A GATEWAY TO FREEDOM.
It was not for some time after the abrupt removal of Pete and Jack
Merrill that any one of the little party in the old church spoke. Then
it was the professor who broke the silence.
"I trust that no harm is meant to our young friend and his breezy
companion," he said.
"Harm!" broke out Ralph indignantly, "you seem to take it easy enough.
I--oh, well, I beg your pardon, professor, I guess this has got on my
nerves. I didn't mean to be so short. But I do wish there was something
we could do. Sitting here like this and not knowing what is going to
happen is maddening."
"No use letting it get on your nerves, Ralph," counseled the quiet and
deliberate Walt Phelps, "worriting about it isn't going to help any."
The professor got up and paced about the old chapel, examining
its walls with care. In one or two places were the remnants of old
paintings, and these he examined with great interest.
"If we should ever get away from here I think that I should have some
interesting discoveries to report to the Hispanic Society," he remarked
amiably.
Walt Phelps nodded. The most interesting discovery he could have made
at that moment would have been a door leading into the open air and a
good horse standing outside it.
At noon a Mexican entered with their dinner, a similar meal to that
which we have already seen served to the prisoners in the tower. Few
words were spoken over the meal. Their hearts were too heavy for that.
The uncertainty as to what was to be their ultimate fate was almost
maddening. In addition, they had to bear the suspense of speculation
over the destiny of Jack Merrill and Coyote Pete. Without the broncho
buster's cheerful face and whimsical manner to cheer them the castaways
were indeed in a gloomy condition.
About the middle of the afternoon they received another visit from
Black Ramon. This time he brought paper and some ink. The paper was
some odd sheets, half torn and very dirty, which looked as if they
might have been ripped from an old blank book. The ink was a faded,
rusty colored composition. Evidently, writing materials were things for
which the cattle rustlers had little use.
In a few brief words, spoken with brutal incisiveness, Black Ramon
informed Ralph that his offer still held good. The boy had till the
next day to make up his mind to write the letter to his father,
demanding the payment of the ransom. A messenger would convey it to the
nearest railroad station as soon as it was written. It was for this
purpose that the ink and writing materials had been brought. As Jack
had feared, the Mexican was going to work upon Ralph's sensitive nature
by every means in his power, and as a step toward that end he had
removed Jack and the cheerful cow-puncher.
"I've half a mind to write the letter and have it over with," said
Ralph, as the door closed and they were once more alone.
"Don't you do it," said Walt Phelps decisively. "I've heard of fellows
in a worse scrape than ours getting out of it all right. What's the use
of your alarming your folks? After all, it may only be a bluff on the
part of Black Ramon."
"I agree with our young Western friend," put in the professor, "this
Mexican would hardly dare to commit any offense against the laws, and I
firmly believe that if we show ourselves to be determined to resist his
will, that he will ultimately let us go."
Walt Phelps had other ideas about the Mexican's character. The Western
boy knew the man by reputation, and the general character of the
wild outlaws who make their homes along the border. He said nothing,
however, wisely thinking it best to let the professor encourage Ralph
all he could.
As the afternoon waned away, therefore, the paper still lay scattered
in the same spot on the floor where the leader of the cattle rustlers
had placed it. By and by, a little ray of sunshine shot in through the
window as the sun grew toward the west, and illumined the interior of
the old chapel with a cheerful radiance. The rays played, as if in
mockery of their captivity, upon the old sheets of paper, on which the
thin, blue lines with which they had been ruled when they were new,
were still visible.
"Wonder where Ramon picked up that paper," mused Ralph idly. "It
reminds me of our exercise books at school. Looks like it might have
been torn out of one of them, too. Heigh ho, I wish I was back at old
Stonefell again. Don't you, professor?"
"Eh--oh!" gasped the professor, coming out of a brown study in which he
had had his eyes fixed abstractedly on the paper, "yes, yes, of course.
But, young man, your eyes are better than mine, and I want to ask you a
question--do you notice anything on that paper?"
"Why, yes, a few marks; looks like dirt," said Ralph carelessly. "The
sunlight shows them up. Nice sort of correspondence paper." He laughed
mirthlessly.
"No, but," insisted the professor, "it looks to me as if characters of
some kind were inscribed on them and----"
Ralph had suddenly risen and snatched up one of the sheets. A closer
scrutiny had shown him that the papers were indeed covered with some
sort of writing which they had not noticed before.
"You're right, professor," he exclaimed, "they are written on. See!
the marks are getting clearer. But--but why didn't we see any writing
before."
"Because," exclaimed the professor, "the papers have been written on
with invisible fluid of some kind. Their exposure to the warm rays of
the sun has brought out the writing."
"It's getting clearer," said Ralph, eagerly perusing the sheet he held.
"I can't quite make it out yet, though."
He exposed the sheet he held to the sunlight, while Walt Phelps leaned
interestedly over his shoulder.
"Why-why," the boy stuttered, "it's something about this church. Look
here, I can see the 'Church of St. Gabriel, the old mission,' as plain
as anything, and-and, why, professor," shouted the boy, half wild with
excitement, "I believe that this paper, by some wonderful chance, may
be the means of getting us out of here."
"Let me see," demanded the professor, taking the paper from the boy's
trembling hands. Sure enough, it was covered with characters written
closely, and seemingly hastily.
"'This record, made the seventeenth day of August, 1909,'" he read out,
"'is to be kept in case of accidents. The secret passage lies four
squares from the fifth square from the last window on the right hand
side toward the altar. The old altar rail pulls back, exposing the
trapdoor. Treasure in passage, one hundred paces from north of tunnel
in wall, to right.' Give me that other page, Ralph, quick!"
The professor's voice shook strangely, and his dim eyes shone behind
his spectacles. Rapidly he warmed the page Ralph handed him in the
sunlight, and more writing leaped into view.
"'Written by me with onion juice on above date. Jim Hicks, prospector,
formerly of Preston Hollow, N. Y. State. This to be an instrument for
my heirs, if any, and if this is ever found.' And here is something
that seems to be a postscript," gasped the professor, amazedly.
"'Will have to leave this in church and trust to luck. Place not
deserted as I had thought, but in possession of Mexicans. If chance
should bring this to an American's notice, let them search out
Jim Hicks, the prospector, rightful owner of treasure by right
of discovery, and legacy of Don Manuel Serro y Fornero, the last
descendant of the old monk, Brother Hilarito.'"
"Good gracious, does that mean this church?" breathed Walt Phelps, his
eyes as round as two marbles.
"Evidently," said the professor, who seemed strangely excited, "as
nearly as I can make out, Jim Hicks was, or is, a miner or prospector
who in some way was willed this missing treasure, whatever it is,
by the last heir of one of the old monks who formerly lived in the
mission. He must have come here to dig up the treasure and been
surprised by the Mexicans. Fearing discovery when he would have been
searched, he wrote this record in some old book he had with him and
then stuffed it in a recess in the wall or other hiding place. In some
way the Mexicans found it, and not knowing what it was tore some leaves
out, which providentially happened to be these, and gave them to Ralph
to write his last message on."
"I guess you must be right, professor," agreed Ralph, "I've often
heard that the old monks, when their Indians were giving trouble, hid
their treasure in secret places. And this Brother Hila--whatever his
name was--must have been the last survivor of the monastery. He willed
the secret to his heirs, who, in turn, gave it to this old miner, Jim
Hicks."
"This is the strangest thing I ever heard of," exclaimed Walt Phelps,
"but now that we have found it, what good does it do us?"
"Why, why," blurted out Ralph, "don't you see, Walt, what the invisible
writing has done? It has pointed out to us a way to escape."
"How?" asked the blunt Walt.
"How--why, through the tunnel."
"Yes, if this is the right church, and if the tunnel has an exit at the
other end," rejoined the practical Walt. "I don't want to throw cold
water on your hopes, Ralph, but this looks to me as if it might be a
trick of Black Ramon's."
"I hardly think so," said the professor. "At any rate, it is worth
trying. We will make a test as soon as possible."
They did not dare, however, to try to test the secret of the old book
till they could be sure they were not watched from without by one of
Ramon's spies. Not till after dusk did they feel perfectly secure
from observation. Then, with the professor leading, they sought out
in the tesselated floor the designated square. It was easily found,
and following the directions which had been memorized, for, of course,
the invisible writing had disappeared with the fading of the warmth
that brought it into being, the eager seekers went over the prescribed
ground.
There was a moment of painful suspense as the professor laid hold of a
moldering altar rail, followed by a moan of disappointment.
The rail did not yield. It was anchored solidly in its base.
"Sold!" ejaculated Ralph. Walt Phelps did not speak, but his
disappointment was keen.
The professor said nothing, but thought deeply, for a few minutes. Then
he spoke.
"I have it," he exclaimed suddenly, "it's we that have been wrong, and
not the book."
"What do you mean?" asked Ralph, "we followed directions. I memorized
them carefully myself."
"Yes, my boy, we did, but if you recollect the book said nothing about
the color of the squares. We counted on the black ones, assuming that
to be correct. Now might it not just as well have been the white ones
that the directions meant?"
"That's so," agreed Ralph eagerly, with new hope; "let's try it that
way."
"We'll have to be quick. It will be dark as pitch in a few minutes,"
said Walt.
Once more the three bent over the floor and counted carefully, this
time using the white tiles as counters. Their enumeration brought them
to another old brass rail, standing upright in what had once been the
chancel of the old church.
Not one of that party drew a breath, as in the dying light the
professor laid his hand on the upright pillar and pulled.
"Fooled again," burst out Ralph; but suddenly the professor, who had
put his utmost strength into the task, went toppling backward, waving
his arms like a scarecrow in a high gale. He fell on the marble floor
with a crash, but was up again like a jack-in-the-box.
"Hooray! hooray! the old miner's writing was true!" burst out Ralph.
"Hush!" exclaimed Walt, "you'll have Ramon and his men in here in a
moment."
As he spoke there came a sudden trampling of feet outside and shouts
echoed.
"They've found us out!" gasped Ralph, with blanched cheeks.
"No, they're running past the door," exclaimed Walt. "Listen, something
else is the matter."
"What can it be?" wondered Jack.
"No time for speculation now, my boy," warned the professor, who had
recovered himself. "It's now or never. Are we going to chance the
secret tunnel?"
"Yes," chorused both boys, gazing without hesitation into the black
square which the swinging back of the rail had revealed. From the
mouth of the dark pit a fetid, foul-smelling air rushed upward. It was
the breath of the dead centuries.
"One moment," said the professor, staying Ralph as he was about to
plunge forward undismayed into the abyss; "let some of that deadly gas
out."
In apprehension of momentary discovery, the adventurers waited,
starting at every sound. Outside the disturbance still went on. Feet
could be heard rushing hither and thither. What could be happening?
"Now!" said the professor, after a few breathless minutes had passed.
Led by Ralph, they plunged downward, their feet encountering a flight
of steps.
As they vanished into the unknown, the trap-door, actuated by some
hidden machinery, which must have acted as their weight came on the
long disused steps, swung silently back into place.
At the same instant there were several loud shouts from without,
followed by a fusillade of rifles.
The escape of Jack and Pete from the tower had just been discovered,
and while the ranch boy and the cow-puncher were surrounded by the
perils through which we have followed them, the other members of the
beleaguered party made their way forward into a blackness so utter as
to feel almost solid.