Dot looked at her aged servant. Then, without a
word they walked out of the gate bound for the hills, the three of them,
ready to follow the sound of the drums, ready for any peril or adventure
to which this might lead.
It was strange, this marching up a little known trail in the night,
following the sound of the drum that grew louder, ever louder as they
advanced.
The night was strange too. The moist air laden with the odor of blossoms
and tropical spices was a constant delight. The stars shone as no stars
had ever shone before. Here some creeping thing set the dry leaves
rustling, there a strange bird piped his shrill night tune.
The trail was steep. As they paused beside a massive rock a breath of
wind came sweeping up from the sea to fan their cheeks. Then, quite
unexpectedly Dot's heart gave a leap. From up the trail came a sound as
of a host rushing through the brush.
"Oh--Ah!" she whispered sibilantly, gripping Curlie's arm and backing
into the brush.
Curlie began to laugh. "Do you not recognize the sound?" he asked. "It's
only a 'chattering woman'."
"O, yes, so it is a 'chattering woman'. How stupid of me to get all
excited," she exclaimed as she stared away in the direction of the
curious tree.
Dot told herself that she must get better control of her nerves if she
was to be of any service on this strange enterprise.
"Listen! The dance grows wilder," she said. "If we are to learn anything,
be of any service, we must hurry."
"You see," she explained as they moved steadily up the trail, "the United
States Government is doing all it can for this republic, especially for
the common people, who most of all appreciate and deserve it.
"There are a few in the cities, who were used to growing fat on graft
under the old rule, who do not like the Americans. Then too there are
traders, white men with black hearts, who will do anything they can to
stir up trouble. In the old days they grew rich selling arms and supplies
to rebels. It is rumored that a boat loaded with rifles and ammunition is
hiding away somewhere among the islands and that a rebel chieftain is
here in the hills exciting the hill people to rebel. If only the Marines
were here and the native police," she sighed, "they'd put an end to it.
But we must do what we can.
"If rebellion is started, cruel leaders will go roving through the hills
forcing the people to follow them. In that way many innocent ones will be
killed. If it can only be stopped, lives will be saved. And think what it
means to live!"
Curlie did think. Every morning was a delight. Every day brought some
fresh revelation from the natural world. Each night brought sweet repose.
Ah yes, life was good.
The life of the hill people was simple and beautiful--children playing
about their small, grass thatched, white plastered homes, men hoeing
corn, women picking wild coffee, and always the simple songs of the hills
were on their lips.
As they rounded a rugged cliff that overhung the trail, the sound of the
drums grew louder and mingled with it was the chant of many voices.
"It is very near," said the native woman.
"Listen!" said Curlie impressively. "When Columbus visited this island on
his first great voyage, he heard those drums. All down the centuries they
have sounded until now."
"Yes," said Dot. "And always for war. If only we could get their goat,"
she said once more. "They will not go into revolt before the black goat
is sacrificed."
"But you can't get their goat," Mona whispered in an awed tone. "The
_Papa Lou_ has thrown a spell about the black goat. He throws spells over
men and all living things. If he says 'come' the nightingale lights on
his shoulder and the wild parrot eats from his hands. Twenty days ago the
black goat ran wild in the mountains. Now he will not leave the _Papa
Lou_. You do what you will, you cannot get the black goat. It is a spell
that is cast over him."
"Some part of what you have said is true," said Dot, "but not all, I
hope. We can get their goat. At least I hope so. Somehow we must do it."
At that they began moving forward, now bending low to glide along on
tiptoe, and now creeping on hands and knees toward their strange goal.
"There! There they are!" Mona whispered, as she at last parted two broad
palm leaves.
"And there! There is the black goat!" Dot breathed. "And see!" Her words
came in an excited whisper. "See! There is no spell upon him. He is tied
with a slender rope."
"Someone else has done this," the aged native woman's tone was one of
calm assurance. "The _Papa Lou_ did not tie him. There is no need."
"If we could but get the goat!" Dot whispered once more. "You see," her
low whispered tones were tense with suppressed excitement, "these voodoo
people have always been great believers in sacrifice. They have even been
accused of human sacrifice, but this I cannot believe to be true. However
that may be, they have always sacrificed animals. The goat, a black goat
with not a white hair, has always been their choice, yet, when Christophe
prepared to defend his people against the French, he and his followers
pledged themselves to fight until death over the carcass of a freshly
killed wild boar.
"Black goats are rare. This _Papa Lou_, by some chance, has found one
running wild in the mountains. He captured it. They have it now, as you
see. After the drumming, dancing and singing will come the ceremony of
sacrifice. And after that will begin--"
"The revolution," Curlie whispered.
"The revolution," she repeated. "And our little village may be attacked
and destroyed at once. For we are white and there are few to protect us."
In his mind's eye Curlie saw the beautiful white chateau standing out
like a castle of Spain in the moonlight. He pictured himself once more in
that beautiful garden with this splendid girl pal across from him and
thereupon resolved that, come what might, all this beauty and happiness
must not be destroyed.
"Yes," he said aloud. "We must get their goat to-night."
But how was this to be done? The goat stood at a spot not five feet from
the edge of the circling throng. The flare of the camp fire lighted the
scene. To approach near enough to free the goat was to court disaster.
"Listen." Dot held up a hand.
The drumming had ceased quite suddenly. The chanting died away. Exhausted
dancers threw themselves upon the grass. A dark figure, a man
unmistakably from the city, a black man with an evil face, rose up from
among the people. He began to speak in French creole, the language of the
people.
For a time the three there in the shadows listened spell-bound. The man's
words came forth in wild explosive outbursts. The people murmured assent,
or sat in stolid silence, listening to the harangue.
"What does he say?" Curlie whispered.
"He," Mona answered, "he say what is not true. But how are these simple
ones to know? He say white men have come to enslave us, even as French
men enslaved our grandfathers. Already we work roads we do not travel.
Time will come when we work on plantations, in sugar mills, in mines and
have no pay. That he says. Better he says that we die fighting."
"People have worked the roads always," said Dot. "Now they work on the
most needed roads. It's part of America's efficiency."
"I know," said Mona. "But how can these understand? After the speech--the
sacrifice."
Curlie repeated, "We must get the goat. But how?"
He thought of his bow and arrow. He was a fair shot. The arrow point was
sharp as a razor blade. One twang of the bow, one wild bleat, perhaps,
and the goat would be no more. Yet he shrank from killing such a
beautiful creature. Besides, such a course was fraught with danger. They
might be caught. There must be another way.
And then like a flash, to his mind came a suggestion of a possible way
out. At once he began groping about on the ground and about the bark of
the ancient tree that spread its protecting branches above them. It was a
pine.
"Listen!" said Mona. "He is telling them that a boat load of arms and
ammunition awaits them in Deception Bay. After the sacrifice--the
rebellion."
"We must get their goat," whispered Curlie. He was smearing his arrowhead
with a sticky substance. "Now!" he breathed. "Now!" He nocked his arrow.
Then, with a whispered word he thrust something into Dot's hand.
"It's a match," his whisper was low. "A sulphur match. Strike it and
apply it to the head of my arrow."
A small blue flame appeared. It wavered for a second at the arrow's head.
A larger golden flame replaced it.
The next instant that yellow flame shot forward to lodge in the bark of
the pine tree to which the goat was tied. It was a perfect shot. The
flames of burning rosin were licking their way toward the rope that held
the goat captive.
Mona stared with all her eyes. The tiny golden flame had not been noted
by the throng. They were too intent on their leader's words.
The arrow and the pine rosin flame burned fiercely now. The rope was
already singed. In ten seconds it would be burned away. The goat's keen
senses warned him of fire. He strained at his rope. One second, two,
three, five, then with a wild _blaa_--he threw his full force into one
terrific tug. It was enough. The rope gave way. He fell. Rolling over and
over, he at last scrambled to his feet and with a final _blaa_ dashed
away into the darkness that was the jungle.
For a space of ten seconds there was silence. Then pandemonium broke
loose.
"The goat! The goat! The black goat!" the natives screamed in a chorus.
Then, with one accord, they went dashing away into the night, in a wild
but futile attempt to recapture the goat.
"The goat," said Dot, rising from among the ferns, "is free. And Mona,"
she said quietly, "there was no spell woven about him. The moment his
bonds were burned away he ran into the forest."
"There was no spell," said Mona.
"There will be no revolution now," said Dot.
"Not at once," said Mona. Then as if a new thought had come to her,
"There is a great white shadow in the sea at Deception Bay. That is where
the ship with rifles is hiding. They had better be careful. The great
white shadow--he makes men disappear. They never come back."
"That," said Dot to Curlie in a tone so low the aged native woman could
not hear, "is another of her wild Voodoo notions."
They made their way unmolested down the mountainside. In time, after a
long march, they entered the sleeping village. Once more, as Curlie's
eyes took in the beauty of it all, the few white chateaux, the many
modest homes of the natives, he said with increasing conviction, "It must
not be destroyed by a revolution. It must not!"
When they had entered the garden of the chateau, Dot put out a cool hand
and gave Curlie a strong handclasp and a good night.
"Now," she said, in a tone that was deeply serious. "We have had two
adventures. Something tells me the third will come very soon. Where there
are two there are always three. You will not forget?"
"I will not forget," said Curlie.
"May you sleep well."
"Sweet dreams."
She was gone. The room that had been assigned to Curlie was on the ground
floor. The door opened on the broad porch. He was free to come and go as
he chose. Because the night had been an exciting one and his blood was
not yet cooled for sleep, he decided to take a turn about the village
streets. In this way he chanced upon a man who was destined to play a
large part in the near future, not alone of himself but of his friend
Johnny Thompson as well.
The man was standing before a low door over which a feeble kerosene lamp
burned. Curlie recognized him at once. True he had never seen him, but he
fitted so well the description of the short, broad man who had played the
good Samaritan to Johnny when he fell among the wild natives on the road
to the Citadel that there could be no mistaking his identity.
Strangely enough the man recognized Curlie Carson.
"You are one of the young men from up at the Citadel," he said without
waiting to be spoken to. "You are looking for the 'Rope of Gold'. What
strange fancy tells you it is there? And where is your companion?"
"I should like to know that last myself," said Curlie.
"I thought you might," said the short, broad man, blinking his eyes in a
strange way. "Well, I can tell you this much: he left some native
friends, left them flat when they were bent on doing him a good turn, a
very good turn. Left them flat I tell you. Walked right out on them."
Curlie was astonished at the man's talk. How, he wondered, could the man
know so much about Johnny?
"You know a great deal," he said. "Perhaps you can tell me where he is
now."
"No," said the man. "I can not. If he is lost, it is his own fault. The
natives would have guided him safely back to the Citadel and perhaps he
would have brought back with him that which he could not have carried,
though I dare say he is a very strong boy."
The man's talk got Curlie in more and more of a tangle. He had assumed
that Johnny had been kidnapped. But here was a man saying the natives
were his friends bent on loading him down with presents he could not
carry alone.
All this was too much for Curlie's weary mind to grasp. In an effort to
think it through, he looked down at his feet. When he looked up once
more, the short, broad man was gone. He had vanished into the night.