The Saint of the Speedway
-------------------------
Ridgwell Cullum
The Saint
of
The Speedway
by
Ridgwell Cullum
McClelland and Stewart
Publishers : : Toronto
Copyright, 1924,
By George H. Doran Company
[Illustration]
The Saint of the Speedway
--B--
Printed in the United States of America
Foreword
If the reader will cast a thought back to the classic sea mystery
of the _Marie Celeste_, it will be clear how much this book owes
its inception to the extraordinary derelict, the mystery of which
remains unsolved to this day. But the author disclaims any attempt
in the following pages to offer a solution of the mystery and has
only used certain of the features surrounding the condition of the
_Marie Celeste_ at the time she was found abandoned in mid-ocean
for the purposes of his story-narrative.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Adventurers 11
II The Headland 23
III In Beacon Glory 40
IV The Great Disaster 55
V Eight Months Later--On the Lias River 68
VI A Bunch of Humanity 82
VII The Speedway 94
VIII The Man from Lias River 104
IX The Aurora Clan 121
X The Haunt of the Clansmen 134
XI The Wreck at the River Mouth 142
XII The _Limpet_ of Boston 156
XIII The “Come-back” 169
XIV In the Sunshine 179
XV The Man from the Hills 196
XVI The Lazaret 209
XVII Links in a Chain 225
XVIII McLagan Achieves an End 243
XIX McLagan Returns from the Hills 256
XX The Last of the Moving Shadow 276
XXI Julian Caspar at Bay 289
XXII The Quitting 311
XXIII The Passing of the “Chief-Light” 322
The Saint of the Speedway
CHAPTER I
The Adventurers
It was a time of tense emotion. Each was a-surge with an almost
uncontrollable excitement as the two men moved up the whole length
of the riffled sluice. Neither uttered one single word. But they
moved slowly on either side of the long, primitive, box-like
construction, keeping pace, each with the other, as though in a
mutual desire that such fortune as was theirs should be witnessed
together, as though neither had courage to face alone the
possibilities of this their first serious “washing.”
At each riffle the men paused. The more emotional of the two, Len
Stern, thrust out a hand and stirred the deposit lying there. And
at each stirring the same result was revealed. The riffles were
filled with deposit. On the top was a spread of lighter soil, with
here and there a dull yellow protrusion thrusting above it. But
under this lay a solid thickness of pure alluvial gold in dust
and smaller nuggets. From the top end of the sluice-box to the
mouth which disgorged the red soil upon the miniature mountain
of tailings below it, it was the same. There was not one single
riffle that was not laden to its capacity with the precious metal.
They came to a halt at the head of the box. Len Stern stood for
a moment gazing down its narrow channel. But Jim Carver was
disinclined for any dreaming. Stolid, practical, for all the
emotion of those amazing moments, he climbed up the light trestle
work and shut off the water stream which had supplied the washing.
Then he dropped again to the ground and waited.
The stream of water fell away, and instantly the torrid heat of the
sun began to dry up the woodwork. And as his gaze passed down over
the succession of riffles the unshining yellow of their precious
burden suggested a golden pathway the whole length of the sluice.
“It makes you feel good, Len,” he said quietly, for all the burning
excitement in his big blue eyes.
The other nodded as though the thing he were contemplating had left
him speechless.
Jim Carver eyed him shrewdly. Then he glanced up at the blazing
tropical sky. He gazed down at the slow-moving river, meandering on
between jungle-grown banks on its way to the bay, less than five
miles distant. Finally he bestirred himself.
“We best clean this wash up, Len,” he said. “We best clean it up
an’ take it right back to camp. It’s feed time.”
He started to work at the top riffle, and Len Stern came back to
realities.
“Sure,” he agreed. And at once joined in the work. “Say, Jim, do
you get it?” he cried, glancing quickly at the mountain of pay dirt
they had spent months in accumulating, standing ready for washing.
“We guessed to wash a ton. Maybe it was, more or less. Ther’s not
ounces in these riffles--no, ther’s--ther’s pounds!”
Jim nodded as he laboured.
“It’s the biggest ‘strike’ ever made in the world,” he admitted in
a tone that might well have been taken for one of grudging.
* * * * *
It was the northwest coast of Australia, the coast of that almost
unexplored region which is one of the few remote territories of the
world still retaining its fabulous atmosphere of romance.
It was on the shores of a wide, shallow bay where a small river
abruptly opened out its land arms in welcome to the tropical ocean.
Sun-scorched, fleshy vegetation grew densely almost to the water’s
edge, keeping dank and fever-laden the suffocating atmosphere
within its widespread bosom. Yet only was it this merciful shade
that made life endurable to sensitive human creatures.
The sun was at its zenith, a furious disc of molten heat in a
brazen sky. The sea at the river mouth lay dead flat under its
burning rays, except for the ripple where some huge submarine
creature disturbed its surface. Not a breath of air was stirring to
relieve the suffocating atmosphere.
The two men were lounging in the shade of the wattle walls of
their reed-thatched shelter. It was built amidst a cluster of
dense-growing trees, and the site looked out over the brilliant
bay. They had long since eaten, and were now awaiting the cooling
of the day before returning to their labours.
They were youthful adventurers, foreigners to the country in which
they found themselves. They were northerners, far-northerners, from
the great snow-crowned hills of Alaska. They had set out on their
adventure as a result of listening to the flimsiest, most fanciful
yarn that ever a half-vagrant Chinaman had dispensed out of the
remote cells of his drug-laden imagination. And as a result, that
day, after two-and-a-half years of marooning on a coast peopled
only by none too friendly blacks, and in the heart of a jungle
alive with every bug and beast and reptile of a pestilential
nature, they had, at long last, proved beyond every question of
doubt that Charlie Wun Lee had, for once in his life, fallen a
victim to sheer veracity.
For all its usually incredible source, the story, which had set
these men wandering in the world’s remote places, had had a curious
ring of reality in it. Charlie Wun Lee was a queer, reasonably
honest, far-travelled old Chinaman who dispensed ham and eggs to
belated travellers in a squalid frame house in their home town
of Beacon Glory, hidden away in the hill country of Alaska. And
his story had been inspired by sheer friendliness for two men who
found themselves in a position where the outlook for livelihood was
completely threatening.
He had told them he knew where there was more gold than the world
had ever seen before, and both being gold men their appetites had
been at once whetted.
Briefly, his story was that he had been shipwrecked when he was
cook on an Australian coasting vessel. The ship went to pieces,
but he and six others reached land after terrible privations. All
they knew about their whereabouts was that it was the coast of
Australia somewhere on the northwest of the continent. It was a
country of unbearable heat and fever-haunted jungle. They were
marooned on this coast for more than a year, keeping body and soul
together with such food as they could collect from the sea and
the forest. Fortunately, they had little need for clothing, for
they discovered not a living soul, and no indication, even, of the
blacks whom they knew peopled these regions of the country. But
during that long, desperate year one by one his white companions
had died off, victims of a subtle jungle fever that killed them
slowly and painfully, until only he and one other were left alive.
This stealing death frightened him. The dank jungle became a place
of dread. So he and his last remaining companion took to the river
and sought to reach the hills out of which it sprang.
But they never reached the hills. No. The river claimed them.
They forgot their fears. They forgot even their contemplated
destination. In his own graphic fashion he told them the river was
alive with gold. Gold looked up at them out of the pay dirt which
composed its bed throughout its whole course. Oh, yes. They tried
it out with such means as they had to their hands. But they only
collected nuggets of reasonable size and troubled nothing with
“dust.” They collected a large quantity and secreted them, and
it was this store that ultimately started him on the way to the
prosperity he now enjoyed.
After this he endeavoured to study the coast line with a view to
making a chart at such time as he might be rescued, for he had
never given up the hope that they would ultimately be rescued. And
sure enough they were. A storm-driven coasting vessel ran into the
mouth of the river for shelter.
They were taken on board and clothed. But they kept their secret
of the gold, determined, should opportunity ever offer, to come
again and work it. On the plea of desiring to know the position of
the territory which had been so disastrous to them, the skipper of
the boat was induced to give them the exact bearings of the river
mouth, and later, Charlie Wun Lee inscribed it on his rough chart
which he produced in corroboration of his story. He also produced
for his audience a couple of nuggets of gold which he declared he
had kept as a souvenir ever since.
But he shook his head sadly over them when he told how opportunity
never came of returning to collect the gold awaiting him. His
companion died on the way to Sydney, a victim of the jungle fever,
the germs of which had contrived to impregnate him. And he--well,
other things came his way and he did not fancy facing the hateful
coast alone. Besides, he did very well with the laundry he started
in Sydney until he got burnt out, and finally migrated to Alaska.
No, he assured them, he would rather dispense ham and eggs at two
dollars a time in Beacon Glory than go back for that gold. Besides,
his little gambling parlour at the back of his restaurant was not
so bad a gold mine.
Well, anyhow, there it was. It was true what he had told them.
Every word of it. And if they liked they could have the chart as
a present. And when they came back with all the gold they needed,
if the jungle fever didn’t get hold of them and they felt like
making him a present in return, well, he would very gladly receive
it. But, whether they chose to go after it or not, he wanted them
to know that the thing he had told them was no fairy story, but
the real truth, which was a wholly inadequate illustration of the
reality of wealth he had seen there.
Now they knew the real extent of the debt they owed to the friendly
little dispenser of ham and eggs. But they also knew now, after
the fierce excitement of witnessing the result of the first
real washing had subsided, the immensities of the proposition
confronting them. As yet neither had uttered a word of doubt or
anxiety. But the thought of the potentialities of the situation was
looming heavily.
Jim Carver’s blue eyes were turned upon the sunlit bay. He was
deeply engrossed, not in the wonders of the tropical scene set out
before him, but in a train of teeming thought. His pipe was his
only real comfort on this intolerable coast, and he was enjoying
it to the uttermost at the moment. Len Stern’s dark eyes were upon
the small mountain of raw gold heaped on an outspread flour sack on
the sun-baked ground in front of him, which represented the result
of their first “clean-up.” Whatever worries lay back of his mind
his mercurial temperament refused to be robbed of one moment of the
delight which this tangible result of their labours afforded.
“Man, I feel I just want to holler!” he cried in a sudden outburst,
breaking up the silence which was so much their habit. “Say, I just
can’t get a grip on the nature of a boy who sits around doping out
ham an’ eggs with the knowledge of a thing like this back of his
mind. He’s all sorts of a sheer damn fool----”
“Is he?”
Jim had removed his pipe. He had turned his big, thoughtful eyes on
the man contemplating the heaped treasure. Len was gazing at him,
his smile of delight completely passed from his dark face.
They were both big creatures. Broad, and enormously muscular, a
picture of virile capacity and latent human energy. Jim’s eyes
were frankly wide and blue as the distant sea, set in a face whose
skin lent itself to a deep, florid sunburn. Len was dark-eyed and
dark-skinned. He was burned to the mahogany of a nigger. Both were
clad in barely sufficient clothing to meet the demands of decency.
For a moment Len stared at his companion. Then his smile slowly
returned.
“Say, Jim, boy, ain’t ther’ a darn thing in all this to set you
crazy to shout?” He shook his head. “It’s no sort of use. Your
head’s always ready to shelter every old bogey it can collect. Two
an’ a bit years of hell! That’s what it’s been. The folks guessed
we were bug. The yarn of a ham-slingin’ Chink. A river of gold!
An’ I guess we came nigh breakin’ our folks for outfit. Well, it’s
ours. All of it. An’ I guess we can pay our folk a hundred times
over. It’s a strike to unship the world’s financial balance. Psha!
It’s so big----”
“That’s the trouble, Len. It’s too big.”
Len flung his head back in a boisterous laugh.
“Too big?” he cried scornfully. “It just couldn’t be!”
“It could. It is.”
Jim’s unyielding tone promptly brought the other to seriousness.
“How?” he asked soberly. “Maybe I’ve got some of your notion. But
let’s talk it out.”
Jim knocked out his pipe and refilled it. He lit it thoughtfully.
Then he turned smilingly to his friend.
“Say, I’m as crazy for this thing as you, boy,” he said in his
quiet way. “But I don’t figger to let it snow my senses under.
You’re right. It’s been two years an’ more of hell gettin’ it, and
we want it all, after that. But I seem to see something of what was
back of Charlie’s mind quittin’ the game an’ never returning to it.
Get a look down there.” He pointed at a rough sheltered landing
with a tubby, cutter-rigged fishing smack lying moored there.
“That’s our link with the world outside. An’ we got to get out not
pounds, but tons of metal if I’m a judge. We got to market it an’
keep it quiet, or we’ll have the Australian Government jumping in
on us, to say nothing of all the rest of the world.” He shook his
head. “How’s it to be done? It can’t.”
“But it can. It must!”
Len’s whole manner had undergone a complete transformation. All
the excited delight had passed out of his eyes. They had suddenly
become hard, and shrewd, and full of keen resolution. The thought
of failure with the prize in their hands had stirred him to a
feeling like that of a mother who sees her offspring about to be
snatched from her arms. He was ready to fight with the last breath
of life for this thing he so dearly coveted.
“Here, you can’t tell me a thing I haven’t thought, Jim,” he cried.
“All this stuff’s been in my brain tank ever since we bought that
barge of ours down in Perth. I’d got it all then. An’ I planned it
all before we beat it up the coast in that old coaster, with our
craft on a tow-line. You’re right. It’s got to be a secret. If we
shout we’ll lose half the game. Maybe we’ll lose it all. We’re not
going to shout. No. I best tell you, an’ we’ll sort out the metal
from the tailings. You’ve a cautious head and a clear brain. Maybe
you’ll see any weak spot lying around.”
Jim nodded in ready agreement. He had achieved his purpose. Len was
down to hard facts.
“This is the thing I got planned,” Len went on, dipping his
hands into the pile of gold and letting it sift back between his
hard-worn fingers. “We’ve got to get a third feller into our
game--on commission. We got to think wide and act wide. We got
to play a red-hot game, an’ play it good. Ther’s got to be no
weakening, an’ if any feller we work with plays the skunk he’s got
to get his med’cine short. You get that?”
Jim made no reply, but the look in his eyes was sufficient.
“Well, here it is,” Len went on quickly. “If we dope this stuff
out free we’ll break the market, and set every news-sheet shouting
from one end of the world to the other. And the folks’ll jump in
an’ shut us down. We’re sort of in the position of the feller who
can transmute base metal. No. When we’ve a big enough bunch of
stuff out I’m going to take a big trip down to Perth. I’m going
to get a guy with a tramp ship, a Windjammer for preference. I’m
going to fix up with him; he’ll get a handsome commission on our
trade of gold, and I’m going to bring him along up and have him
stand off down the coast a few miles, an’ then, with this old barge
of ours, I’ll come along and pick up all we got, an’ haul it back
aboard of his ship. Then you’re going right along with him and the
stuff, and you’re going to travel from port to port and dispose of
it for credit at such banks as will trade in smallish parcels. And
meanwhile, I’ll stop right here on this coast an’ get stuff out
ready for when you come back. Then I’ll take a trip, an’ you’ll
stop around. An’ when we’ve sold all we need we’ll--quit. It’s the
only way, Jim. We got to play the smugglin’ game, an’ play it
good. We got to take chances. Mighty big chances! I got to trust
you, an’ you got to trust me, an’ we got to trust that skipper by
makin’ it worth his while an’ keeping a gun pushed ready. Ther’s
got to be no weakening. It’s the only way I can see to put our
play through. Otherwise, our gold ain’t worth hell room to us. Do
you see it? Are you on? I want you to make that first trip because
you got folks needing you worse than any one needs me. That’s one
reason. The other is I want you to feel I’m putting right into your
hands my share, and I’m not worrying a thing because that’s so.
See? We know each other. We’re on the square. An’ the thing I want
from you is to keep the commission guy on the same angle. Well?”
“It’s the sort o’ thing I had in mind, Len, only I hadn’t got it
clear like you.”
Jim knocked out his pipe and stood up stretching himself, while he
gazed out over the flat calm of the bay.
“It goes. Sure it does,” he said readily. “An’ I’m glad for that
thought that made you have me make the first trip. It’s kind of
generous, Len. But it’s like you. Gee, I’m sick of this coast! Say,
can you beat it? Here we are, two fellers takin’ every chance in
life to make an honest grub stake out of no-man’s land, and to do
that we got to hunt our holes like gophers, lest folks get wise
to us an’ snatch it from us. It sort of makes you wonder. But you
know, Len, this river’s too rich. I sort of feel that. I kind of
feel the thing’s not goin’ to be as easy as you make it seem. But
we’re goin’ to see it through to the end. An’ God help the feller
that starts in to rob us! Yes, it’s a kind thought of yours,
sending me on the first trip. I got a mother an’ a dandy sister
who’ll likely bless you for this. I guess they’re hard put all
right, and the thought’s had me worried for months. Say----”
He turned towards the river and glanced up at the sky. Len laughed.
“That’s all right, Jim. I’m ready all the time,” he said. “It ain’t
work gettin’ back on the river. It’s play. Come on. We’re going to
get out half a ton of stuff,” he laughed, as he sprang to his feet.
“Then I’ll make Perth, an’ buy up that tramp skipper.”
He moved off beside his partner, leaving his golden pile just where
it lay. And together they passed out of the shelter of the trees.