TOM HALSTEAD, STRATEGIST
A FORBIDDING countenance was that worn by black Mr. Kink.
He belonged to the worst species of shiftless, vagrant Southern darkey.
He was as different from the respectable, dependable house negro as a
stormy night is from a fair one. Kink had served many terms in jail ere
he gained enough in the wisdom of his kind to take to the trackless
wastes of the Everglades. The fellow’s face was scarred from many a
brawl. He seldom laughed; when he did, it was in cruelty.
Kink was slighter, and far less powerful than Jabe, though he possessed
far more of wiry agility than the other negro.
“Ah jes’ done hope yo’ make a move dat yo’ hadn’t done oughter,”
he muttered, scowling at young Halstead, then fingering the rifle
meaningly.
“Make your mind easy,” retorted Captain Tom. “I’ve no notion for laying
myself liable to a rifle bullet.”
“Ef yo’ jes’ gib me one ’scuse,” glowered Kink.
As if to settle the fact that he did not intend to do anything of the
sort the motor boat captain half-closed his eyes, studying the ground.
Yet, not for a moment did Halstead cease to hope that he might find
a way out of this predicament. Only one black man—one rifle—and that
capable little motor launch tied so close at hand!
Presently Kink rested the butt of the rifle briefly on the ground
while from one of his pockets he drew forth an old corn-cob pipe and a
pinch of coarse tobacco grown in the Everglades. No sooner did he have
the pipe going than the negro, watchful all the while, picked up the
hunting rifle once more.
“Pretty rank tobacco you have,” observed Tom Halstead, though he tried
to speak pleasantly.
“Best Ah can get in dis great swamp,” growled Kink. “Yo? got any erbout
yo’ clo’es?”
“I don’t smoke,” Halstead replied.
“Umph!” growled Kink, as though his opinion of the boy had fallen
several notches lower.
“Do you never get hold of any good tobacco from the outside world?”
questioned Tom.
“Meanin’ sto’ tobacco?” suggested Kink.
“Yes.”
“Sometimes,” admitted Kink. “But not of’en, ob co’se.”
“How long since you’ve had a cigar!” asked Tom, with an appearance of
pleasant interest.
“Real cigar, made ob sto’ tobacco!” demanded Kink.
“Yes.”
“Lemme see. Well, it must been a yeah, now.”
“Too bad,” muttered the boy, half-pityingly.
“Oh, Ah could git er sto’ cigar,” volunteered Kink, scowling blackly.
“How?”
“By going’ to a sto’, ob co’se. Den yo’ know w’ut happen?”
“What?” demanded Tom.
“W’ite fo’ks, dey done tie er rope ’roun’ mah neck an’ stretch it.
Yassuh. Yo’ see, I’m a plumb bad niggah,” Kink added, with a strong
touch of pride. “W’ite fo’ks down ’round’ de bay, dey t’ink Ah’m good
fo’ nothin’ but hang up. Wi’te fo’ks powahful ’fraid ob Kink!”
“As soon as I am really missed there’ll be a lot of white folks down
this way, I reckon,” began Tom. “You see——”
Then, purposely, he paused. For a few seconds he looked as though he
were trying to conceal his thought. Next he peered, as though covertly,
northward under the trees.
When he saw Kink regarding him, Tom Halstead pretended to look wholly
at the ground. Presently, however, he raised his glance to peer once
more northward. So stealthy did the motor boat boy seem about the
whole transaction that Kink, accustomed to being hunted through the
Everglades, found himself peering, also, in the direction from which
chase would come.
The first time he glanced, Kink turned again, almost immediately. But
Halstead was sitting in the same place, so motionless and innocent,
that the negro ventured another and longer look to the northward in
the hope of seeing that which had appeared to give the boy such keen
pleasure.
Like a flash, now, though noiseless as a cat, Tom Halstead leaped
to his feet. Before Kink had thought of turning, the young skipper
launched himself through the air.
He struck Kink a blow that sent that fellow sprawling. Like a panther
in the spring, Halstead bore his enemy to the ground, striking savagely
while he wrested the rifle from the negro.
“Now, not a sound out of _you_!” warned Halstead, cocking the rifle and
holding the muzzle not many inches from the fellow’s head. “Are you
going to be good?” he demanded, in a cool voice that was threatening in
its very quietness.
“Yassuh!” admitted Kink, in a whisper.
“Then don’t get up, unless I tell you to, and don’t make a sound of
any kind,” warned Skipper Tom, standing before the sitting negro.
“First of all, take that box of cartridges out of your pocket, and toss
it a little distance away from you.”
The late guard obeyed. Tom, still keeping the fellow under close watch,
recovered the cartridges.
“Now, you get down to the boat,” commanded Halstead. “Don’t make any
noise and don’t ask any questions. There, that’s right. Halt. Now, in
the locker under your hand, you’ll find some cord. Pull it out.”
As the negro obeyed, Tom ordered him to lie face downward on the
ground, next putting his hands together behind his back. Picking up the
cord, Halstead made a noose at one end. This he slipped over Kink’s
crossed hands. Drawing the noose tight, he next knelt on the negro’s
back, rapidly lashing the hands ere the fellow could make any movement
to wrench himself free.
“Remember what I said about making a noise,” warned Tom. Going to the
same locker he took out a quantity of engineer’s waste—an excellent
stuff for making a gag. Some of this he forced into the black man’s
mouth, making it fast with cord. All that remained was to knot the
fellow’s ankles together just loosely enough so that he could barely
walk, yet could not run.
“Now, onto your feet with you, my man,” muttered Halstead, raising him.
“Now, over into the boat with you. Gently. Lie down out of sight. And
bear in mind, if I get a sight of your head above the gunwale until I’m
in the boat, it’ll be all up with you!”
Kink’s eyes rolled until only the whites could be seen. This black
captive understood very well who had the upper hand.
Now, Tom turned his attention to untying the bowline.
“Kink! Ah say, Kink, yo’ black rascal!”
It was the voice of Jabe calling. The very sound made Halstead shiver,
at first.
“Kink, Ah say! Kain’t yo’ heah me?”
“Oo-oo-oo-ee!” shrilled Tom, knowing that to speak would be to betray
himself.
Then back toward the jungle stole the motor boat boy, close up to the
point where a barely distinguishable path ran through. Here he dropped
to one knee, holding the rifle to his shoulder.
“Kink, yo’——”
Jabe, coming through the bushes just then, stopped short, blinking
fast, his knees trembling and knocking together.
“You know just what is in the wind,” warned Tom’s low voice. “I’ve
only to pull the trigger of this gun. Now, get ahead of me and march,
without tricks!”
Caught like this, looking straight down into the muzzle of a gun behind
which was a pale, resolute face, Jabe allowed himself to show the white
feather. He marched, as ordered, throwing himself on his face close by
the bow of the launch.
With Jabe Tom Halstead repeated the tactics he had employed against
Kink, though he took pains to make the lashings and the knots doubly
secure. Then Jabe, bound and gagged, and with but bare freedom of
action for his feet, was helped over into the launch beside his friend.
“Now, you two start any kind of motion or sound, if you want to see
just what a sailor would do under such circumstances,” warned Halstead,
in a low, dry tone.
With the rifle still cocked, he stood up, for an instant, to plan just
what his next move should be.
“Two out of the four!” he chuckled inwardly. “Fine! What wouldn’t I
give to have the white pair in the same fix! Careful, Tom, old fellow!
Don’t get rash. Try to get away from here while you’ve the chance!”
He was about to step into the launch, when he heard steps not far away.
Someone else was coming through the jungle. Halstead’s heart beat
rapidly, his color coming and going swiftly.
“That’s likely to be Sim and the other fellow, coming together,” he
muttered. “I can’t get the launch away before they’ll be here. Yet the
two together—how on earth can I handle ’em? For I couldn’t shoot either
in cold blood.”
Yet something had to be done, and with great speed. So the motor boat
boy slipped back up to the beginning of the path through the jungle.
Barely thirty seconds later Jig Waters, Sim’s white comrade, stepped
boldly through into the open.
Right then and there, however, Jig’s boldness forsook him.
“Hold on, thar! I’m all yo’s!” stammered Jig, softly, holding up
his hands. He, too, was marched down to the water’s edge and served
precisely as the negroes had been.
“Three!” throbbed Tom Halstead. “Oh, if I could only stow away all four
and take ’em back to civilization with me!”