A NOTE OF WARNING.
A comical expression came over Sam Hartley’s face. He saw at once that
the woman mistook them for enemies—possibly allies of the Chinaman
whom, for some good reason apparently, she had just chased off the
place.
“Hold on there, madam,” he cried, “we’re not here on any harm. The lads
have a message to you from your husband.”
“Yes, our names are Dacre——”
“For gracious sakes, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” demanded
the woman, putting down her rifle and smiling pleasantly.
“Well, you see,” spoke Sam, with a whimsical intonation, “you didn’t
give us a chance.”
Whereat they all had to break into a laugh, the situation seemed so
ridiculous.
“As I suppose you have guessed,” said the woman, “I am Mrs.
Chillingworth. That Chinaman you just saw heading off the place I caught
hanging round the barn a few moments ago. He was nailing a paper up
there. Here it is. Look at it and tell me what you make of it.”
She drew from her apron pocket a bit of paper on which the following was
scrawled in a straggly hand:
“Chillingworth: You se what thee byes got. That waz onli a
sampil. A Word to the Wize is Enuff. Live and Let Live.”
Sam Hartley’s face grew grave as he read, with the boys peering over his
elbow.
“I suspected something like this,” he said, “but I thought we would have
reached here ahead of them. I reckon that Chinaman must have known the
country hereabouts as well as I did, or better.”
“Well, I allow he ought to,” said Mrs. Chillingworth. “His name is Fu.
He worked for my husband, and you can imagine how mystified I was when I
came out a short while ago and found him sneaking round the house like a
criminal. I asked him what he was doing and he only answered by snarling
like a nasty wild cat, and going ahead nailing up his paper. It was then
I got the rifle and ordered him off the place.”
The boys explained as rapidly as possible such parts of their adventures
as they thought would not alarm Mrs. Chillingworth too much, although it
appeared to them that she was a very self-reliant woman—the kind that a
rancher in that wild country must have found invaluable. The narration
was made in the house, into which Mrs. Chillingworth had invited them.
She set out glasses of buttermilk, cool from the cellar, and also
produced a dish of fresh fruit, all of which was very inviting to the
dusty travelers. In the meantime, Sam had stabled his burro in the
corral, and the long-eared little animal was already pitching into the
hay stack to the great disgust of the ranch horses.
As soon as she heard the boys’ story, Mrs. Chillingworth set about
getting the various medicines for which her husband’s note called. This
done, the boys and Sam sat down to a bountiful meal. It was shortly
before two that, mounted on two good horses, they set out once more for
the cove. Sam Hartley and his burro went off in another direction. The
nemesis of the Chinese smugglers said he had a clew he wished to look up
in the canyon.
There was little danger of Bully Banjo or his gang harassing the ranch
before the boys returned with the two men, so that Mrs. Chillingworth
felt no nervousness over being left alone. The boys had at first found
it hard to account for the behavior of Fu, but Sam, after he had heard
the details of the fellow’s fright at witnessing the burials and the awe
in which he stood of the tall Chinaman, decided that by working on his
superstitious fears the gang had pressed him into their service.
Undoubtedly he had been selected to bear the warning paper, both because
he knew the trail and also to test him.
“But suppose he had weakened at the last minute and told Mrs.
Chillingworth everything?” Tom had asked.
“In that case, Fu’s career might have reached a sudden termination,”
said Sam Hartley grimly. “I don’t doubt that Fu was accompanied by other
members of that outfit to see that he did not play them false.”
“But we only saw one man,” objected Jack.
“That was because the rest were hiding in that wood yonder,” exclaimed
Sam. “From what I know of Bully Banjo he is not the man to allow one of
his untried men to go alone on an errand. Too much depends on it.”
With the explicit directions they had received, the boys arrived at the
cove without missing the trail once, or encountering any adventures.
They found the sloop anchored there still. As they rode down the hill,
they were delighted to see another figure at Mr. Chillingworth’s side as
the ranch owner stood upright in the cockpit of the little vessel. It
was Mr. Dacre, apparently as well almost as ever, for as he went forward
to hoist the anchor while the rancher took the sculling oar, the boys
could only detect a slight limp.
It had been only a sprain after all, as they learned presently. But,
naturally, the first thing to be done after the sloop had been sculled
alongside the rock was to explain the cause of their delay, and the
subsequent happenings.
“Good heavens!” grated out Mr. Chillingworth, as they related the
incident of the warning paper and Mrs. Chillingworth’s brave behavior.
“If the ranchers round here all had the courage of that woman, Bully
Banjo’s days would soon be numbered.”
He was delighted, though, to hear that Sam Hartley was on the scene.
During the boys’ absence Mr. Dacre had related to him in detail the
boys’ adventures in the Saw Mill Valley and the part which Sam Hartley
had played in them. The rancher therefore felt that the Secret Service
man was one to be relied on.
In view of Mr. Dacre’s condition, it was decided to let him ride home on
one of the horses, accompanied by Jack, while Mr. Chillingworth and Tom
remained behind to navigate the sloop around the point and bring her to
her anchorage in a small bay not far from the ranch house. The sea had
by this time moderated, so that they anticipated no difficulty in doing
this.
As progress would be slow up the trail and Mr. Dacre’s limb was still
too painful to permit him to ride fast, no time was wasted after this,
and ten minutes after they had received final instructions, Mr. Dacre
and his younger nephew rode off. This time, however, the riders carried
weapons. Mr. Chillingworth would have liked to go with them, but he was
compelled to take the sloop around to her home anchorage, not liking to
leave her alone in the cove. If the schooner, for instance, had dropped
in there, her crew were quite capable of scuttling the little craft,
just to show that they were men to be reckoned with.
Shortly after they had waved farewells to the horsemen, who speedily
vanished into the curtain of pine woods and brush, the sloop set sail.
Out past the point she beat, with a fair wind swelling her sails. Tom,
who was quite handy about a boat, acted as “sheet tender,” while Mr.
Chillingworth minded the helm. Before long they were outside the cove
and plunging along through the big swells that the brisk wind had heaped
up in the open water outside.
It was exhilarating sailing. The handy little craft fairly flew along,
every now and then bucking a big sea and drenching herself with
glittering spray.
But all this, pleasant as it was, held her back a good deal, so that
when darkness fell it still found them some little distance from the
anchorage they had hoped to reach by sundown.
“Never mind,” said Mr. Chillingworth. “I know this coast like a book.
Tom, keep a good look out forward, my boy, and when you see a big, lone
pine standing up against the sky on top of that range of hills yonder,
let me know. That pine is a landmark for my harbor.”
But supper—a sandwich and a cup of coffee—grabbed in the intervals of
working the boat, was eaten, and still no sign of the lone pine could be
made out.
“I’ll beat out a bit and come in again on another tack,” decided Mr.
Chillingworth finally. “We’re getting too close in shore for my liking.
There are a great many rocks and shoals running out from land
hereabouts.”
Accordingly, the sloop was put about and headed out into the open Sound.
The wind had by this time freshened considerably. So much so, in fact,
that before long it became necessary to take in the jib they were
carrying and set a smaller one—a storm-sail. As this was an operation
requiring some knowledge of boat handling, the helm was given to Tom,
while Mr. Chillingworth himself went forward, dragging a big bundle of
sailcloth.
As he left the cockpit, Tom noticed—or thought he noticed—some dark
object coming up astern of them. Before long all doubt was removed. It
was a dark spire of canvas, the sails of a vessel of some kind that he
had espied. She seemed to be coming up at a tremendous rate, too. Even
in the darkness he noted the white water as it frothed under her
forefoot. To his surprise, the boy noticed, too, that she carried no
lights. This, however, did not bother him as the sloop’s lights had been
placed into the forestays some time before, and shone out brightly.
However, he called Mr. Chillingworth’s attention to the approaching
vessel. The rancher eyed her keenly, pausing in his work on the wet,
pitching foredeck to do so.
“Queer she carries no lights,” he commented, “however, our port light is
toward them. They must have seen the red gleam by this time. It’s their
place to go about and get out of our way.”
“But suppose they don’t?”
“Oh, they will. They wouldn’t deliberately run us down. Now watch your
helm close, for I’m going to lower the jib, and without any headsail
she’ll be hard to handle.”
Tom did his best to do as he was told, but just as the jib came down a
sudden puff of wind came roaring across the water. With it came a huge
wave that curved its crest menacingly above the tiny sloop. Tom, in his
excitement, gave the tiller a quick shove over to meet the wave
quartering. But as he altered his helm, there came a terrific crash
above his head. The sloop’s boom swung over and she “jibed” sharply. Had
the maneuver been deliberately made in such a wind and sea it would have
been dangerous. As it was, however, it caught them utterly unprepared.
There was a quick shout from Mr. Chillingworth, a cry of alarm from Tom,
and the lad found himself suddenly struggling in the water.
The sloop had capsized in an instant, and now lay, bottom up, on the
heaving sea. Mustering all his strength, Tom struck out for her and
succeeded in reaching the hull. It was a hard task to clamber up the
slippery, wet sides, but finally he managed it and succeeded in perching
himself on the keel.
To his great delight, Mr. Chillingworth presently joined him there. He
had had a narrow escape of being caught in the tangle of rigging, but
had kicked himself free and was unhurt. He had no word of blame for Tom,
although the lad took himself to task bitterly for being the cause of
the accident.
During these tense moments, when it was a toss-up between life and
death, they had both forgotten the near proximity of the sailing craft
they had noticed a few minutes previously. Mr. Chillingworth, however,
placed his hands to his mouth and hailed the craft, which was not more
than a few score of feet away from the capsized sloop.
[Illustration: “Ahoy! Ship ahoy!” he yelled.]
“Ahoy! Ship ahoy!” he yelled.
Tom joined him in his cries for help. At first it seemed that the crew
of the sailing vessel had not noticed them, for the big craft was
keeping right on. But just when it looked as if she was going to slip
by, leaving them there on their perilous perches, there was a sudden
stir noticeable on her decks. A light flashed near her stern, and sharp
voices were heard calling commands.
Presently she was hove to, her sails shivering and slapping, and her
blocks rattling with an infernal din. A voice hailed them, seemingly
through a megaphone:
“Ahoy thar, what’s the trouble?”
“We’re capsized. Throw us a line!” shouted Mr. Chillingworth.
To his astonishment, instead of his appeal being complied with, an
argument seemed to ensue on the deck of the vessel. Some man appeared,
so far as they could judge, to be urging their rescue, while others
contended against it. “Let ’em rot there,” they heard, as one of the
voices rose louder than the others, and the wind bore it down to them.
“We ain’t in any business where we wants strangers aboard.”
But the objectors, it seemed, had the worst of the argument, for the
next minute the sailing vessel began to drift down on them.
“Get ready to catch a line,” came a shout, and presently a rope came
hissing through the air. Mr. Chillingworth hauled on it, drawing the
sloop in under the lee of the high side of the sailing vessel. The
castaways could now see that she was a schooner and a good-sized one,
too.
“Hurry up, and git aboard thar,” bellowed a rough voice, from above, as
they made fast. “We don’t want ter lose any more uv this slant uv wind
than we has to, by Chowder!”
Something in the voice rang in a strangely familiar way in Tom’s ears.
Why this was so, he was to know in a few minutes.
A Jacob’s ladder was cast to them and they clambered up it over the
schooner’s rail, and presently were standing on the stern in the lee of
a low deck-house. As they reached the deck, a figure stepped forward
from the group which had aided in their rescue, and thrust a lantern
into their faces.
As the light fell on them, this figure stepped back with a quick
exclamation of astonishment.
“Chillingworth, by Chowder, and”—once more the lantern was swung
forward—“one of them young varmints thet got away this morning. Wall,
by Juniper, ef this ain’t Yankee luck.”
Tom knew the voice well enough now. It was Simon Lake who spoke. And it
was his notorious schooner upon whose deck they stood. Small wonder is
it that the boy’s heart beat chokingly, and his pulses throbbed as he
realized their situation.