GONE!
The sun got up and struck the hills of Sinaloa, the plains of
sagebrush, rock and sand, the sea.
The Bay of Whales, lit from end to end and shouting with gulls, faced
an ocean destitute of sign of ship or sail.
George awoke in the tent and gazed for a moment lazily at the
honey-coloured patch on the sail cloth above his head, where the sun
was laying a finger. He heard the waves on the beach and the crying
of the gulls, the wind through the tent-opening came fresh and pure,
and he knew it was good to be alive. Alive in a clean world where the
wind was a person and the sun the chief character after God’s earth
and sea. Then Candon came blowing into his mind and he remembered the
incidents of the night before and how B. C. had gone off the handle
over something, he could not guess what, and how he had planned to
leave them that day. All this he remembered in the first few seconds of
waking—and then he recognised that Candon was not in the tent and that
his blankets were carefully rolled up and stowed for the day. He must
have got up early and gone out; probably he was building the fire.
He gave the sleeping Hank a dig, and woke him up.
“Hank,” said George.
“Yep?”
“I’ve been thinking of B. C.”
“What’s the matter with B. C.?”
“Wake up, you old mud turtle. He’s leaving us to-day and we’ve just got
not to let him go.”
“Oh, ay,” said Hank, remembering things. Then he yawned frightfully,
blinked and looked around.
“Where’s he gone?”
“He’s got up early—outside somewhere. Say, we’ve got to keep him—have a
straight talk with him. He’s one of the best for all his queer ways.”
“Sure,” said Hank.
Fully awake now, he rose and slipped into his clothes, George following
suit. Hank was the first out. He stepped on to the sand, looked round
for Candon and then looked out to sea.
“_Jumping_ Moses!”
“What’s wrong?” cried George, coming out. “What are you——Good _gosh_!”
He had followed the pointing of Hank’s finger. The _Wear Jack_ was gone.
Almost at the same moment came Tommie’s voice from her tent door. “Why,
where’s the ship?”
“Gone,” said Hank. “Drifted—sunk—but what in the nation could have sunk
her? How could she have drifted? Oh, hell! It can’t be that B. C. has
bolted with her—say—Bud——”
“It is,” said George, “bolted with her and the boodle. We’ve been
stung—that’s all.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Tommie. Her little face looked like a piece
of chalk and she was holding on to the tent flap.
“There you are,” said Hank. “Nor I. B. C. couldn’t do it, that’s all.
He couldn’t do it.”
“He’s done it,” said George. “He was sore about your taking the stuff
off to the ship because he intended bunking with it himself—can’t you
see?”
“Maybe those Chinks have taken the ship,” said Hank.
George shook his head. “We’d have heard him shout with the wind blowing
that way. Besides, they couldn’t. Not one of them has any notion of
navigating her. Can’t you see? He’s got the boodle. He’s meant to do
this all along when the stuff turned up and he’s done it.”
“I tell you that chap’s a white man,” began Hank, furiously.
“In spots,” said George, “or in streaks—as he said himself. He runs
straight for a while, _wants_ to run straight and then goes off the
other way about. He’s a socialist, grand ideas and a slung shot in his
pocket.”
“Socialist, so’m I.”
“No you’re not, you’re Hank Fisher.”
Hank went off a few yards and sat down on the sand and folded his
arms and brooded. His good soul had been hit and hit hard. Even while
defending Candon, he recognised the logic of the situation, pointing to
the almost unbelievable fact that Candon, yielding to his worst nature,
had bolted. Bolted, leaving them stranded on that beach.
He could not but recognise that for a man in Candon’s position, leaving
morality aside, the move was a good one. His return to San Francisco
was impossible, McGinnis would merely turn evidence against him.
Leaving the Vanderdecken business aside, there was the wrecking of the
junk; the _Wear Jack_ herself was attainted. All sorts of new ideas
began to turn somersaults in Hank’s mind as this fact burst fully for
the first time on his intelligence.
“Bud,” he shouted, “come here and sit. Where’s T. C.? Call her. Sit
down.”
They came and sat down.
“Folks,” said Hank, “here’s a new tangle. Hasn’t it ever struck into
you that the old _Jack’s_ n’more use to us than an opera hat to a bull.
Those movie men don’t know her name, but they know her make and that
she went south, see? And every yacht coming up from the south anythink
like her will be overhauled by the coastguard, see? Well, suppose we’d
put back in her, getting along for the Islands, the coastguard would
have been sure to board us, they’d have found T. C. aboard and we’d
have been dished, straight.”
“I hadn’t thought it out like that before,” said George. “I thought we
could have slipped up to ’Frisco and then told some yarn.”
Tommie said nothing. The colour had almost returned to her face,
but she seemed like a person slightly dazed. No wonder. Despite, or
maybe partly because of his confession to her, partly because of his
evident care for her and partly because of her newborn affection for
him, she would have trusted B. C. with anything, her life, her money,
anything—this man who had betrayed her, betrayed Bud and Hank, taken
their ship and left them stranded on a hostile beach.
“Well, we couldn’t,” said Hank. “The fact is the _Wear Jack_ was no use
to us and maybe it was Providence that made B. C. let us down.”
“Maybe,” said Tommie, catching at straws, “she drifted away.”
“That’s what I thought first,” said George, “but she couldn’t. She was
anchored fast. If she had, why she could have put back. What’s the good
of supposing, when the thing’s clear as paint. He was boss of the ship,
the Chinks always looked to him for orders, they’d do whatever he told
them, and when he went aboard last night and told them to knock off
the shackles and drop the anchor chain, they wouldn’t grumble. If they
thought anything, they’d think it was part of some move in the game
and we were in it. We’ve made several big mistakes, but the biggest was
letting that guy be boss.”
“Well, he was boss, anyhow,” said the ingenuous Hank. “He was the best
man of us three in the practical business and I’m not saying he wasn’t
the best in brains. He couldn’t run straight, that’s all; if he could
he might have been President by this.”
They all sat silent for a minute, then George sprang to his feet.
“Breakfast,” said George.
Not another word was spoken of Candon. It was as though he had been
expelled from their minds as from their society.
But they could not expel the situation he had created. Though the _Wear
Jack_ was no use for taking them back to San Francisco, it could have
taken them somewhere—anywhere from that beach where the fume of the sea
and the sun and the silence and desolation and the blinding sands and
mournful cliffs had already begun to tell upon them now that the place
was a prison. Then there were the Mexicans to be thought of. If those
men whom they had kicked and man-handled and robbed of their booty were
to return with a dozen others, what would happen? How could two men and
a girl put up any sort of fight? And the dreadful thing was Tommie.
Tommie, who had stuck to them because she was a brick, who, to save
them from a ridicule almost as bad as disgrace, had insisted on going
on. If she had turned back, she might have been safe at Los Angeles now
instead of here. This thought hit Bud almost as badly as Hank.
It did not seem to hit Tommie at all. There were moments during the
preparation of breakfast when the throat muscles of the redoubtable T.
C. made movements as though she were swallowing down the recollection
of Candon, but, the meal once begun, she seemed herself again.
As they ate, they discussed the situation in all its bearings. They had
provisions enough for three weeks, according to Hank’s calculations.
He suggested that they should hang on just there for a day or two,
and then, if nothing turned up in the way of a ship, that they should
“hike” down the coast towards the town “that fellow” had spoken of.
“What was the name of it?” asked George.
“Search me,” replied Hank, “but it don’t matter, the name, it’s a town
anyhow.”
“And suppose, while we’re hanging on here, those Mexicans come at us?”
asked George.
Hank had forgotten the Mexicans.
“If they do,” said he, “we’ll have to fight them, that’s all. We’ve got
the spades, and two Americans are a match for a dozen greasers, and
there’s not likely to be that number.”
George got up and walked off down to the sea edge. He seemed to be
thinking things over.
Hank found himself alone with Tommie.
“You meant three Americans,” said she.
“Sure,” said Hank, “you’d put up as good a fight as any of us, I
believe.”
Hank had never dealt much with women-kind, except maybe in that
horrible business liaison of his with Mrs. Driscoll, and though he had
read the “Poems of Passion” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox he had no language
at all to garb his sentiments with, if you can dignify with the title
of sentiment a desire to eat Tommie.
He heaved a deep sigh and began tracing patterns on the sand with his
finger. The rat trap inventor was at fault, his ingenuity could not
assist him, the civilized man who believed in the sanctity of womanhood
and the primitive man who wanted to make a meal of T. C. were at war,
but the primitive man was the stronger and was preparing to speak and
make a fool of himself when a yell came from George.
“Ship!”
They sprang to their feet and came running to the water’s edge. They
could see nothing; then, following his pointing, away on the sea line,
they saw what looked like the wing of a fly.
“It’s the _Wear Jack_,” said Hank, “no, it ain’t—her canvas wouldn’t
show as dark as that.”
“How’s she bearing?” asked George.
“Coming right in, I believe. She’s got the wind with her; that’s her
fore canvas. There’d be more spread if she was sideways to us or
tacking against the wind. Yes, she’s coming right for us.”
“Good,” said George.
There was silence for a moment, a silence more indicative than any
words could be of the relief that had come to their minds. It was
suddenly shattered by Hank.
“She’s the _Heart of Ireland_.”
“What you say?” cried George.
“She’s the _Heart of Ireland_.”
“How do you know?”
“Lord! how do I know? I know. I feel it. What else can she be? Why
she’s _due_. She’s just had time to mend herself and put out. What
other boat would be putting into this God-forsaken place? And she
seems about the size of the _Heart_. We’ll soon see. I’ve got the
specification down in my head, that fellow gave it to me—two topmast,
fifty-ton schooner, broad beam and dirty as Hades. Those are her beauty
marks—we’ll soon see.”
“But she’d have passed the _Wear Jack_,” said George.
“Not if the _Jack_ went south. And anyhow they’d have passed in the
night; wouldn’t have seen each other.”
“What are we to do?” asked Tommie.
“I’m thinking,” said Hank. He looked round, brooded for a moment, and
then stood looking out to sea. His ingenuity was at work. Then he
spoke.
“There are no caves in these cliffs or we might hide there. No use
scattering inland. First of all, if these chaps find nothing but the
tents they’ll think us gone and they’ll go off with the tents and grub
and everything. Then where would we be? We’ve got to hide and watch for
chances.”
“Where?” asked George.
Hank pointed to the big rock before-mentioned, shaped like a pulpit,
that stood close to them by the sea edge.
“There, standing close up to it, we can dodge them when they’re coming
ashore. Then when they land we can shift round to the north side of it,
see?”
“I see,” said George, “but where’s the use? Suppose we manage to hide
entirely from them, where’s the use? They’ll take the tents and stores
as you said—and where will we be?”
“Now see here,” said the rat trap man. “It’s ten to one the whole crowd
will come ashore, leaving only a couple of guys to look after the ship.
They’ll beach the boat, leaving a man to look after her and scatter up
to the tents, see?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s a chance that we may be able to make a dash for the
boat, knock the chap on the head, push her off and get to the schooner.”
“Good!” cried Tommie.
“And suppose there’s a lot of fellows on the schooner?” asked George.
“Oh, suppose anything. What do you think this show is? If I know
anything of that crowd, it’s our lives we are playing for and the
chances are a hundred to one against us. It all depends where they
beach the boat. Come along, it’s time to get to eastward of that rock.”
Hank, picking up a water beaker and a cup, they moved off to the rock
and put it between them and the sea.
Before taking shelter, Hank shaded his eyes and looked out to sea.
“It’ll take them near an hour to get in,” said he.
Half an hour passed and then the thirst began. Used as they were to
the sun, they had never before experienced the ordeal of sitting still
with the sun’s rays beating on them. Fortunately they wore panamas
and the wind from the sea licked round the rock every little while,
bringing a trace of coolness. Hank poured out the water and they
drank in turn every now and then. He insisted on wetting Tommie’s
head occasionally. They talked in whispers and scarcely at all,
listening—listening—listening. Time passed, bringing gulls’ voices, the
beat of the little waves on the beach, the silky whisper of the sand,
then suddenly far away—
_Rumble-tumble-tum-tum-tum._
The sound of an anchor chain running through a hawse pipe.
They looked at one another.
“That’s the killick,” murmured Hank. “It’s them right enough, they’ve
come right in knowing the ground, they wouldn’t have been in so quick
if they hadn’t been used to the place. Listen!” He had no need to tell
them to listen.
Time passed and the beach talked but no sound came from the sea but the
sound of the small waves.
Tommie suddenly nudged Hank. She nodded towards the cliffs. On the sky
edge of the cliffs something black showed, then it withdrew.
“Men,” whispered Tommie.
“Mexicans,” murmured Hank. The eerie feeling came to him that behind
those cliffs, in the gullies, men were swarming: that Sinaloa had
beaten up its bandits and desperadoes, just as he had expected it
would, and that the call of the diamonds like the call of a corpse
in the desert was bringing the vultures. They would connect this new
crowd just about to land with the treasure business. If they showed
themselves too soon, then McGinnis and his men would be frightened off.
McGinnis was bad, but the Mexicans were worse. Hank did not often say
his prayers, but he prayed just then that cunning might be granted to
the greasers not to shout before the game was corralled.
He needn’t.
There came far away voices from the sea and the creak of oars—nearer.
“Get your hind legs ready,” whispered Hank.
Crash! the oars were in. Then came a burst of yells as though a pack of
demons had suddenly been unleashed and unmuzzled.
Hank sprang to his feet. Leading the others, he dodged round the north
side to the seaward side of the rock. A hundred and fifty yards away to
the south a big boat had been beached. It lay unattended. Like a pack
of hounds on a hot scent the McGinnis crowd were racing up towards the
tents. You could have covered them with a blanket. Blind to everything
but loot and vengeance, a trumpet would not have turned them.
Hank seized Tommie by the hand and started.
It was a hundred and fifty yards from the rock to the boat, the going
good over a strip of hard sand uncovered by the ebbing tide.
From the boat to the nearest tent was about a hundred yards, the going
bad over soft friable sand.
They had made fifty yards unnoticed, when Tommie tripped and fell. Hank
picked her up and flung her on his shoulder.
The ruffians, racing from tent to tent hunting, cursing, rooting about,
saw nothing till Pat McGinnis himself, turning from Tommie’s tent empty
like the rest, saw the whole of Hank’s cards on the table—so to speak.
All but the ace of trumps.
He whipped it from his belt, aimed, took a long shot on chance, and,
leading the others, raced back for the sea edge.