THE FIGHT IN THE CAVE
With the sands of the sea-beach gritting beneath their feet, Slade
ordered a halt and conferred with the Mexican. Then he whispered to
Billings: "This is the isthmus bay where I told the men to land. I know
where I am now all right. Around the next point is the goose-neck. The
cave Joe speaks of is at the far end of the cove. It has two entrances,
one from the bluff and one from the beach. Jack Smith's been in it. I'm
going to send him ahead. Take a look for the landing boats down by the
water."
Billings disappeared on the instant and a moment later rejoined his
chief.
"Everything's O.K.," he announced. "The men have landed and are standing
by for instructions."
"Tell them to carry the dingeys clear of the tide and join me here,"
Slade directed. "Send one boat back to the _Bennington_ and have the
skipper move her around to the goose-neck in ten minutes. Tell him to
nail anything that's at anchor in the cove."
Billings returned in a few minutes accompanied by the men from the
revenue cutter. Silently they grouped themselves about their chief and
waited for instructions.
Gregory crowded closer and listened while Slade gave the men their
orders. The deputies were to be divided. A few of the best trained men,
familiar with the local topography, were to scout on in advance,
entering the cave from the bluff-side. The others were to move along the
beach, surround the main entrance and cut off escape to the water. All
were to challenge once. Then shoot to kill.
Slade selected his men carefully. When he came to Gregory he said: "Stay
with the main body on the beach."
It was in Gregory's mind to argue. Slade was throwing him into the
discard. What chance would he have of finding Mascola at the main
entrance to the cave? The leader of the advance was already marshaling
his men about him.
Gregory found Hawkins and the two men walked away from the others,
whispering together. Hawkins returned alone. When the advance party had
left Slade checked up the men who remained.
"I'm a man short," he announced. "What became of Mr. Gregory? I told him
to stay here."
Hawkins shook his head blankly when questioned concerning the sudden
disappearance of his friend. Gregory might have misunderstood. It was
not like him to disobey orders. In any case Slade need not worry. His
ex-captain was used to scouting and had received many citations during
the war for crossing the enemy's lines. Gregory would be a help to the
advance if he had gone with them, Hawkins stoutly maintained. Then he
lied earnestly: "He knows that cave like a book."
Joining the men detailed to enter the cave in advance, when they reached
the top of the bluff, Gregory reported to the officer in charge.
"Mr. Slade sent me to join you," he said. "I brought him over from
Legonia in my launch."
Jack Smith hesitated. "All right," he muttered after a moment. "Slade's
the boss. Take off that slicker. It'll catch on the brush. Follow after
the others and stay close. Don't do anything until I tell you."
His manner was curt and plainly showed that he was not pleased with the
latest addition to the party. But Kenneth Gregory cared little for that.
If the _Gray Ghost_ was at the goose-neck, the chances were that Mascola
would be in the cave. And Mascola must be given no chance to escape.
As he followed after the others down the winding sheep-trail, before
Gregory's eyes flashed a vision of his father's battered face staring up
at him from the canvas bundle on the hatch. Then came the memory of
Mascola's insolent look of triumph when he had first beheld Richard
Gregory's son on the wharf at Legonia. Why had he not seen and
understood before this?
But then, he had had no proof. He reflected bitterly that he had no
proof now. Only a Mexican's unsupported word that Mascola had stood by
while his father and Bill Lang were murdered by his men. That was not
enough. Mascola might be convicted of smuggling but he would go clear on
the charge of murder.
Gregory shook his head slowly in the darkness. No, Mascola would not go
clear. He would choke a confession from the Italian with his own hands.
Somewhere below him in the fog, a girl waited for him to bring back her
father's murderer. The girl he loved, had always loved, but had never
known it before to-night. If he failed, he could never face Dickie Lang
again. But he would not fail.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of sharp scuffling ahead.
Rushing down the trail he came upon the deputies struggling with two men
in the bottom of a small ravine. As he assisted the revenue men in
securing their captives, he heard Smith whisper: "Down the gulch, men.
Take it easy. It's steep. Stay with these fellows, Joe."
The air which sucked through the ravine grew colder as they descended.
Then the dank atmosphere became strongly permeated with the odor of
fish. Gregory felt a hand upon his arm.
"Go last," Smith ordered. "Watch the others. Do what they do. No more."
Foot by foot, the men wormed their way over the dry sticks which choked
the entrance to the cave. Then Smith ordered a halt.
Leaving a half dozen men at the entrance he instructed them: "Watch this
outlet. When you hear a shot inside, light the signal flares and throw
them inside. Then you can see anybody that tries to get by you. They're
going to do the same thing at the main entrance." Beckoning Gregory and
the two remaining deputies to his side, he said: "We'll go on into the
cave. Keep close behind me. When I give the signal by calling on them to
give themselves up, each one of you pick a man and hang to him. They
haven't a chance of getting out with both entrances lit up and guarded.
Come on."
The carpet of dried sea-grass thrown up by the high tides, deadened
their footsteps as they crawled into the cave. For an instant they crept
on through the darkness. Then a twist in the pathway brought a faint
gleam of light ahead. Smith flattened to the kelp and wriggled nearer
with the two men behind him following close. Gregory was the last to
reach the surface of a table-like ledge of rock which ribbed their path
and projected outward over the cavern. Crawling abreast of the deputies,
he raised slowly to his elbow and looked down.
The floor of the cave lay only a few feet below, faintly discernible in
the yellow light which issued from a hooded lantern. Gregory's eyes
searched the grotesque shadows which fell athwart the rocky floor.
Were there no men in the cave?
For an instant no sound broke the stillness. Then, from the darkness
beyond the lantern, came the shuffling of footsteps and three fishermen
stepped out into the circle of light and dropped to their knees on the
rocky floor.
Gregory's eyes opened wider. The cavern floor was literally covered with
fish. As he sought to fathom the strange actions of the fishermen as
they passed silently up and down the long rows of albacore, the silence
was broken by an angry snarl and the figure of another man leaped out
from the shadow. Rushing upon one of the fishermen, he shook him roughly
by the arm. Then the rays of the lantern fell upon his face.
Gregory's automatic was in his hand as he caught sight of Mascola.
Holding the weapon close against his coat to muffle the click of the
hammer, he cocked the revolver and shoved it forward over the ledge. For
an instant the muzzle wavered, then drew steadily upward until the
sights were in line with Mascola's waistband. What an easy shot it was.
He couldn't miss. What was the matter with his trigger finger? His arm
slowly relaxed. He couldn't shoot the man from the dark.
He'd shoot you quick enough.
I know he would, but----
He murdered your father. He didn't give him a chance, did he?
There was logic in that. The arm which held the automatic stiffened. The
eyes which glinted over the sights, grew hard, then closed to blot out
the hated visage. When they opened again, the temptation had passed and
Mascola was walking again to the shadow.
From the ledge above the cave a bright ray of light followed the figure
of the Italian. Mascola leaped to cover behind a huge rock.
The same instant the roar of a pistol shot deafened Gregory's ear. As
Smith fired into the air to give the signal to the men without, he
cried: "Hands up, men. You're prisoners of the United States."
The flash-light fell from the deputy's hand as an answering shot echoed
from the darkness across the cave. Smith rolled to his side. "Nail 'em,"
he gasped, and tumbled from the ledge.
Gregory slid from the rocks and stumbled to the fish-covered floor of
the cavern. The light from the lantern was suddenly extinguished.
Dropping to his knee, he shot at the flash of a gun ahead. Dimly to his
ears came the shouts of the posse fighting their way into the cave. Soon
the vaulted walls reverberated with the rattle of firearms and the
darkness was faintly illumined by the light of the signal flares burning
at the entrances.
Brought into bold relief by the weird glow from the sputtering candles,
a number of darting figures could be seen leaping to cover behind the
rocks. From the shadows came bright jets of flame. Bullets whined
through the cavern, clipping the walls and rattling the pebbles to the
stone floor. Flattening his body against the slimy fish, Gregory
wriggled foot by foot in the direction of the big rock which sheltered
Mascola.
* * * * *
The game was up. Bandrist emptied his revolver in the direction of the
advancing deputies and drew cautiously away from Mascola. The _Fuor
d'Italia_ lay at anchor in the cove beyond the goose-neck. The
tunnel-like passage, which only himself knew, would lead him to the
beach. While the Italian delayed the attacking party would be his chance
to take to the boat. In the fog he could make his escape. By daybreak he
could make the Mexican coast. Then he would be safe. Of Mascola he
thought but little, save as a means to an end. It would serve the
Italian right.
Mascola faced about a few minutes later to find himself fighting alone.
Then he heard the rattle of loose stones dropping from the cavern wall.
Bandrist was leaving him. The Italian's blood warmed at the islander's
treachery. Did Bandrist think he was the only one who knew the way out?
His anger mounted as he climbed the wall and wormed his way through the
narrow opening. So Bandrist thought to give him the slip, did he? Well,
he'd show him.
When Bandrist reached the end of the tunnel he crawled out into the fog
and listened intently. Some one was following from the cave. Jamming a
fresh clip into his automatic he waited. Then he silently replaced his
revolver. A shot would only draw pursuit. Perhaps there were men already
guarding the secret exit. Huddling close to the cavern tunnel he waited
for the figure of the man behind him to emerge.
When Mascola reached the end of the tunnel he felt himself grasped
roughly by the arm and twisted to the rocks. Bandrist recovered his
wits quickly when he recognized the Italian.
"Quiet," he whispered. "You were a long time coming. There may be men on
the beach already. Where is your boat?"
Mascola nodded his head in the direction of the beach.
"My skiff lies close to rocks by the point," he said. "The launch is
close by."
Bandrist fingered his automatic nervously.
"We can wait no longer," he said.
As he spoke he began to crawl forward toward the water.
* * * * *
The blue light from the signal flares flickered about the rock behind
which Mascola had gone into hiding. Gregory reached the shadow, revolver
in hand. Raising his body to his elbow, he leaned forward and looked up.
The space which lay between the rock and the cavern wall was empty. He
was on his feet in an instant. Mascola had escaped. That much was clear.
But how? Surely not through the main entrance to the beach. He would
have no chance that way. The sound of the tumult at the mouth of the
cavern told him that. Neither could the Italian have taken the other
passage. He would have seen him as he passed.
He searched the floor carefully for a possible hiding-place which would
shelter the man he sought. Then he raised his eyes to the cave wall. It
was lined with irregular niches, some of which might be large enough to
hide the body of a man. In the faint glow from the signal flares, he
climbed slowly upward until he felt a cool rush of air fan his cheek.
The air was heavy with fog; laden with the breath of the sea. The cavern
held still another entrance.
Forcing his body through a cleft in the rocks from whence the breeze
came, he found himself in a tunnel-like passage. The dry sticks snapped
beneath his feet as he felt his way through the impenetrable darkness,
stopping at intervals to listen.
That Mascola had preceded him only a few minutes before, he felt
reasonably certain. By the time he reached the end of the passage the
Italian might have gained a place of safety. Why had he not jumped from
the ledge at first sight of his father's murderer? By now it would all
be over. His thoughts turned quickly to Dickie Lang. Perhaps the _Gray
Ghost_ might have come upon the _Richard's_ anchorage in the cove
adjoining the goose-neck. Perhaps the speed-boat had been run down.
Would the girl do as she was told and stay on the launch?
His mind a prey to conflicting thoughts and emotions, Gregory crawled on
through the darkness.
* * * * *
When Bandrist and Mascola reached the _Fuor d'Italia_, the Italian
kicked the dory adrift as the two men climbed aboard. "Pull the hook,"
he cried, "while I start the motor."
"No," Bandrist whispered. "You'd be a fool to do that. The cave was
filled with revenue men. That means there's a cutter lying in around
here somewhere. Perhaps at the goose-neck. She would spot you in a
minute with her search. We must row the launch around the next point at
least."
Mascola growled his resentment at Bandrist's air of authority.
Nevertheless he saw the wisdom of the suggestion and hastily brought out
the long ash oars and fastened them in the brass locks. Bandrist pulled
the anchor and took his place at one of the sweeps. For some moments the
two men rowed silently into the fog. Then the islander ceased his labor
at the oar abruptly.
"Head out," he whispered. "There's a launch ahead."
Mascola's eyes sought to pierce the fog where the dim outline of a
motor-boat loomed dark across their course. Then he swung the _Fuor
d'Italia_ about and skirting the point rowed doggedly away from the
darkened stranger.
The Italian's ugly temper was not bettered by the physical exercise.
There was no need to row the launch as far as this. If Bandrist was
going with him, he must learn he was to be only a passenger. The _Fuor
d'Italia_ did not belong to Rock and the islander. She was his own
property. He would run her where he pleased and as he pleased. As he
labored, he formulated his plans.
He would head straight for the Mexican line, keeping well out to escape
the patrol off San Juan. Daybreak would put him in the little lagoon
beyond Encinitas. There he would be among friends. He reflected
suddenly that he had but little money. American gold in Lower California
would buy much. Without it, even his friends would give him but scant
comfort. Bandrist, he remembered, never trusted his money to banks, but
paid his bills in yellow gold which he carried in the coin belt about
his waist.
The observation gave Mascola comfort. Bandrist had enough for them both.
He would see that he received his share.
He ceased rowing.
"Far enough," he muttered.
"No."
Bandrist's reply was sharp and decisive.
"Your exhaust can be heard for miles," he said. "The wind is blowing in
our faces. We must keep at the oars. Then they will think us still on
the island. If you start the motor now you'll bring pursuit."
Mascola's hatred of Bandrist increased with the quiet tone of command
with which the islander spoke.
"There is no boat that can catch mine with this lead," he bragged.
"Mr. Gregory's boat is faster than yours for one," Bandrist disputed
quietly. "The new revenue cutters are faster for others. Why are you a
fool?"
A hot argument began on the instant between the two men. An argument
which ended by Bandrist's knocking Mascola to the cockpit.
Mascola lay where he fell for a moment, dazed by the blow. Bandrist was
not rowing he noticed. Without doubt he had him covered with his
revolver. Fuming with impotent rage, the Italian growled: "Well, you're
the boss. It's up to you."
As he struggled to his feet he made up his mind to get square with the
islander. Again resuming his oars, he rowed steadily until Bandrist gave
the order to start the motor.
The _Fuor d'Italia_ leaped forward and the cool sea air fanned Mascola's
flaming face. Settling quietly into his seat he turned his attention to
the wheel.
He could afford to wait, but only a little longer.
* * * * *
Dickie Lang grasped her rifle tighter and leaned over the rail as she
heard the soft dip of oars. Then her hold on the gun relaxed. Perhaps it
was Gregory returning to the launch.
A glance into the gloom to starboard caused her to drop silently into
the cockpit. Resting the rifle on the coaming she covered the
approaching boat and waited in silence. To her ears came the low murmur
of men's voices. Then the oncoming craft veered sharply and faded from
view. For some time the girl crouched upon the floor of the launch. At
length the silence of the night was broken by the far-off pulsing of a
high-speed motor.
She jumped to her feet, her eyes glowing with excitement. Even at the
distance she could not be deceived. There was only one other craft about
with an exhaust like that.
Mascola was fleeing from Diablo in the _Fuor d'Italia_.
She sprang to the hood and began pulling on the anchor-chain. Then she
stopped suddenly. The man she loved was still on the island. Perhaps he
had been wounded. Maybe killed. And in the meantime, Mascola was
escaping. For an instant love and hate fought for possession of the
heart of Dickie Lang. Then the chain slipped through her fingers and the
anchor dropped again to the bottom. Silently she returned to the wheel
and sat down to wait. It was the hardest part of all to play. And it
always fell to a woman.
* * * * *
When Gregory reached the end of the tunnel he could hear the shouts of
men and the rapid discharge of firearms from around the point. He must
be in the cove adjoining the goose-neck. Crawling rapidly through the
brush he gained the beach. Then he stopped and listened. Mascola had
evidently taken to the water.
A sudden fear gripped his heart at the thought and sent him racing down
the beach in the direction of the _Richard's_ dory. His fears for the
girl's safety abated as he found the dory undisturbed among the rocks.
Shoving it into the water he rowed hastily for the launch. As the skiff
scraped the _Richard's_ side, he sprang aboard and caught the girl in
his arms. For an instant love alone dominated his heart.
"Mascola escaped in the _Fuor d'Italia_."
Dickie's words recalled Gregory to his purpose. The next instant he was
pulling at the chain.
"I'll take you around the point to the cutter," he called to her as he
worked. "You'll be safe there until----"
"No." The girl's answer was spoken with a determination there was no
gainsaying. "I'm going with you," she said in a low voice. "There were
two men in the launch."