IN THE GRIP OF SIMON LAKE.
But Simon Lake’s voice, setting aside its rasping natural inflection,
was mild enough as he addressed them.
“Wa-al, boys, yer see thet I’ve got a smart long arm.”
“I’d like to know by what right you’ve had us brought here in this
fashion,” broke out Tom indignantly. “We’re not interfering with you.
Why, then, can’t you leave us alone?”
“Jes’ cos I want er bit uv infermation frum yer,” rejoined Simon easily.
He leaned down and picked up a bit of wood. Then, drawing a knife, he
shaped it to a toothpick and thrust it in his mouth. During the pause
the boys noticed that several rough-looking men had sauntered up from
various positions about the camp. Among them was one short, stocky man,
who might have been the thickset man of the boat the night before. This
individual’s hat was shoved back—for it was warm and stuffy in this
place—exposing a ruddy stubble of hair. A bristly mustache as coarse as
wire sprouted from his upper lip. This man was Zeb Hunt, Bully Banjo’s
mate when afloat and chief lieutenant ashore. In some ways he was a
bigger ruffian than his superior.
“Ez I sed,” resumed Simon Lake, when he had shaped the pick to his
satisfaction, “I want er bit uv infermation from yer. It ain’t often
thet Simon Lake wants ter know suthin’ thet he kain’t find out right
smart fer hisself. But this yar time it’s diff’ent. I’m a kalkerlatin’
on you byes helpin’ me out.”
A sudden gleam came into those cold, steely eyes. A flash of warning not
to trifle with him, it seemed. But it died out as suddenly as it had
come, and in his monotonous Yankee drawl, Simon went on:
“Ther hull in an’ outs uv it is—how fur hez Chillingwuth gone?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” exclaimed Tom, who had decided to act as
spokesman, and silenced the impetuous Jack by a look.
“Oh, yes, yer do, boy. Daon’t try ter gilflicker me. I’m ez smart ez a
steel trap, boy, and ez quick as sixty-’leven, so da-ont rile me up. I’m
askin’ yer ag’in—how fur hez Chillingworth gone?”
“He’s anchored down in the cove,” said Tom, willfully misunderstanding
him.
Again that angry gleam shone in Bully Banjo’s eyes. His thin lips
tightened till they were a mere slit across his gaunt visage.
“Daon’t rile me, boy,” he said, in an almost pleading voice, although
Tom was swift to catch the menace behind it. “Daon’t rile me. Yer seen
thet them I wants I gits. Yer seen thet when that Chink yonder walked
inter yer by the crick. Speak me true, bye, an’ speak me fair, an’ yer
kin go on yer way. But ef yer lie—wa-al, by Juniper, you’ll wish as you
wuz dead a hundred times afore you be.”
“In any event,” said Tom boldly enough, and without a quiver in his
voice, though his scalp tightened and his heart beat thick and fast at
these words; “in any event, if you think you can carry out any such
high-handed piece of business as this without suffering for it, you’re
badly mistaken.”
Simon Lake laughed. His mirth was not pleasant to hear.
“We’re in the twentieth century, recollect,” added Tom. “There is such a
thing as law and order. Seattle is not so very far away. Port Townsend,
too. There are police there, and the means to make you suffer.”
“Wa-al, d’ye hear thet, Zeb?” asked Bully Banjo, turning to his mate. “I
kinder kalkerlate thet is ther all-firedest best joke I’ve hearn since
Heck wuz a pup. By Juniper, boy,” he went on impressively, “ther ain’t
no law made kin touch me. Understand? No law made. They’re welcome ter
try ef they want ter. You kin see fer yourselves thet nobody wouldn’t
find this place unless they knowed the way, and nobody’s not never goin’
ter diskiver it ’cept those who I’ve a mind shall. Na-ow air yer goin’
ter tell me wot Chillingworth hez done in ther matter of tryin’ ter
bring me up with a short tun?”
“No. I am not,” replied Tom firmly. “That is Mr. Chillingworth’s
business. Why do you ask us about it? We are only out here as his
guests. We know nothing about your ras——” “Rascality” Tom was going to
say, but thought better of it and substituted: “Goings on.”
Lake smiled unpleasantly. His fingers closed suggestively around his
knife.
“Yer seem ter cle’n plum everlastingly fergit thet I kin find out all I
want ter know frum thet Chink thar,” he snapped suddenly, pointing to
Fu, who stood apart with his tall countryman. The two seemed to be
talking earnestly. As Lake turned, the tall Mongolian hastened toward
him. It was as if he had overheard him, although that at the distance
which he had been standing would have been impossible.
“That fellow yonder,” he said, speaking slowly, but using good English,
“that fellow yonder,” pointing to Fu, “tells me that these boys and
their companions were anchored on a sloop in the cove last night. They
saw the burials and overheard some of our talk.”
Lake’s face grew black, as if a thundercloud had settled on it. Zeb Hunt
exclaimed angrily. The men standing about began to mutter. Tom saw that
the frightened Fu must have told everything.
“Is this true?” demanded Lake, turning to the boys.
“I suppose so,” rejoined Tom doggedly. He felt a helpless sense that
there was no use in denying it.
“Thet means jes’ so much more ammernition in Chillingworth’s hands,”
mused Lake slowly. “Consarn him! Why kain’t he fall inter line like the
other ranchers? I don’t hev no trouble with them. I pay fer what I git,
cash daown on the nail, an’ no questions asked. By Juniper, it’s funny
ter me the way Chillingworth acts.”
“We’ve got to get the whip hand of him sooner or later,” struck in Zeb
Hunt. “Why not now?”
“How d’ye mean, Zeb?” asked the lanky Bully Banjo, turning quickly on
him as a man who is ready to grasp at any suggestion.
“What I mean is jest this: We’ve got these two kids here and the
Chink—though the Chink don’t count. But don’t yer see thet as long ez
we hold ther kids, we kin dictate terms. Ef Chillingworth gets
cantankerous—biff!—one of the kids is sniffed out.”
This amiable plan was proposed in a calm way that alarmed the boys far
more than if vehemence had been used. They saw that logically to keep
them prisoners was the only thing for the gang to do.
Nevertheless, he hung on Simon Lake’s next words. They were not long in
coming.
“Zeb,” he said approvingly, “I allers said yer hed a long haid. Now, by
Chowder, I knows it. Thet’s a right smart idee. Here, Death, and you,
too, Squinty, take charge of these kids, feed ’em well, but I’ll hold
you responsible fer ’em. Take ’em away. I’ll make up my mind later what
we’ll do with ’em.”
Then, apparently noticing Tom’s start at the ominous name of one of the
worthies who came forward at the word of command, the mighty Bully Banjo
condescended to explain:
“Death’s right name is ‘Death on the Trail’ He’s a Chinook, and ef you
cut up any didoes, ye’ll find he’s well named.”
The man named Death was a tall, dark-skinned fellow, clad in a buckskin
coat and ragged trousers. His companion wore mackinacks and cowhide
boots. Both had on ragged sombreros.
“Come on,” said Death, motioning to the boys.
Squinty said nothing, but his crossed eyes glinted malevolently as he
produced two coils of rawhide rope.
Boiling with indignation and likewise considerably alarmed, the two boys
had to submit to the indignity of being tied in the ropes till they
resembled two packages bound securely round and round with twine. Like
lifeless packages, too, they were presently picked up and helplessly
borne toward the rear of the camp.
The cliff face towered for some distance above the base of the narrow
valley at this point, and at its foot the boys, as they were bundled
along, noticed a dark fissure. Tom judged it to be the mouth of a cave.
He was right. And in a few minutes he learned also that it was to
fulfill another purpose—that of a prison.
Death and Squinty set down their burdens at the entrance, and then
rolled them inside just as if they had been bales of inanimate goods of
some kind. The boys’ feelings were not soothed by the fact that fully a
score of chattering, grinning Chinese watched the operation. These
fellows were quartered back of the camp, and evidently formed a part of
the consignment brought in on the schooner the night before.
The cave did not extend very far back in the rock face, and was narrow
and low. But there was plenty of room in its narrow confines for two
lads, bound as they were. Their two jailers shoved them as far in as
possible and then without a word left them. Or so it seemed, but Tom’s
eyes—about the only part of his body he could move—presently lit on a
motionless figure sitting smoking on a rock near the cave entrance.
It was Death. A long rifle across his knees showed that he was acting as
sentinel.
“Jack, old boy,” said Tom, at length, “how are you coming along?”
“As well as can be expected, as they say when a fellow’s been given up
for dead and buried,” chuckled Jack.
His tone and words cheered Tom mightily. His brother, then, still
retained his spirits, and hopeless as their position seemed that was
something.
“Looks pretty bad, Tom,” said Jack presently. “I wish we could have got
that medicine through to uncle.”
“So do I,” agreed Tom. “So far as this imprisonment is concerned, I
imagine they will only keep us here till they get Chillingworth’s
promise to let up on them.”
“But if he won’t give it?” demanded Jack. “He didn’t strike me as the
kind of man to——”
“Hark!” exclaimed Tom, interrupting him. “What’s that—music?”
Music it was. The strumming of a banjo, played with consummate skill.
Presently, too, a voice struck in. It was nasal and penetrating,
offering a sharp contrast to the real skill of the banjo player:
“I sailed away in sixty-four,
In the Nancy brig from the Yankee shore;
We sailed and we sailed in sun and squall;
Fer traders’ gold where the South Seas fall;
Tip away—tip away—where the So-uth Seas fa-all!”