AT THE OLD MISSION.
When Nat saw the light, carried by the men whom they had been following,
vanish as if it had been a Will o’ the Wisp, it will be recalled that
both he and Joe started forward suddenly. It was an ill-advised move,
for the instant that they advanced from behind a still up-standing
section of the ruined mission wall, which had obscured the lantern, old
Israel and his two sons sprang upon them.
Entirely unprepared for such a move, the two boys were taken off their
guard, but nevertheless the oar which Joe carried came into effective
play. Seth Harley grabbed him, but as his hands clutched the Hartley
boy’s clothing, “Whack!” came Joe’s oar on his arm, temporarily
disabling him.
With a howl of mingled rage and pain, Seth held back, leaving the field
to his father and brother. Old Israel, although of great age,
demonstrated his ability in a rough and tumble, leaping at Nat and
pinioning his arms before the boy had a chance to defend himself. Joe
having disposed of Seth for the time being, dashed to the rescue, but he
was, in turn, tackled by old Israel’s other son and borne to the ground
almost as soon as he interfered.
The unequal contest came to a speedy conclusion, with the Harleys
victorious. Nat and Joe found themselves bound and secured, hand and
foot, within a few seconds from the time that they had engaged the
smuggler’s crowd.
“Thought we wasn’t on the lookout, did yer?” scoffed old Israel, as he
made some lashings of rope fast about the boys’ wrists and ankles.
“Wa’al, you got another guess comin’ now, ain’t ye? What’ll we do with
’em, boys?”
It was useless to make any outcry, and both lads knew it, so in silence
they awaited the verdict that was to decide their fate. It was Seth
Harley who delivered it:
“That pesky kid, thar’, got away from us once and I ain’t calculatin’ to
hev him do it agin,” he said. “Let’s put ’em in the old Booty Hole.
It’ll be a long time afore they git out of thar’, I’m thinkin’.”
Naturally enough, neither of the boys had the least idea of what the
“Booty Hole” was, but Nat opined that it was some sort of a cellar or
excavation amidst the ruins, and in this he was not mistaken. The two
lads were roughly seized and pushed forward among the ruins without any
regard to their feelings. As they were half-dragged, half-shoved over
the rough ground and piled-up debris, old Israel kept up a running fire
of satirical comment on their plight.
“Wa’al, this is sure a fine fix fer two bright byes to be in, ain’t it?”
he grinned. “Two nice young fellers that thought they knew it all, hum?
This is the one time that you don’t git away, kid,” he added, addressing
Nat with a vicious intonation. “We’re a-goin’ ter put yer where you
won’t git out till Kingdom Come, and maybe not then.”
The boys did not reply. To have given utterance to their feelings in
words would have been as useless as to have made active resistance.
Seth, who was slightly in advance, while old Harley and his other son
held the boys, paused suddenly.
“Here we are,” he said, and stooping, he raised a big flat stone which
in turn disclosed a door, apparently a part of the cellarage of the
former mission building.
There was a ring in the door which the younger Harley gripped, and then
flung the portal back. It revealed a steep flight of steps and beyond
them abysmal darkness. It was plain enough to the boys that they were to
be thrust into this place as prisoners.
If any doubt of this fact had existed in their minds it was speedily
dissipated.
“Git down thar’,” growled old Harley with an oath, as he gave Nat a
vicious shove.
“See here, Harley,” exclaimed the boy. “What useful purpose do you think
you’re serving by treating us this way? You know as well as I do that
you are amenable to the law for your conduct. Don’t think for a minute
that you can ever escape your just punishment.”
“Talk like a striplin’ preacher, don’t yer?” sneered the old man. “Jes’
let me tell yer one thing, young feller, thar’ ain’t a law in Santy
Barbary County that kin touch ole Iz Harley; so put that in your pipe
an’ smoke it.”
The boys were suddenly jerked forward, and toppling over, fell in a heap
down the steep steps of the cellarage. Then they heard the door above
them slammed to with a bang, and they were alone in the darkness, lying,
luckily uninjured, at the foot of the steps.
“Nat, are you all right?” spoke Joe.
“Sure, but I feel a bit dizzy after that plunge.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Get out of here if possible.”
“I like that ‘if possible’! There doesn’t look to me to be a chance on
earth.”
“If only we could get these ropes off! Say, mine are kind of loose
around the wrists! Maybe I can wriggle out of ’em. If I can, we can at
least get the use of our hands and feet again.”
Nat worked hard for half an hour or more on his wrist bonds and finally
succeeded in stretching them till he could get his hands free. In their
haste, the Harleys had not bothered to tie the ropes really tight or the
boys’ plight would have indeed been a desperate one.
“Whoopee! I’m loose,” he cried presently. “Lucky the Harleys didn’t
bother to search us or we might have more hard work ahead of us, but I
reckon this knife will help some.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his knife and slashed at his leg
bonds. In another minute he was free, and Joe’s liberty followed
immediately.
“Now for some matches,” exclaimed Joe.
“I think I’ve got some,” responded Nat. “Yes, hurray, here’s a whole
box!”
He struck a lucifer and a yellow flame flared up, illumining their
surroundings. They saw that they were in a smallish excavation with
bricked-up sides. From the walls hung moldering chains suggesting that
at one time the place might have been used as a prison for rebellious
Indians or fractious monks. But the boys didn’t waste much time in
looking at their prison. By common consent they made for the stairway.
“I guess old Harley must have used this place to store his smuggled
goods at some time or other,” hazarded Nat, as they ascended the steps;
“it must have made an ideal place for the purpose, too.”
“Well, I hope it wasn’t made to store two boys in,” commented Joe.
“Not these two, anyhow, let’s hope,” added Nat.
They were not surprised to find that the door at the head of the steps
did not yield to their shovings.
“I’ll bet they’ve weighted it down with old rocks and debris,” cried
Nat, recalling sundry noises he had heard on the door after it was
slammed shut.
“What shall we do now?” wondered Joe, with a note of despair in his
voice.
“Let’s look around down below and see if we can’t find something that we
can use to force the door in some way,” said Nat.
They descended the steps once more, this time in the darkness, for it
was necessary to husband their stock of matches. When they reached the
floor of the old cellar Nat struck a light, and after one or two matches
had been expended they were fortunate enough to discover in a corner of
the place a stout oaken plank, which had apparently once formed part of
a flooring.
“Good!” exclaimed Nat.
“I don’t quite see how that solves our problem,” commented Joe.
“Wait and you’ll see,” was the reply, and Nat once more led the way up
the steps.
At one point the door did not fit closely, and it was here that Nat
inserted one end of the plank.
“Catch hold,” he told Joe, and then using the plank as a pry the two
boys bent all their strength toward raising the door.
As the portal sloped outward the stones with which the Harleys had
weighted it slipped back, and it was not long before the two lads were
free once more.
“Thank goodness, we’ve seen the last of that place,” said Joe, as they
stood in the open with the wind howling furiously about them and the
rain beating across the sands, for the storm had once more revived with
more fury than ever.
“Not the last of it, Joe, for we’re coming back there.”
“What for, I’d like to know? Just for old acquaintance sake?”
“No; for a more material reason. Didn’t you notice those boxes and bales
in one corner? Old Harley must have used it as a storehouse for his
smuggled stuff just as he did the cave, and I think they were intending
to visit it to-night when we surprised them.”
“Ginger! Nat, I guess you’re right. Maybe those things are valuable.”
“Not a question of that. But now let’s get on our way back to the
wireless station. Nate may need our help by this time.”
Putting their best pace forward, the two boys headed for the huts. They
were not more than half way there, when out of the storm a figure
appeared. It was Nate. He gave a shout of relief at seeing them
unharmed.
“From the talk of those fellows I thought you were in a living tomb,” he
explained; “they said they’d buried you alive where you’d never get
out.”
Nat laughed.
“I guess a good many folks have thought that they had the Motor Rangers
down and out,” he said, “but they are here yet. Now, tell us what
happened over at the station, Nate.”
“If it hadn’t a’ bin fer this storm, I reckon there’s a whole lot of
things would a’ happened,” was the reply; “but it come on to blow so
hard that they was scared their ground tackle would drag and put the
schooner on shore,—you know the wind’s shifted and is blowing right
inter the cove. The two fellers I was shadowin’ made straight fer the
wireless hut and I reckon calkerlated to smash things up generally, but
I got on the job with my oar,—by the way, I busted it,—and persuaded ’em
it would be healthier for them some other place.”
“What, you routed two of them?” cried Nat.
“Don’t know about routed ’em, but I sure got ’em on the run. Then the
others come along and hollered to ’em, and, as by that time it was
blowing great guns, I reckon they thought it ’ud be a sight better to
vamoose than to bother after me; so they all piled inter the boat and
rowed off to the schooner. She’s been gone about an hour. Then I set out
to look fer you, fer I heard ’em boasting about how they’d got you
bottled up.”
By the time Nate had finished his narrative they were almost at the
huts.
“Now for a good, hot supper and bed!” cried Joe luxuriously, as they
came in sight of the structures. “We’ve had just about enough excitement
for one night, I guess.”
But they were not destined to slumber uninterruptedly. It was past
midnight when the loud and insistent clangor of the wireless gong routed
them out of bed.
“News of Ding-dong, I’ll bet a cookie,” cried Joe, slipping on a
bathrobe and slippers and running for the wireless shack. But it was not
any information concerning Ding-dong that came winging through the
storm-stressed air. Instead, it was a message for assistance of the most
urgent kind. Nat, who was listening in at the extra receivers, gave a
gasp as he heard it.
The message was from the Pancake Shoals Lightship and called for
immediate assistance.
“_We are adrift after collision with a schooner_,” was the despatch.
“_Send help at once. Braithwaite._”
“That’s the old skipper who was so kind to me the night I escaped from
the cave,” cried Nat. “Tell him we’ll get on the job at once, Joe. Ask
him to give us his position.”
“Why, we can’t tow him with the _Nomad_,” objected Joe.
“We’ll try to. There isn’t a steam tug in the harbor now. I happen to
know, for I saw the last one, the _Sea King_, steaming north with a tow
when I was over there. It’s up to us to help out.”
Joe turned to his instruments, while the wind howled and screamed about
the little shanty. Briskly he tapped out the message and then waited for
the answer. Both boys felt the wonder of it as they listened to the
manifold noises of the storm. The marvel of an electric wave that could
penetrate the disturbed elements and carry a message of hope and succor
to a distressed craft! The answer was not long in coming.
“_We are drifting south rapidly. About ten miles off shore. Come with
all speed you can._”
The situation was hastily explained to Nate, who had joined them, and in
less time than would have seemed possible the trio were in oil skins and
rowing out to the _Nomad_. Joe acted as engine tender while Nate and Nat
held the bridge. Out into the storm pushed the stout little craft with
her engines going full speed.
As she rounded the point that terminated the cove, however, Nat had to
signal, “Slow down.” The seas were running furiously, lashed by the gale
into watery mountains. Into the vortex of the battling, unrestrained
elements the _Nomad_ plunged like a gladiator. A huge wave hurtled over
the bow dousing the occupants of the bridge with blindfolding, choking
spray. Nat realized that they were bent on a desperately dangerous
adventure.