It was still too dark to gather an accurate impression of the yacht’s
surroundings, yet light enough to make out what was going on directly
before me. A number of sailors were dropping two of the port
life-boats into the water. They worked eagerly and cautiously, like
men in haste and with a desire for silence. A block, carelessly
handled, swung with a clang against one of the davits and a subdued
voice cursed the guilty man for his clumsiness.
“Don’t do that again.” Through the darkness and morning fog the
whisper sounded like a threat of murder. “Now over with those
sea-ladders.”
The voice was Brack’s.
“All right here Foxy,” said another low voice as the second boat was
dropped with little noise into the water. “Let ’em come.”
This was a new voice to me. It was not Riordan’s nor Garvin’s, nor
Wilson’s, yet it had in it a note of authority which did not belong to
any of the sailors. I was further puzzled because I seemed to have
heard it somewhere before.
“Bring them up, Garvin. Hurry; we’ve got to be up there before it’s
light.”
Brack was speaking again in a loud whisper. Garvin’s great bulk
slipped past me toward the after deck, his feet shuffling along the
deck to make as little noise as possible. He was breathing swiftly and
heavily as a man breathes under the stress of great excitement.
I now saw that the captain was standing at one of the sea-ladders and
at the other was a man whose figure I did not recognize as belonging
to any of the men on board. It was a spare, wiry figure, with a poise
that belonged to no ordinary sailor. I moved a little closer. Now I
saw that the man carried a rifle in the hollow of his arm. I looked at
Brack; he was armed likewise.
That movement proved my undoing.
“Who the devil’s that?” demanded the wiry man hoarsely.
Brack leaned forward and looked at me steadily for several seconds.
“Don’t you sleep soundly, Pitt?” he asked.
“Not very,” I replied.
He continued to look at me steadfastly. Presently he began to grin.
“That is unfortunate for you,” he said at last.
“Surely not,” said I. “Had I been sleeping soundly this morning I
would have missed the sight of all this mysterious preparation.”
He chuckled ominously.
“Had you been sleeping soundly—” he began and stopped. “All right,
men. Hurry.”
A file of men came slipping up from aft. They moved with their bodies
crouched far over and stepped softly. I heard their excited breathing
as they drew near. And each of them bore in his hands a rifle.
“Four in this boat; four in the other,” commanded Brack. “Get down
there without any noise.”
Garvin started to tumble over the side with the rest of the men; but
Brack stopped him. They whispered together, and Garvin again went aft.
The men were all in the boats now and Brack and the new man stood at
the ladders waiting to follow. The new man had his back toward me. He
was speaking to the captain.
“Who the devil is this guy, Foxy?” he whispered. “I thought we were
going to make a clean getaway.”
“Pitt,” said Brack, “step up and meet the gold-finder, the man whose
story you didn’t think a good excuse for coming here.”
I stood where I was, but the man turned and took a step forward to
have a better look at me, and then I knew why his voice had puzzled
me. The man was Madigan, whom I had seen quarreling with Brack back in
Billy Taylor’s saloon in Seattle.
Perhaps some instinct had warned me to be prepared for a shock, for I
looked Madigan over without betraying the rush of thoughts with which
my mind was seething. In a flash the whole of Brack’s scheming, from
the time he had met Chanler in San Francisco to the present moment,
was made plain. He had influenced Chanler to purchase the _Wanderer_
and go north; he had engaged Madigan to hide away on board and play
the wrecked miner at the proper moment; he had brought the _Wanderer_
into the bay at night; and he was now starting out—for what?
I managed to smile as I glanced significantly at the rifles which both
men carried.
“And are you going gold-digging now, Captain Brack?” said I. “I
thought picks and shovels were the proper utensils for mining.”
“Much easier to let others use them,” said he. “Much more satisfactory
to use this—” he patted his rifle—“after others have used the picks
and shovels. As you soon shall see, Mr. Pitt.”
“I——”
He lifted his right hand as if for a signal. Quicker than any normal
thought of mine, instinct whispered the imminence of danger.
I ducked and crouched low before Brack’s signal was completed, and a
fist grazed the top of my head from behind and a hand—Garvin’s—caught
hold of my left arm. Terror drove me to action.
As instinctively as any attacked animal whirls upon its assailant, I
turned on Garvin, sweeping my arms around wildly. He had expected no
resistance, and one of my fists thudded viciously into the middle of
his throat. He gurgled in strange fashion, throwing his head far back,
and I struck him again, struck with a strength which I had not dreamed
that I possessed. I saw him staggering, and turned to run.
Madigan leaped nimbly to block me. I dodged back, but the captain was
there, so I turned to Madigan. He was on me with a rush; we clinched,
struggled, fell, and got up again. This continued for some time. Then
a great weight seemed to drop on the back of my head and my knowledge
of what was happening ceased suddenly.