TRAPPED
For a few minutes the men toiled silently across loose, wet sand, and
then, on reaching a belt of shingle near high-water mark, stopped to
look about. Lights gleamed in the town across the bay, but except for
that it was very dark. A clump of trees that fringed the end of a ridge
of higher ground could barely be distinguished, but Grahame decided that
this must be the spot Evelyn had mentioned in her note. Though the
shingle rolled beneath his feet, the sound it made was lost in the roar
of the surf upon the point. Dry sand blew past, pricking his face, and
when he turned toward the sea he saw a group of indistinct objects still
standing about the boat.
"What are they waiting for?" he asked. "I told them to push off."
"I guess old Miguel takes an interest in us and wants to see we're all
right. He knows something about these fellows' tricks, and may not share
our confidence."
"Well, I guess those are the trees where we should meet our guide."
"The fellow might have come down to the beach," Walthew remarked. "I was
busy helping Mack during the run and hadn't much time to think, but it
now strikes me as curious that Miss Cliffe was able to send the note and
arrange for a guide when she was a prisoner."
"She must have got into touch with some of Don Martin's spies, and his
friends would be ready to help. But we had better get on."
They crossed the shingle, seeing nothing that suggested there was
anybody about, but Walthew grew uneasy as they approached the trees. The
belt of timber was wrapped in gloom, and rolled back up the rising
ground in shadowy masses that rustled in the wind. It had somehow a
forbidding look, and the nearer he got the less he liked it. He was not
daunted, and meant to go on, but his nerves were highly strung and his
glances suspicious as he tried to pierce the dark.
They found a trail through tall grass and reeds, and followed it across
a patch of boggy soil until it led them to an opening in the trees. Here
a shadowy object rose out of the gloom, and Walthew instinctively felt
for his pistol. The abrupt movement dislodged a small bundle of clothes
which he carried by a strap across his shoulder, and it fell to the
ground. Then he saw the man come forward, waving his hand.
"This way, senor!" he called to Grahame, who was some yards in front.
Walthew felt tempted to leave the bundle. He wanted to watch the man;
but there was a packet of cartridges among the clothes he had dropped,
and he thought they might prove useful. Stooping down, he felt among the
grass, but had to move once or twice before he found the bundle; then,
springing to his feet, he saw that Grahame and the other had vanished.
The next moment his comrade's voice reached him, hoarse and breathless:
"Run!"
That Grahame said nothing more was ominous; but Walthew did not run back
to the boat. Drawing his pistol, he plunged in among the trees, but as
he reached them he felt a stunning blow on his head. He staggered and
fell into a thicket, blinded by blood that ran into his eyes. A struggle
seemed to be going on near by, and, getting upon his knees, he fired at
random. He thought a man ran toward him, and he fired again, but his
mind was confused and he could hardly see. For all that, he got upon his
feet and stumbled forward, dazed but determined to rescue his comrade.
A few moments afterward it dawned on him that he was going the wrong
way, for he seemed to have come out on the beach. Two or three men were
hurrying toward him, but the pistol would not go off. Stumbling on with
his hand clenched on the barrel, ready to use the butt, he tripped and
fell among the rattling shingle. Then his senses left him.
The next thing of which he was conscious was a cool splash on his face,
and while he wondered what it was, he felt that he lay upon something
that moved in an erratic manner. It was not shingle, for it was smooth
when he touched it, but a minute or two passed before he realized that
he was lying in the sternsheets of the gig. She was plunging sharply,
the spray flew aft in showers, and when he wiped his eyes he saw that
the men were pulling hard. With some trouble he got to his knees, and
the top of a wave that washed across the gunwale struck his face.
"Where is the senor Grahame?" he asked faintly.
"Who knows!" somebody answered. "It seems the _rurales_ have him. We
came too late."
Walthew groaned, for his head was getting clearer. His comrade had
fallen into a trap.
"Pull her round," he said. "We're going back!"
For a moment or two nobody replied. The gig lurched wildly, and a
sea-top broke on board. Walthew dimly saw the men swing to and fro at
the oars. Their blurred figures cut the sky as the bow went up, and then
stood out against white foam as the craft plunged into a hollow.
"It is not possible, senor," Miguel said breathlessly.
Walthew scrambled to his feet, and stood swaying awkwardly with the
violent motion, in danger of going overboard. The sea had got worse, and
the savage wind lashed his wet face. It was blowing very hard, and the
turn of the tide had brought broken water nearer inshore; he could hear
the roar of the surf upon the beach. It would now be dangerous to land;
but he must try to rescue his comrade. He seized the oar the man nearest
to him pulled. The fellow pushed him back and, losing his balance as the
boat plunged over a comber, he fell heavily upon the floorings.
"We will smash the boat if we land, and there are _rurales_ on the
beach," he heard Miguel say. "The sea is bad; perhaps we cannot reach
the steamer."
Walthew realized that Miguel was right. The men were unarmed, except for
their knives, and something had gone wrong with his pistol. Even if they
escaped being swamped by the surf, it would be impossible to cross the
beach in face of a hostile force. He lay still with a groan. He felt
faint, his head ached excruciatingly, and blood still trickled into his
eyes. He had not seen the _Enchantress_ when he stood up, and the
desperate way the men were rowing showed that they found it hard to
drive the boat offshore.
After a while, however, a hail came out of the dark, the men pulled
furiously, and then threw down their oars. There was a crash and a rope
fell into the boat, which surged violently forward, grinding against the
steamer's side. Walthew did not know how he got on board, and he
imagined that he fainted soon afterward, for the next thing he
remembered was trying to get up from the top grating in the engine-room,
where Macallister sat beside him, holding a rag and a can of hot water.
"Keep still while I tie up the cut," he said.
"But they've got Grahame!" Walthew exclaimed, trying to rise.
Macallister gently pushed him back.
"I ken. A bad job, but we might have lost ye both." Then he took up a
piece of linen. "It's lucky ye'll no' need stitching, but maybe this
will nip."
Walthew's head smarted intolerably after the bandage was applied, but
the dazed feeling left him when Macallister gave him something to drink,
and he began to ask questions.
"Miguel heard a shot and ran back up the beach with the others,"
Macallister told him. "They found ye reeling aboot and brought ye down
to the gig, with two or three _rurales_ no' far behind; the rest must
have gone off with Grahame before our men came up. They had just time
to launch her before the _rurales_ began to shoot, but nobody was hit.
Looks as if ye had been knocked oot with a carbine butt."
"Where are we now?" Walthew asked.
"Steaming back to the lagoon as fast as I can drive her, and that's
aboot four knots against the gale. The best thing we can do is to send
Don Martin word, but ye'll go to sleep in the meanwhile. I canna' look
after ye; I hae my hands full."
The clanging of hard-driven engines, which quickened to a furious rattle
when the screw swung out, made the need for watchfulness plain, and
Walthew crept away to his berth. He wanted to help, but knew that to
attempt this would probably result in his falling among the machinery.
Dazed by the blow on his head, he soon fell asleep, and when he wakened
the vessel was at rest. There was no pounding of engines, and the water
no longer gurgled along her side, but he heard voices behind the
bulkhead.
Scrambling awkwardly out of the berth, he made his way on deck with some
difficulty. The fresh air revived him, and he saw that the _Enchantress_
was anchored in the lagoon, but he opened a door close by instead of
stopping to look about. Two or three of the revolutionaries whom he knew
were sitting round a table in the saloon, and as Walthew came in,
white-faced, with staring eyes and a red bandage round his head, one of
them threw up his hands.
"_Ave Maria!_" he exclaimed.
Walthew sat down with a jerk and nodded to Macallister.
"I'm better."
Then he turned to the others.
"What are we going to do?"
"Nothing, until to-night," said one. "We must wait for dark before it is
safe to move. They will not keep your comrade at Valverde, and we must
try to find out where they have taken him."
"I'll be quite well in a few hours," Walthew declared. "But what is
likely to happen to Grahame?"
The man shrugged.
"Who knows! The regular course would be to try him for smuggling arms,
but I do not think the President will follow that plan. They may send
him to Rio Frio, because it is some distance from the coast, and it is
possible he will be given a chance of escaping on the way."
"Do you mean that they may let him go?" Walthew asked eagerly.
"He would not go very far. You must understand that the _rurales_ have
authority to shoot a prisoner who tries to escape, and the Government
finds this useful. Sometimes they arrest a man whom they think the court
could not convict, and an excuse is found for not watching him very
closely when he is being taken to the nearest jail; perhaps a guard is
called away when they stop for food. There is cover near, and the
prisoner makes a dash for freedom; then the guard, who has been hiding,
fires and the administration is rid of an enemy. Sometimes the _rurales_
break into the house of an obnoxious person and, taken by surprise, he
gets angry. A threatening movement is enough; he is shot down. It is
simpler than taking him before a judge who may be bribed to let him go."
"A gang o' bloodthirsty scoundrels! I'm thinking it's time ye turned on
them," Macallister said, while Walthew sat silent with a tense face and
fury in his eyes. "But, so far as we ken, they havena' shot Mr.
Grahame."
"No, senor," said another. "I think he is safe, for a time. He might
prove too useful for them to shoot, at least, not until they have tried
other means."
"If ye believe they can frighten or buy him----" Macallister began
savagely; but the man waved his hand.
"Senor, I only think we must set him free as soon as possible, and you
will agree about the need for that."
"I'm coming with you," said Walthew grimly. "If I'm not satisfied with
your plans, I'll do the thing in my own way."
Macallister gave him a sharp glance. Walthew did not look fit to travel,
but Macallister knew that objections would be futile. The boy had grown
older and sterner in a night.
The revolutionaries began to talk about what had better be done, and it
was decided that Macallister must remain in charge of the vessel, which
he would hide in a creek, so as to provide a means of escape, if this
should be needed. The others would start for Rio Frio as soon as it was
dark and, if they could gather a strong enough force, try to overtake
and attack Grahame's escort on the march. Failing this, they would
follow the _rurales_ to Rio Frio, and be guided by circumstances when
they got there. Walthew took no part in the discussion, but when it was
finished he got up and stood looking at the others sternly.
"We are going to save my partner, and not to do something that may help
you in your political schemes," he said. "It may save trouble if you
bear this in mind."
They assured him that Grahame's rescue was a matter of importance to
them; and when, shortly afterward they left the ship, Walthew went to
his berth and slept until the afternoon. He was getting better, for it
was not the cut but the jar on his skull that had dazed him, and the
effect of this was passing.
When the evening mist began to creep across the lagoon a canoe came off
and a half-breed stood up in her as she approached the gangway.
"The senores are waiting," he announced.
Walthew shook hands with Macallister.
"I'll either bring him back or stop with him," he said grimly. "Your
business is to be ready to take us off."
"Good luck to ye!" returned Macallister in a rather hoarse voice. "If
ye're long aboot it, I'll come after ye myself!"
When Walthew got into the canoe and vanished in the haze, Macallister
went down to his engine-room and fiercely set about some work that might
as well have been left undone.