"Caw! Caw!" sounded with startling distinctness in the still, dark
wooded depths of Ross island. For a moment the silence was intense;
then it was broken again by the familiar, long-drawn out, guttural
cry, "Caw! caw!" of the black scavenger bird. And silence once more
settled down upon the scene, and seemed deeper, thicker and more
profound than before.
It may have been a half a minute after the second cry when an answer,
faint, though clearly audible, was echoed from a neighboring part of
the woods.
"Come on!" quietly exclaimed Sam Harris, who, with John Thorpe, stood
beside the trunk of a fir that grew midway on the island near its
north end.
"An uncanny signal!" remarked Mr. Thorpe, in the same low tones.
"Yes, somehow I feel as though it betokens serious business," softly
replied Sam. "Be careful. A thick vine here. Step clear," he
whispered, as they moved cautiously along.
They had proceeded in silence some distance, part of the time groping
their way by the aid of a match, lighted now and again, but artfully
concealed, for the darkness was very deep, when through a rift in the
wild growth of underbrush a man's form was seen to move.
"Wait!" suddenly whispered Sam, in a warning tone. "There is a man
ahead of us."
There was no mistaking it, for as they stood stock-still in their
tracks, they saw a man's form occasionally obtruding between them and
an electric light that shed its rays from afar off, across the water.
"Do you think he is the detective?" asked Thorpe, in a low voice.
"Wait!" and Sam placed his two hands over his mouth so as to form a
hollow, and called out in moderate tones: "Caw! caw!"
It was answered by a single "caw," low, but seemingly so near that
they were startled, and for a moment felt that they were being
deceived.
They remained motionless and silent--Sam with his hand grasping the
butt of a revolver.
The "caw" was repeated low, but with reassuring effect, for they now
discovered that while the sound was apparently near, due to
atmospheric conditions, it was in reality fully two hundred feet away.
"Detective Simms," whispered Sam. "He is waiting for us."
"Then let's hurry," urged his companion.
The words had scarcely left his lips when Thorpe's boot caught in a
vine and down he went, making considerable noise as he stumbled and
fell on his hip.
"You must be more careful," enjoined Sam, in a low tone, as he helped
Thorpe to his feet.
"Much haste, less speed, and then a little noise may endanger our
success, I fear. Are you hurt?"
"No, thanks. Let's go on," impatiently replied Thorpe.
As they drew near the detective, in order to make doubly sure of
avoiding a trap, Sam uttered in a low voice the word "Hope!" It was a
watchword previously arranged and provided as an additional precaution
against a possible contingency of deep darkness rendering prompt
recognition difficult.
It was answered by the word "Good," uttered in equally low and
cautious tones, and which at once put them at their ease.
Almost immediately they met the detective at the edge of the clearing.
Before them, a little to the left, dimly but clearly outlined against
the harbor lights, was a typical Willamette River cabin, commonly
known on the waterfront as a "scow dwelling," moored about fifty feet
from the shore, broadside on. It was the object of their venture.
So intent were they on sizing it up, and the problem of boarding it,
that they were quite insensible to the magnificent panorama spread out
beyond, and further to the left of Portland by night. At their feet
the dark, shimmering Willamette silently glided along its course to
the mighty Columbia; the great bridges on which the street cars, in a
blaze of light, swiftly crossed and recrossed the gloomy river; the
darkly-outlined towering masts of the ocean shipping in the lower
harbor, the great industrial landmarks that reared their lofty shadows
in different parts of the city. The myriad of bluish electric lights,
that shone out like diamonds in the clear, balmy night, spread out
over the city and up and up, in terraces and by gradual stages, to the
hills, and along the heights that stretched away north-westerly. For
miles on either side of the river the lights spread out, till at
length, in diminishing brilliancy, they were lost in the shadow of the
distant rugged hills, whose irregular dark-wooded crests were sharply
defined against the rare splendor of the firmament, then aglow with
glittering stars.
In fact, all the grandeur of the far-stretching panorama was neglected
and lost to them in the intensity of their gaze upon the humble
dwelling before them, built on a raft of logs.
(Booms of saw-logs are now moored abreast the cabin anchorage.)
Sam left Thorpe and the detective and wormed his way nearer the shore,
to a position where he could obtain a better view of the cabin. Lying
flat on his stomach, and concealed as much as possible, behind some
driftwood and low, dead brush, he listened intently, and studied the
situation with the practical eye of the frontiersman. He made out the
cabin to be about twenty-four feet long, seven or eight feet high,
with two small windows on the side which was nearest him. There being
a light in one of the windows, he concluded the cabin was divided into
at least two parts. The logs upon which the cabin was built projected
some four feet at either end, on which was a platform, but no
protecting railing. Proof that the occupant was not a family man, as
"scow-dwellers" with children are careful to have railings about their
craft.
He judged that the logs were large and water-soaked, and securely
fastened together, and by their combined weight effected a certain
stability and steadiness to the cabin resting thereon, during bad
weather.
There appeared no means of reaching the cabin except by boat or
swimming, and the mud of the river bottom at that point was evidently
deep. Now and again he heard voices in the cabin, seemingly in
altercation. But the distance was too great for him to distinguish the
words. The quietness was profound except for the gentle lapping of the
water, and disturbed occasionally by ripping sounds from a sawmill
some distance down the river, which, if anything, added to the
stillness instead of diminishing it.
Once he started at what sounded like a moan very near him, but it was
so indistinct, so much like a faint whispering whistle, and it was
immediately succeeded by the buzzing whirr of a bat as it darted
about, and deep silence again environing him, that he dismissed the
sound as a fantasy.
He was mentally calculating upon the chances of a surprise and rescue,
and in an attempt to drag himself a few feet nearer the water-line to
catch, if possible, some words of the conversation going on in the
cabin. He stretched out his right hand to grasp what appeared to be a
piece of driftwood, to aid in pulling himself along. His hand fell
upon the dry, warm body of some animal.
He almost yelled aloud, so great was his fright. For a moment his
heart beat madly. But the same strength of will that rushed to his aid
in smothering the yell also quieted his agitation and restored his
confidence.
The incident had almost jeopardized the favorable prospect of their
enterprise. But nothing untoward happening, he again put out his hand
and touched the body. It was warm and did not stir. The animal was
lying on its side, and he plainly felt a faint throbbing of its heart.
He ran his hand down its legs, then along its spine to a large limb of
a tree that lay across its neck. He concluded that it was a little dog
when his hand felt a small rope wound tightly about the limb.
His curiosity being fully aroused, he determined upon further
investigation. Not daring to light a match he did the next best thing
that occurred to him. Still retaining his prone position, Sam passed
his hand along the dog's spine to the fore shoulder, and under the
piece of wood, to its neck. Then he discovered the poor thing was in
the last throes of strangulation. Its breathing was scarcely
perceptible. Its tongue, swollen thick, protruded from its mouth.
Instantly his sympathy for the little sufferer became acute, and,
without thinking of possible results should the dog recover quickly,
whipped out his knife and severed the coils of rope about the limb.
Using his left hand as a lever, his elbow being a pivot, he pried up
the weighty limb and with his right hand drew the dog from under it
and to him. He quickly unwound the few remaining coils from around its
neck, and as he did so, smiled with pleasurable emotion--for he was
sure that he felt a feeble lick of the dog's tongue on his hand.
A dog's life is an inconsequential thing, according to some people's
way of thinking, but here was proof that under Sam's rough and
unpolished exterior there throbbed a heart full of gentleness and
sympathy for suffering animals. He took the dog, which he then
recognized as a small, shaggy Scotch terrier, under his arm and stole
back to the detective and Mr. Thorpe.
In discussing the affair afterward, it was deemed probable that the
detective, finding his long vigil at the edge of the woods tiresome,
had unconsciously fallen asleep; though he indignantly denied it, and
during that time the dog had been taken on shore and tied to a heavy
piece of driftwood to give warning of the approach of strangers by
night, but the poor thing had become tangled in the brush, and in its
efforts to extricate itself had tightly twisted the rope about its
neck, and the heavy limb had rolled over and pinioned it to the
ground.
In the meantime Mr. Thorpe and the detective were engaged in low,
earnest conversation.
"Are you satisfied the child is my little Dorothy?" asked Mr. Thorpe.
"I am not positive, but I believe so. I have watched all the afternoon
in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. Once I heard a child cry."
"Yet the child may not be Dorothy!"
"True!" replied the detective, "but whether the child be yours or not,
I am satisfied the little thing in that cabin is there against its
will."
"Did you note any visitors to the cabin this evening?"
"Yes; a man rowed over from the direction of 'Bundy's' about half an
hour ago. He is in there now."
"Do you think the Italian, his visitor and the child are the only ones
there?"
"I am positive they are the only ones in that cabin at this moment."
"Then let's wade out there," urged Mr. Thorpe.
"Careful!" cautioned Sam, who had just come up. "I know the Dago to be
a cunning and dangerous man. We could not wade out that far any way,
in the soft mud and tangled roots of that bottom. We must have the
small boat."
"What have you there?" It was the detective who spoke.
"Our first rescue. A mascot!" and then Sam related the incident.
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Thorpe. "Its bark would have betrayed us."
The three then held a brief consultation. Shortly afterward Sam
retraced his steps along the trail, back to the steam launch, with the
"mascot" steadily recovering, but still under his arm.