MR. DACRE SUSTAINS AN ACCIDENT.
During breakfast the mysterious vanishing of the schooner was discussed,
with what eager interest may be imagined. They could not understand why
the noise of her incoming anchor chain had not been observed. Nor yet,
why the creak of the blocks and the rattle of the rigging as her sails
were hoisted, had not been heard. It was Tom who solved the first part
of the puzzle.
Coming on deck after breakfast, the lad found the sun sparkling down on
the dancing waters, and flashing brightly on the white-capped wave tops.
Looking in the direction in which he was sure the schooner had lain the
night before, he perceived a dark object bobbing about on the water. It
looked like a barrel. And so, on investigation, it proved to be. When
the sloop was sculled alongside by her big sixteen-foot oars, they found
that an anchor chain had been made fast to the keg. The schooner had
silently slipped her moorings in the night. The fact that the keg was
fast to her anchor chain would make it an easy matter, however, for her
to pick it up again at her leisure.
“Does that mean that they saw us, do you think?” asked Mr. Dacre.
Mr. Chillingworth shook his head.
“If they had seen us,” he said rather grimly, “I hardly think we should
have all been here this morning. At any rate, that is the reputation
that Bully Banjo has. He has an unpleasant way of disposing of any one
he thinks may have spied on him.”
“I don’t see how in the twentieth century such a rascal can be permitted
at large,” said Mr. Dacre angrily. “He ought to be captured and his just
deserts dealt out to him.”
“Well,” said Mr. Chillingworth, “the trouble is just this. Most of the
ranchers hereabouts are poorish men. The country has not been fully
cleared, and their ranches, so far, yield them small profits. This Bully
Banjo pays well for the teams he borrows. Generally, when the horses are
returned, there’s a twenty-dollar note with them.”
“But the man is engaged in an illegal business,” said Tom.
Again Mr. Chillingworth smiled.
“It’s mighty hard to get the average man to see that smuggling anything,
from cigars to Chinamen, is illegal,” he said. “On the contrary, most
men appear to have an idea it’s smart to beat Uncle Sam. But,” his voice
changed and took on a stern note, “I, for one, am not going to stand for
this rascal’s domineering any longer. Some weeks ago I wrote to
Washington and informed the Secret Service bureau there exactly what was
going on. They promised to investigate, but since then I’ve heard
nothing more. You can readily see that it would be folly for me to make
a stand alone against this man. Why, he’s capable of swooping down on my
ranch and burning it to the ground.”
“That’s true,” mused Mr. Dacre thoughtfully. “I quite see where this
Bully Banjo’s power comes in. But——”
He broke off short. Some instinct made him turn at the moment and he saw
that Fu, the Chinaman, had been eagerly drinking in every word that had
been said. As he met Mr. Dacre’s eyes, the Mongolian muttered something
and dived into the cabin, ostensibly very busy washing dishes.
“You needn’t worry about Fu,” laughed Mr. Chillingworth. “He’s faithful
as the day is long.”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Dacre seriously. “Somehow I never like to trust
a Chinaman. They remind me of cats in their mysterious way of moving
about you. If that fellow wanted to, he could cause you a lot of trouble
now.”
“Ah, but he won’t,” laughed Mr. Chillingworth, “and, in any event, what
could he do?”
“Why,” said Mr. Dacre slowly, “he could inform Bully Banjo, for
instance, that you have written to Washington and that the Secret
Service may start an investigation.”
“Jove! That’s so!” exclaimed the rancher. “But,” he laughed lightly,
“there’s no fear of that. Fu is as honest as the day is long. Besides,
he is in my debt. I, and some friends of mine, rescued him from a gang
of white roughs, who had falsely accused him of a theft, and who were
going to string him up.”
“Just the same,” said Mr. Dacre, “I have found it is a good rule to
trust a Chinaman just as far as you can see him, and in most cases not
so far as that. But, to return to Bully Banjo’s reason for buoying his
anchor, it evidently means that he intends to come back here.”
“Yes, and something else,” said Mr. Chillingworth.
“What is that?”
“Why, that he just slipped in here to bury the dead in calm water. That
office performed, he has evidently made off to some other point of the
coast to land his Chinamen.”
This was admitted to be a plausible explanation.
While it was calm enough in the shelter of the point the loud roaring in
the pine tops, and the distant whitecaps showed that outside it was
still rough. Too rough for the sloop to attempt the passage, Mr.
Chillingworth declared. That being the case, it was decided to leave the
sloop in the charge of Fu, and to set out overland for the ranch. When
it grew calmer Fu would sail the sloop around to the waters off the
ranch.
In accordance with this decision, the sloop was sculled by Fu close in
under a ledge of rocks where there was deep water. The boys made the
jump ashore with ease. It was then Mr. Dacre’s turn. Although it has
been said that it was calm in the cove, there was still enough sea
running to make the sloop quite lively, so jumping from her called for
some agility. Mr. Dacre essayed the leap just as a particularly big wave
came sliding under the little vessel. The consequent lurch upset his
calculations and instead of landing cleanly on the rock he lost his
balance, and would have fallen back into the water had not Tom seized
him. In another instant Jack, too, had his uncle’s arm.
In a minute they had him up on the rock, but instead of standing
upright, Mr. Dacre, his face drawn with pain, and dotted with beads of
sweat, sank to the ground. It was apparent that he was suffering intense
pain.
“Good gracious, Dacre, are you hurt?” asked Mr. Chillingworth, while the
alarmed boys also poured out questions.
“It’s—it’s nothing,” said Mr. Dacre, with a brave attempt at a careless
smile. “An old fracture of my leg. I think——”
His head fell back and his lips went white. Had Tom not caught him he
would have fallen prone. Mr. Chillingworth was on the rocks in a bound
as the lad’s uncle lost his senses under the keen pain.
“Here, I’m a surgeon in a rough way,” he said. “One has to be everything
out in this rough country. Let me have a look at that leg.”
With a slash of his penknife, he had Mr. Dacre’s trouser leg ripped open
in an instant. He ran an experienced hand over the limb. “Hum,” he said,
his face growing serious, “an old fracture—broken again by that fall.
Fu, get me the medicine chest out of the cabin.”
The Chinaman, his face as stolid as ever, obeyed. Mr. Chillingworth took
from the mahogany box some bandages, and by the time he had done this
Mr. Dacre’s eyes were opened again.
“What’s the verdict, Mr. Chillingworth?” he asked pluckily.
“Well, old man,” was the rejoinder, “I don’t know yet if it’s a fracture
or just a sprain. I hope it’s the latter, and then we’ll have you on
your feet in a few days. The first thing to be done is to get you back
on board the sloop. I’ll stay with you while these young men and Fu push
on to the ranch and get some remedies of which I will give them a list.”
Mr. Dacre made a wry face.
“Is it as bad as that? I can’t move?” he asked.
“Well, just you try it,” said Mr. Chillingworth,—but one effort was
enough for the injured man.
“Well, Chillingworth, you’ve got a lame duck on your hands,” he said.
“Nonsense, we’ll soon have you all right again. Here, boys, you get hold
of your uncle’s head. Fu, place a mattress and some blankets on deck
there. I’ll get hold of his feet. Don’t move till I say so.”
It was not an easy task to get Mr. Dacre back on board the sloop, but it
was accomplished at last without accident. He was then placed on the
mattress on deck and lay there stiller than the boys had ever seen his
active form.
Mr. Chillingworth dived into the cabin. When he reappeared it was with a
penciled list, which he handed to Tom.
“There,” he said, “now that’s done. Just hand that to my wife and she’ll
give you the necessary things. By the way, don’t breathe a word to her
about Bully Banjo.”
The boys promised not to mention the occurrences of the night. Soon
after, Fu was ready. He carried a small flour sack, with what provisions
could be spared over his shoulders. It was arranged that they were to
get horses at the ranch and ride back to the sloop, using all the speed
they could. After bidding good-by to their injured uncle, and Mr.
Chillingworth, the little party set out along the trail. Fu’s blue
bloused and loose trousered form slipped noiselessly along in front.
Behind him toiled the boys. It did not seem more than a few seconds
after they had left the sloop that they were plunged into a thick
forest. On every side—like the columns of a vast cathedral—shot up the
reddish, smooth trunks of the great pines. Far above their dark tops
could be caught occasional glimpses of the blue sky. The brush and
vegetation were dense almost as in the tropics. There is a great deal of
rain in Washington, and the luxuriant growth is the result. Creepers,
flowering shrubs, and big ferns were everywhere, walling in the trail
with an impenetrable maze of foliage.
Above them they could hear the wind blowing through the dark pines,
roaring a deep, musical bass. But down on the trail it was stiflingly
hot. The heavy, sweet odor of the pines, rank and resinous was
everywhere. They plodded along in silence, always with that blue, silent
figure gliding along just ahead. It was curious that as Tom kept his
eyes riveted on the noiseless figure that Mr. Dacre’s words should have
recurred to him with startling force:
“Trust a Chinaman only as far as you can see him, and in most cases not
so far as that.”