A Change of Locomotion
"Take cover!" exclaimed Peter warningly, at the same time making for
his automatic and ammunition, which were lying on one of the
blankets spread out on the beach.
"Too late, I fancy," replied Brian. "They've spotted us for a dead
cert. We were fools to leave the boat and all this gear strewn over
the sand."
Nevertheless, Uncle Brian grasped the rifle and automatic pistol and
a haversack containing parts of the secret ray invention. Come what
may he was not going to let _that_ fall into the hands of the
Rioguayans.
"Which way?" he inquired.
"Up the cliff," replied Peter. "We may be able to stow ourselves
away before they are sufficiently above us. There's not very much
cover, worse luck."
It was fortunate that Peter Corbold had previously found a way to
the top. Profiting by the experience, uncle and nephew quickly
gained the summit of the cliff.
The flying-boat was now about a mile away, but was shaping a course
that would bring her to the west of the island.
"Don't believe they've spotted us yet," declared Peter. "But they
are bound to see our boat if they start cruising over the island.
Look! What's wrong with that?"
He pointed to a cleft in the face of the cliff about twenty yards to
the left of the spot where they had made the ascent. A closer
acquaintance showed that the hollow was deep and narrow, descending
steeply until it terminated in a natural breastwork about eight feet
above the beach. Although open to the air, the enclosing walls of
rock were sufficiently irregular to cut off direct observation; and
as neither Peter nor his uncle had noticed the cleft from the beach,
it being similar to a dozen others, they were fairly safe in
assuming that they stood a chance of outwitting their pursuers.
They could hear the drone of the motors, but were unable to see the
inquisitive flying-boat. For some minutes the noise continued almost
constant in volume, as if the machine were hovering in the vicinity.
Then the sound grew louder and louder until it ceased abruptly.
Peter knew what that meant. The Rioguayan airmen had discovered
traces of the two Englishmen and were volplaning down to
investigate.
Suddenly the descending aircraft appeared within Peter's limited
field of vision, since by cautiously peering over the breastwork he
could command a view of the beach in the vicinity of the spot where
the two Englishmen had landed.
There was nothing to criticize adversely in the manner in which the
flying-boat alighted on the surface. With hardly a splash the
lightly-built hull took the water. A few revolutions of the for'ard
pair of propellers and the flying-boat "taxied" until she touched
the edge of the sandy beach.
If there had been any doubts in the minds of Peter and his uncle as
to the intentions of the Rioguayan airmen, there was now no
uncertainty on that score.
A couple of men jumped out and secured the gently swaying
flying-boat by means of a grapnel and rope. Then several more leapt
ashore, all fully armed with rifles, revolvers, and _machetes_.
Almost their first act was to smash the little craft which the
Englishmen had only just succeeded in repairing.
The Rioguayans seemed to take a childish delight in their work of
destruction, laughing, yelling, and gesticulating at the thought
that they had run their quarry to its lair and had cut off the
fugitives' means of escape.
Not content with smashing the boat to firewood, they examined every
article that was strewn on the beach, destroying some and passing
the rest into the hull of the flying-boat.
Peter glanced at his uncle and tapped his automatic significantly.
At all events, he thought, since the Rioguayans had deprived them of
a means to leave the barren island, there was no reason why the two
Englishmen shouldn't open a destructive fire upon their now declared
foes. At that short range there was a good chance of killing or
wounding every man in the group on the beach.
Uncle Brian shook his head.
"Wait," he whispered.
Peter felt positively mutinous. To remain inactive was to throw away
their only chance of scoring heavily off their pursuers.
"Why?" he demanded in a low voice.
"They're going to search for us," was the reply.
Brian Strong had the Rioguayan airmen's own words to support his
statement, for amid the babel he managed to overhear one of the men
declare that the Englishmen must be found, and taken prisoners.
These were the Comandante's explicit instructions.
There were now eight of the crew on the beach, all of them arguing
with each other and paying scant heed to the excited shouts of an
officer in the pilot's seat of the flying-boat. At length two of the
crew went on board, reappearing with a long, scraggy dog, whose
chief points were his long drooping ears and lolling tongue. Brian
Strong recognized the breed as a cross between a Cuban bloodhound
and a Brazilian whippet. The dog was carried ashore in spite of its
weight, the apparent reason being that for the purpose for which it
was intended it must not walk through water.
At the sight of the hound Brian felt more ill at ease than he had
since the appearance of the flying-boat. He knew the ferociousness
of the breed and their skill in following the trail of a fugitive.
He almost wished he had fallen in with his nephew's unspoken
suggestion and had tried the moral and physical effect of a sudden
and unexpected burst of automatic pistol firing.
It was too late for that now. The opportunity had passed, for
already some of the men were screened by the intervening wall of
rock.
So Brian watched the movements of the two men with the dog, noting
with considerable apprehension that both fellows, in addition to
their firearms, carried a supply of hand-grenades, which might or
might not be smoke bombs.
Presently they, too, passed out of the Englishmen's arc of vision;
but from auricular evidence, it was plain that they were
experiencing considerable difficulty in persuading the animal to
scale the cliff. But one point was distressingly in evidence; the
hound was already on the trail, since he had indicated the way by
which Uncle Brian and Peter had gained the summit.
It seemed quite a long interval before the baying of the hound
announced that the feat of the ascent was accomplished. Momentarily
the two fugitives expected to hear their pursuers descending the
narrow gorge in which they were concealed, but minutes passed
without their unpleasant expectation being realized.
Gradually the deep notes of the dog, accompanied by the encouraging
shouts of the searchers and the occasional report of firearms, died
away.
"Good business," whispered Peter. "The brute's picked up the wrong
scent. He's following my track where I went this morning."
Which was exactly what the hound was doing, accompanied by the
airmen who were firing at haphazard into every bush they passed, on
the chance of compelling their quarry to abandon a possible place of
concealment.
Peter took another look at the flying-boat. He could see the officer
in charge sitting up in the for'ard cockpit with a rifle laid upon
the decking by his side. There was no one else visible, but in front
of the Rioguayan was an automatic gun somewhat resembling a Colt,
with its muzzle pointing ominously in the direction of the way down
the cliff.
"We'll have to rush the 'bus, Uncle," said Peter in a low voice.
"It's our only chance."
Uncle Brian nodded, and raising the haversack from the ground, slung
it over his shoulder.
"Right," he whispered. "Lead on, but keep a sharp look-out in case
there's a man on guard on the cliff. If there is, no firing if it
can be avoided, mind."
His nephew gave a sign of assent and replaced his automatic, taking
the precaution of leaving the flap of the holster unfastened. Then,
with his uncle close at his heels, he crept cautiously along the
gully, till he arrived at the slightly rugged ground adjoining the
brink of the cliff.
As Peter had expected, there was a sentry posted within ten paces of
him. The fellow had discarded his flying kit, which was not to be
wondered at, seeing that the temperature was somewhere in the region
of 120° F. Evidently taking it for granted that, as his comrades and
the bloodhound had swept the ground in the neighbourhood of his
post, he could "stand easy", he even went so far as to commit the
grave military crime of parting with his rifle, for the weapon was
resting against a rock. His back was turned to the two Englishmen
and--a fact that Peter noted with intense satisfaction--he was
rolling a cigarette.
Like almost every person of Latin descent, the fellow was an adept
at that task, the cigarette when made being almost semicircular as
regards its shape. Then, producing a large box of sulphur matches,
he proceeded to set light to the "smoke".
That was the opportunity which Peter was waiting for. He reckoned on
the sulphurous fumes causing a little discomfort to the smoker, or
at least his attention would be concentrated upon lighting the
cigarette, to his own undoing.
Peter had already counted the men engaged in following the useless
trail. There were seven, strung out in an irregular line, and by
this time quite a quarter of a mile away.
As stealthily as a cat, Peter approached the careless sentry until
he was within a couple of yards of him. Then he sprang.
His love of Rugby football had taught him how to "tackle his man
low". Before the Rioguayan could utter a sound or realize what had
happened, he was lying half dazed upon the ground, with Peter
pinning his arms and Brian Strong pressing the muzzle of an
automatic gently against the fellow's temple.
"Ask him," said Peter, "how many men are on board the flying-boat."
Uncle Brian obliged, backing up his request with a slightly stronger
pressure of the cold ring of the automatic's muzzle.
"The captain and two mechanics," was the tremulous reply.
"That's what I wanted to know," remarked Peter gratuitously. "Now,
Uncle Brian, we'll gag and bind this gentleman, to be left till
called for."
Peter proceeded with the operation so rapidly and deftly that it
left Uncle Brian wondering where his nephew had acquired that
knowledge.
In a very few moments the Rioguayan was trussed like a fowl, his
sash and belt coming in very useful for the purpose.
"Now a cartridge, Uncle Brian," continued his relative. Uncle Brian
handed him one of the rifle cartridges. This Peter wrapped in a
handkerchief.
"Open your mouth, old son," he said.
The "old son", although ignorant of English, obliged instantly. It
was patent that he, too, had had experience in the gentle art of
gagging.
"And that's that," concluded Peter. "Now for the next act of the
matinee. We'll kick off from our hiding-place. It's only an
eight-foot drop to the beach, and a jolly sight quicker than
scrambling down the cliff. I'll take the rifle, please."
Silently and cautiously the two men descended the gully until they
reached the breastwork separating the rift from the beach.
Peter peered cautiously in the direction of the flying-boat.
The Rioguayan captain was still at his post in the pilot's seat. He
was wearing his leather flying-coat but had thrown back the flaps.
He was a swarthy, thick-lipped man with hulking shoulders and a head
set well forward--altogether a brutal type of humanity.
"It's like potting a sitting rabbit," thought Peter, as he slipped a
cartridge into the breech of his rifle. "It's not giving the fellow
a ghost of a chance."
Yet, his compunction notwithstanding, Peter's hands were as steady
and his eye as clear as an experienced hunter's. It was the first
time in his life that he had had a human being covered with a
rifle--but it was the only way.
Deliberately he pressed the trigger. The Rioguayan captain did not
appear to move. Peter was beginning to think that he had missed,
when the man leant forward until his head rested on his arms on the
deck of the fuselage--to all appearances as if he were asleep.
Without hesitation, the Englishmen vaulted over the ledge of rocks
on to the beach and ran towards the flying-boat. They fully expected
to find their way barred by the two mechanics; but the latter had
either not heard the shot, or, if they had, had taken it as one of
the many fired by the searchers on the island.
[Illustration: PETER TACKLES THE SENTRY
_Page_ 126]
Gaining the pilot's cabin, Peter peered down the hatchway into the
engine-room. The place was empty. Hurrying aft, he found the two
mechanics in the motor-room, where the twin engines driving the
after pair of propellers were situated.
At the sight of a couple of automatics thrust down the hatchway both
men raised their arms with commendable celerity.
"Up--you!" ordered Uncle Brian, indicating one of the engineers.
The fellow complied, his olivine features grey with terror.
At Brian Strong's orders, backed up by an indisputable argument in
the shape of a pistol, the man was marched along the alley-way to
the gangway and told to go ashore and bring back the grapnel and
mooring rope. This he did.
"Now," continued Brian sternly, "you can go and stand over there,"
indicating a spot close to the mangled remains of the "orange-box".
"If you shift from there while you are within range of a rifle, you
won't stir more than half a dozen steps. I'm a crack shot.... All
right, Peter. Away as soon as you like."
The remaining mechanic was ordered for'ard to start the motors. For
the present the flying-boat was to be actuated only by the bow
propellers, those aft being required only when proceeding at top
speed.
Then Peter, having lowered the body of his victim to the water, took
his place in the "office". By this time the flying-boat, no longer
tethered by the rope and grapnel, had drifted from the island before
the light offshore wind.
The motors were throbbing tunefully. A forward thrust of one lever
was sufficient to bring both propellers in gear. Like a gigantic
water-fowl, the aerial craft leapt forward, leaving a feathery wake
on the surface of the lake.
When the speed gauge indicated thirty-eight kilometres, Peter
manipulated another lever, and, obedient to the alteration of trim
of her short, cambered planes, the flying-boat soared into her
proper element.
"A 'bus for an orange-box," soliloquized the light-hearted pilot.
"Not a bad exchange, eh what?"