THE FIRST BLOW.
"THIS mystery business just seems to get thicker and thicker," Captain
Westfield remarked, when Charley had finished relating his experience
of the day. "Smokeless powder and Maxim silencers are no ways common
out in these woods."
"It startled me for a minute," Charley admitted. "No smoke, no
sound--just the whine of the bullets coming out of that frightful
jungle got me for a while. I did not know which way to go, forward
or back. I don't know whether they meant to kill me or not, but they
pretty nearly scared me to death."
"Did you meet a little man with a spade-like beard?" Walter asked.
"No," said his chum. "Was there one here?"
"Yes. He was on horseback, and came from the direction of Jupiter. The
bridge builders stopped him and sent in word to me. I went out and
escorted him by the machine. He said his name was Jones, and that he
had a young orange grove out near Indiantown."
"You did not let him go near the machine, did you?" Charley inquired
anxiously.
"I did not," said his chum emphatically. "He wanted to stop and chat
with the engineers, but I told him we did not permit anyone around the
machine but our own men, and he rode on."
"Funny," Charley observed. "I did not meet him. He must have turned off
into the woods somewhere. I wish I had got a glimpse of him. I have an
idea that he is the boss those convicts were talking about."
"He was a mild-mannered, kind of timid-looking, little man," Walter
objected. "He did not look as though he would hurt a fly."
"Mild-appearing men are sometimes the worst of all," Charley observed,
as he stretched out on his cot. "Gee! but I am tired enough for a
twenty-four hours' sleep."
But, tired as he was, the lad could not go to sleep. His active brain
kept turning over every event that had occurred, in a vain search for
a clew as to who their enemies were, and what was their purpose. That
they would resort to desperate measures, if necessary, he had not the
slightest doubt. The placing of the dynamite under the machine, the
presence of the convicts, and the shots in the jungle, proved that. It
must be a powerful motive that would induce men to go so far. For all
his knowledge of the state and its people, the lad could not think of
anything in this wild, remote country that would tempt men to risk the
hangman's rope.
Suddenly the lad raised himself on his arm again and listened. One of
the sentinels had cried "Halt!" Then in quick succession came repeated
cries of "Halt! Halt! Halt!" and then a shot.
Charley leaped from his cot, calling his companions, and, quickly
lighting a lantern, found his rifle. But, before he could pull on his
shoes, the flap of the tent was thrown open, and one of the sentinels,
white-faced and trembling, rushed in.
"Me killie de man! Me killie de man!" he cried in broken English.
By this time both the Captain and Walter were awake, and the three
gathered around the guard, somewhat pale themselves, for they were not
the kind that value human life lightly.
"Go on, and tell us all about it," commanded Charley. "Talk Spanish."
The guard broke into a torrent of words. "He had seen the man
approaching in the mist. Four times he had called to him to halt but
the man kept coming on. Then he had fired and the man had dropped, and
now he, Gomez, would be hung."
The chums had been pulling on their shoes and pants as they listened to
the frightened Spaniard, and now seizing their automatics and giving
the guard the lantern, they told him to lead the way to where the man
lay.
It was but a short way from the tents, that the Spaniard stopped and
pointed ahead. "There he lies," he said. "I do not want to gaze on him.
May the Blessed Virgin forgive me for his death."
The boys, peering into the mist, could dimly see a dark form lying on
the ground ahead of them.
Charley snatched the lantern from the Spaniard's shaking hand and
darted ahead. A few steps brought him to the motionless form. When the
lantern's light fell upon it, he gave a howl of laughter, for, instead
of lighting up the pale face of a dead man, as he had expected, its
rays revealed the form of a small black bear.
At the sound of his laughter, Gomez timidly approached. His delight was
unbounded when he found out that it was a bear and not a man he had
killed. The four of them picked up the bear and carried it back to the
cook tent.
"Where is Lavinia, Gomez?" Charley asked as they laid the bear down
near the tent. "Why did he not come to your aid when you fired?"
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. "I have not seen him since I shot.
He is afraid maybe. Maybe he climb up a tree."
But Charley did not join in the Spaniard's laugh; instead, he picked up
the lantern. "Come on," he said shortly. "Let's see what has become of
him."
Already the guards had tramped a beaten track around the camp and
it was not difficult to find where Lavinia had made his half of the
circle. Midway of it lay the Spaniard, face down on the ground.
"Esto Morta (he is dead)!" cried Gomez.
"No," Charley said, as he felt of the man's wrist. "He has just
fainted, I guess. Give me a hand and we will carry him into our tent.
We don't want to rouse up the whole camp and get every one excited."
They bore the Spaniard into their own tent and laid him on Charley's
cot. A sprinkling of cold water in his face, and a small drink of
liquor quickly brought the man to his senses. "What's the matter with
you?" Charley asked when the Spaniard had emerged from his stupor.
"I do not know, señor," replied the guard. "Everything go black all of
a sudden. I know nothing more--head hurts more now bad."
Charley examined his head. "The skin is broken a little," he said. "I
guess you must have hit it against something when you fell. How do you
feel now? Feel able to get over to your tent and get to bed?"
"I go back on guard," the man said as he staggered to his feet. "I feel
all right again pretty soon," but as he still appeared half dazed the
lad insisted on his going to his tent. Gomez was sent back on guard
and Charley took the sick man's place. Both the Captain and Walter
offered to take the guard duty, but Charley refused.
"You both have to work to-morrow," he said, "while I will have most
of the day to rest up in. I don't feel the least bit sleepy now," and
in truth he did not. This new incident had given him fresh food for
thought. It had needed only a glance at the wound on Lavinia's head
to convince him that it had been made by a bullet. If he had had the
slightest doubt, it would have been dispelled by the fact that they had
found the Spaniard lying face down. Their hidden enemies were getting
bold.
When daylight came the weary, troubled lad drank a cup of coffee Chris
had ready for him and tumbled down on his cot for a few hours' sleep.
He was up again before noon, and after a hasty lunch he drove the truck
into Jupiter after the supplies he had ordered from Jacksonville. He
found them waiting for him, and after loading them on the truck, he
wrote out a telegram to the sheriff and handed it to the agent, who
whistled as he read it over. "There's a big reward offered for those
four men," he commented as he clicked off the message with his key.
"They are all four of them desperate characters. I guess I'll wait for
the sheriff's reply;" then Charley said: "If there's a reward in it, we
might want our share. Money isn't any too plentiful with us yet. By the
way," he continued, "do you know a little man with mild blue eyes and
a spade-like beard that goes by the name of Jones?"
"I don't know him, but I see him quite often," said the friendly agent.
"He comes and goes here quite frequently, generally on night trains.
He gets a lot of telegrams here. Most of them come from the state
capital and New York. They are all code messages, that I can't make
head or tail of. Everyone here in town knows him, but nobody knows his
business, which is unusual in a little town like this. When he comes
here he generally hires a horse and spends most of his time riding out
in the woods. There, that's the reply to your message, I guess." He
scribbled rapidly on a telegraph blank while the instrument clicked
noisily. "That satisfactory?" he asked, as he tossed the sheet to
Charley with a smile.
"Sure," Charley grinned, as he read:
"SHERIFF'S OFFICE,
Palm Beach Co.
"The four escaped convicts you described are desperate
characters--$500 reward offered for the capture of
each. We'll divide reward. Too late to come to-day.
Will come out by auto to-morrow morning and bring
posse."
"SHERIFF."
It was almost dark when Charley got back to camp with his load, and he
was thoroughly tired out, but he felt happier in spirits than he had
in many days.
"We've only got one more night of suspense to go through," he told his
chums, over the campfire. "The sheriff will be out in the morning,
with his posse, and that will dispose of the convicts, make us $1,000
richer, and we will have peace for a while, I hope. Has that little
man, Jones, come back yet, Walt?"
"Haven't seen anything of him," his chum replied. "The convicts are
still camped in the same place. At any rate I can see the smoke of
their campfire from the machine."
"Good!" Charley exclaimed. "You fellows can sit up and talk, as long as
you want to--I'm going to bed. I'm dead tired."