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"I hear someone coming," whispered Bob.
While Jack continued working at the radio, Bob and Frank listened
intently. Jack began speaking into the transmitter, indicating he had
opened communication with the Sub Chaser. Bob put a hand on his arm, and
set his lips to Jack's ear.
"Tell 'em to wait," he whispered. "Someone coming. Mustn't risk being
overheard."
Nodding, Jack breathed an injunction to wait into the transmitter. All
three chums sat silent and tense. The faint sound first noticed by Bob
grew louder. Footsteps were approaching along the trail. Not those of
one man but of a number. Fortunately, the bank of the stream was high
and they were sheltered below it. Besides, down here at the bottom of
the canyon, with the narrow walls not far from the stream on either
hand, it was dark as a wolf's mouth. Even to each other they were almost
undistinguishable thickenings in the gloom.
The footsteps came closer. They could hear men passing on the trail
above. Frank, who was nearest, suddenly swung ashore. Bob divined he was
going to clamber up to watch the trail, and considered it a risky
proceeding. He put out a hand to stop Frank, but too late.
Not even daring to whisper, Bob and Jack held their places in the boat
and watched Frank's figure melt silently into the darkness.
Presently the sound of men passing ceased. Not a word had been uttered
among them that Bob and Jack could overhear. Nor had the chums ventured
to speak to each other. What had become of Frank? Bob looked at his
watch with the illuminated dial. Ten or twelve minutes had passed. There
was no longer any sound on the trail above. He could stand the suspense
just about three minutes more, he whispered to Jack, and then he, too,
would take the trail to see what had become of Frank.
He was preparing to put his plan into execution when Frank reappeared,
swinging down the bank with less precaution than before and obviously in
a state of high excitement.
"Fellows, that was 'Black George' and his engineer and nearly a score of
Chinese," he said. "They're moving fast down the canyon. Matt Murphy and
a handful of men have been left behind. I overheard 'Black George' and
his engineer in whispered conversation, and I gathered what their plan
is. I was crouching in a tree up here above the trail. Their plan is for
Matt Murphy and his gang to keep our men bottled up in the stockade,
while 'Black George' goes down to try to surprise and capture the Sub
Chaser."
"Evidently Ensign Warwick's Chinese guide was a traitor all right," said
Jack.
"First thing, Jack, is to radio Robbins and warn him what's coming,"
suggested Bob.
"Right," said Jack, and turned to comply.
Frank again swung up to the trail to guard against surprise while Jack
telephoned. At the conclusion of his conversation, Jack called to him in
a low voice and Frank returned to the boat.
"Robbins suggests that we attack Matt Murphy and his party from the
rear," he said. "Murphy cannot have many men left, probably merely
enough to keep dropping a shot now and then and lead our men in the
stockade to believe all 'Black George's' men still face them. If we open
vigorous fire from different quarters it will seem to Matt's men that
reinforcements have arrived to attack them in the rear and they may make
a break to get away. Moreover, the sound of the firing will induce our
fellows to come out of the stockade. Shall we try it?"
"I'm game," said Bob.
"Me, too," declared Frank, ungrammatically.
"One thing we must all remember, however," Jack said firmly. "That is,
not to take chances. Keep a considerable distance from the enemy. We
don't want to shoot any of them, but merely to frighten them into
withdrawing."
"All right," said Bob, impatient for action. "Come on."
Examining their revolvers by flashlight to see that all was in order,
the boys scrambled ashore with Frank in the lead, as he had acquired a
familiarity with the route. The boat was tied securely to the bank.
Walking in Indian file, they proceeded along the trail to the bend
earlier described by Frank. Rounding it, they saw open before them the
valley of which Frank also had spoken. Although there was no moon, their
eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and by the pale light of the stars
they could see sufficiently well to gain a good idea of their
surroundings.
The valley broadened out to the width of, perhaps, half a mile. Close to
them on the left was the hill crowned by the stockade. This hill, bare
of verdure and low, jutted up from the floor of the valley and
independent of the higher hills behind it. The posts of the stockade
made a serrated line against the clear night sky.
"Murphy's men must be close at hand," Bob whispered.
"It was right here that I almost stumbled on them before," answered
Frank, low-voiced. "We must be careful."
"Look there. I saw someone moving," said Jack, gripping Bob's arm, and
pointing ahead.
They stood pressed against the canyon wall, trying to pierce the
darkness. Everything was so shadowy and unreal, however, that Frank's
gaze following where Jack indicated could make nothing of it, nor could
Bob discern anything to indicate the presence of the enemy. At that
moment Matt Murphy's voice raised in a guarded hail came from the
shadows in the direction to which Jack had pointed.
"Who's there? That you Mac?"
Murphy believed one of "Black George's" party had returned. Probably,
from the name he employed, he considered it was MacFinney, the engineer.
Jack thought quickly.
"Down. Crouch down, and scatter," he whispered.
Frank and Bob dropped and disappeared to right and left respectively in
the low brush. Murphy called again, a note of anxiety in his voice:
"Who's there? Answer or I'll fire."
Jack's reply was a shot from his revolver, purposely aimed high. He had
no desire to injure Murphy. Then he ran to one side, fired again, and a
third time and then taking shelter behind a rock awaited developments.
Bob and Frank who, it had been agreed beforehand, should go not more
than twenty paces away in order that they all might keep in touch with
each other in case it was necessary to come together again for
protection or make a dash back to the boat, also opened fire.
Murphy fired only once, after Jack's first shot. The bullet pinged
against the canyon wall. Then he turned and, although the boys could not
see him, they could hear him dashing back, and surmised he was going to
rejoin his men.
Jack decided a little noise now would not come amiss and would help to
increase the alarm and mystification of Murphy's party as well as
apprise their own men in the stockade that friends were at hand. He
began to yell "Attaboy, give it to 'em." Bob and Frank, closer at hand
than he thought, joined in vociferously. They made a praiseworthy din
that would have done credit to a dozen men at least.
In the midst of it, answering cheers came back from the stockade and
then over the palings leaped Ensign Warwick and Inspector Burton with
their men. The boys could not see, but they could hear. Shots and cheers
rang out, and the boys not to be outdone redoubled their former efforts,
at the same time keeping up a brisk revolver fire at the sky.
It was too much for Matt Murphy and the half-dozen Chinese left in his
charge. Their only thought one of escape, they bolted for the trail down
the canyon. A surprised grunt from Bob indicated that one of the fleeing
Chinese had blundered into him. Bob landed a blow on the side of the
fellow's head that was sufficient. It bowled the man over, and Bob
leaped forward and sat on him.
Frank saw a dark form scuttle along near him and, unwilling to fire,
picked up a stone half as big as his fist and let fly with it. The
missile caught the fugitive behind the ear and he, too, went down. Frank
ran forward and bent over the still form. By the bandaged arm, he could
tell it was Murphy.
Alarmed, he bent closer. But Murphy was breathing heavily. He had merely
been knocked out. Frank stood over him undecided what to do. A voice
hailed from the darkness:
"Where are you, Frank?"
Frank called, and Jack came up.
"Hello, you've got a prisoner, too. Why, it's Murphy. Bob also captured
a man, a Chinese. Four or five others ran by me and hit the trail."
A hail from the darkness ahead in Ensign Warwick's voice came to their
ears:
"Where are you, Robbins?"
"It's not Robbins, sir," answered Jack. "But Jack Hampton. My chums are
with me."
"Thank God," cried the young naval officer, running forward, and while
still some paces away. "So you three fellows are safe? I didn't miss you
until we arrived here, and then things happened so rapidly I couldn't go
back to look for you. What happened? But, wait, here's Inspector
Burton."
The Secret Service man approached, throwing the glare of his flashlight
over the boys. A number of the sailors closed around them. Others who
had followed the fugitives a short distance along the trail but had
turned back, according to orders to stick together, could be seen
approaching. A number of flashlights lighted up the scene.
"Why, you're wounded," said Jack, glancing at a blood-stained
handkerchief bound about the Secret Service man's forehead.
"A nasty crack, but nothing dangerous," replied Inspector Burton. "But
where in the world did you boys drop from? Ensign Warwick thought you
lost or captured."
"And where is Robbins? I thought it was he attacking, and that's why we
left the stockade," supplemented the naval officer.
Briefly as possible, Jack recounted their adventures, interrupted
frequently by expressions of approval and warm commendation from Ensign
Warwick and Inspector Burton. The boys wanted to know what had happened
to the other two parties, but Ensign Warwick said:
"That story will have to wait. Meantime, if we hurry we can get to the
landing almost as soon as 'Black George.' Leave the boat tied up and
come with us. You can make better time."