THE WHOLE BAG OF GAME
THE daring quality of the idea made Tom Halstead tremulous.
He longed to return to the head of Lake Okeechobee with such a “noble”
bag of game. Yet he was able to realize the risk that attended any such
attempt.
“In reaching out for just one more,” he told himself, palpitatingly, “I
may lose the whole lot. Sim will be unquestionably the hardest of the
crowd to subdue. No, no; I reckon I’d better be content with my good
luck up to date.”
Deciding thus, reluctantly, the young motor boat skipper prepared to
cast off. It was his intention to get clear of the land by some little
margin, then to start his gasoline motor with the least possible delay.
He knew well enough that if Sim heard the motor going that big fellow
was likely to come down to the water on the run.
“I’ve got all the menagerie I can train on the way back, anyway,”
muttered the boy, dryly.
Just at that moment he heard someone come, crashingly, through the
jungle.
“Jupiter! I’ve got to get that last one, or lose all I’ve got—my own
liberty included!” flashed through the boy’s mind.
There was no help for it. Secretly half-glad, in his craze for more
adventure, Tom stole swiftly, softly, across the open space.
“Now, you-all——” began Sim, in his loudest voice.
Just at that instant he stepped out of the jungle, then stopped,
staring with all his might.
Right in front of him crouched young Halstead. Sim was looking down
into the muzzle of the hunting rifle. To him it looked, just then, like
the bore of a tunnel.
“Wha—wha—what?” exploded Sim.
“You guessed right, the first time,” mocked Tom Halstead. “It’s my
move, now, not yours. Are you going to be troublesome?”
“Put down that gun, an’ I’ll talk with yo’,” proposed Sim, hesitatingly.
“Instead, you put your hands up!” rang Halstead’s crisp command.
“I——”
“If you don’t——”
Tom backed three feet away, his eye looming up large as Sim caught a
glimpse of it through the rifle-sights.
“You’re going to be good, aren’t you?” coaxed Tom, grimly. “If you are,
you’ve only two seconds to decide. If you’re not——”
[Illustration: “I Reckon I’ll Play; Show Me the Game.”]
“I reckon I’ll play,” admitted Sim, hoarsely. “Show me how the game
goes.”
“Keep your hands up, and march, slowly, right on towards the boat,”
responded Tom Halstead. “Be ready for the word to halt, and do it the
instant you hear me say so. If you try any tricks—but you won’t!”
“No,” promised Sim; “I won’t.”
“March, then—slowly.”
Sim obeyed, also stopping when told. He lay down, with a dismal sigh,
crossing his hands behind his back, just as told. From the boat came
the sound of remonstrating kicks, the only method of communication that
was left to Sim’s own people.
“It may strike you,” suggested Halstead, “that it will be an easy trick
to turn and grapple with me when I get my hands on the cord. If you try
it you’re pretty likely to find that I’m prepared for you. You won’t
have even a fighting chance.”
Kneeling on the back of the prostrate Sim the young skipper placed the
rifle so that the muzzle rested against the back of the fellow’s head.
“You see what will happen, if you make a move,” proposed the boy.
“I reckon I ain’t gwine to,” observed Sim, huskily.
“Wise man! Now——!”
Tom Halstead slipped a noose over those crossed hands. Then with the
speed and skill of the sailor he rapidly crossed and wound, until he
had Sim’s hands very securely fastened. The knots were cleverly made
fast in place. Few people except sailors can tie knots the way this boy
tied them.
“Now, lie quiet just long enough for me to put a mild tackle on your
ankles,” admonished the young skipper.
When this was done he helped Sim to his feet.
“You can get into the boat, now,” suggested Halstead.
“See here, boy, yo’ can’t git far away from heah afo’ some o’ my
men git after yo’. Take yo’ ole boat, an’ leave me heah. That’s the
smartest way, I asshuah yo’.”
“Get into the boat,” ordered Tom, sternly. “I’ll help you as soon as
it’s necessary.”
When Sim got near enough to the gunwale to see the others so neatly
stacked away he flew into a rage.
“Ef I done know yo’ had the others like that,” he stormed, “I’d have
seen yo’ further afo’ I——”
“Get into the boat,” interrupted Halstead, pressing the muzzle of the
hunting rifle against Sim’s back. “Now, over you go, with my help.”
Sim was talking in a picturesque way by this time, but Halstead,
ignoring him, stacked him away with his comrades in the bow of the
boat. Then, still gripping the rifle, the motor boat boy stepped aft,
and started the motor. As soon an this was running smoothly, Halstead
raised his voice, calling:
“I don’t doubt that you fellows will soon feel tempted to squirm about
and try to free yourselves. You don’t know me, and might not believe
me, so, if I see any signs of trouble, I’ll have to let this rifle do
my talking. If you doubt me, then try it on!”
Sim was the only one who could speak; he was too disgusted and wrathful
to feel like saying a word.
Captain Tom swung on slow speed, guiding the boat by the rudder line
that passed aft from the steering wheel.
Not knowing the waters here in the Everglades, and their almost inky
blackness, under the shadows of the trees, concealing the depths, he
was forced to go slowly.
All the while, too, with the rifle ready at hand, he had to keep a
sharp lookout over the men stacked forward like so many logs. Their
judgment, however, did not prompt them to move.
It seemed like ages to the boy ere he got clear of the Everglades. He
thought he was following the route by which they had entered, yet his
only general guide was to keep to a northerly course.
At last he saw the open waters of Lake Okeechobee ahead. As he drove
the boat out into broader, deeper waters, a prayer of thankfulness went
up from the boy.
Once in the lake, he crowded on speed, and was presently running at the
full power of the little engine. Even if he could keep this gait, he
had more than a three hours’ trip ahead of him.
Now, however, after he had the motor running to suit him, he was free
to give practically all of his attention to his “passengers” on this
unique trip.
“I feel like complimenting you on your fine order up forward,” chuckled
the boy. “It may interest you to know that I am keeping my eye on the
lot of you all the time.”
Sim’s answer wouldn’t be worth repeating. Not one of the “passengers”
lay so that he could look aft, a very decided advantage for the young
skipper.
It was a fearfully long run. Late in the afternoon Halstead caught his
first glimpse of Tremaine’s bungalow at the head of the lake.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, now,” he glowed. “Won’t there be fun
when I show my load!”
A few minutes later he made out figures of people running out of the
bungalow. Plainly they had a glass, and were using it, for presently
Tom saw them waving their arms wildly toward him.
“There’s more than our own party there,” muttered the boy, with a throb
of gratitude. “That surely means they’ve been organizing an expedition
to hunt for me.”
Just as soon as he was near enough, Halstead sounded several blasts
lustily on the whistle. There was more waving of arms from the crowd
before the bungalow. Halstead fancied he caught the faintest sound of
distant cheering. Bye-and-bye he was sure of it. Now, it was a duet
between whistles and cheers. Joe, Jeff and Henry Tremaine were leading
the others in a mad scramble to the end of the pier.
Then, with a final, long blast from the whistle, Tom Halstead ran in
close, rising as he did so.
Putting both hands to his mouth, Skipper Tom shouted:
“Here, you, Ham!”
“Yassuh!” shouted Mockus, dancing two or three reel steps.
“This is your especial treat! Hog the first look for yourself. I’m
bringing you, tied hand and foot, the Ghost of Alligator Swamp!”