HEMMED IN BY FLAMES.
“I guess that this is as far as it will be safe to come.”
It was Mr. Chillingworth who spoke. The little party had, by painfully
creeping forward down the side of the jutting headland, managed to reach
a position in the rear of the big shed which housed the Chinese under
ordinary conditions. It now appeared, though, that it was empty.
Doubtless its occupants had either fled in terror or had joined in the
mad rioting.
From their point of vantage they had a clear view of all that was
happening within the settlement itself, lit up as the place was by the
glare-light.
They could see men rushing about the streets, if such the thoroughfares
between the shanties could be called. The red glow of the flames shone
on their faces, swollen and heated by the fire and excitement, and
perhaps by liquor, too. For they could see where a group had gathered
about a big cask and was broaching it freely.
“Good heavens,” exclaimed the rancher, “if they have started drinking
what will happen?”
The professor uttered a groan. Anxiety for his boy was preying cruelly
on him. He had all he could do to keep himself from rushing out from
their hiding place and boldly demanding the lad, be the consequences
what they might.
Hitherto, however, the counsel of the others had prevented his taking
such a mad step. In the present mood of the men there was no telling to
what lengths their folly might lead them. All felt that it would be
dangerous to cross any of them for the present at least.
Suddenly a louder shout than the frenzied whoops and yells with which
the mutineers had been making the night hideous, rent the air. It came
from the neighborhood of the flames which were now dying down. Evidently
something was taking place out of the ordinary.
“They’re coming this way!” shouted the professor presently; “what can
have happened now!”
Nearer and nearer grew the babel of shouts. All at once, from around the
corner of one of the huts appeared the figure of a man. He was running.
Even at the distance at which they stood they could catch his sharp,
quick breaths. Whoever the runner was he was almost spent. He carried
some object in his arms, too. It looked like a sack of some sort.
Hardly had the figure appeared before around the corner in close pursuit
of the runner there flashed a dozen or more forms. They were shouting
wildly, and as they caught sight of their quarry they set up a yell.
“After him, boys!” came a shout from one of them.
“Kill the dirty dog!” came another yell.
“Yes, he is the cause of all our troubles, the beast!” screamed another
voice.
“Good heavens, it’s Hunt!” cried Tom suddenly.
“And he has my boy in his arms!” shouted the professor the next instant.
Casting all prudence aside, he dashed out of his hiding place toward the
almost spent runner. Hunt ran staggeringly, reeling from side to side.
He seemed to be wounded.
“It’s all up now,” groaned Tom, as he saw the lanky form of the
scientist spring out.
“Well, I don’t know that I blame him,” said Chillingworth, “it’s his
boy, you know.”
Tom nodded soberly, but made no verbal reply. His wits were too hard at
work trying to devise something to do to get the professor out of his
predicament, for, as the scientist had rushed up to Hunt and seized his
boy from the red-headed mate’s arms, the frenzied mutineers had opened
fire.
“Follow me! Quick!” shouted Tom, as he perceived the scientist’s danger.
With the others close at his heels he dashed out with a loud “Whoop!”
He calculated on the effect of his wild cry and sudden appearance to
check the onrush of the mutineers. It worked as he had expected.
Stricken with astonishment they halted for an instant. But that instant
was enough.
“Here—get in here quick!” shouted Tom as he grasped the professor and
whirled him about. The next moment the scientist had been propelled by
Tom’s strong young arms into the dark interior of the deserted Chinese
barracks. An instant later his son followed him, and then came Tom with
the Kanakas and Mr. Chillingworth who helped him in dragging Hunt’s limp
form for the mate had collapsed as the professor seized the boy from his
arms.
As they all got safely inside Tom slammed the big door to, securing it
with a heavy bar which, to his great delight, he had found on the
inside. This gave them breathing space and a chance to lay Hunt, who
seemed to be badly wounded, on a pile of bedding in one corner of the
place. The man lay there panting for a few minutes, and then opened his
eyes.
“What has happened?” he demanded, and then he gasped out, “Oh, I know
now. You caught me and dragged me in here. It was pluckily done of you,
lad. But we are in a bad fix.”
“You think the mutineers will attack us, then?” asked Tom.
“Not a doubt of it. I don’t know how you come to be here, and there
ain’t no time to ask questions, but I’ll tell you what happened soon
after you left with Lake. A bunch of them fellers came to ther store and
said they had decided that the time had come to make a general
distribution of all the grub and then set sail on the schooner.
“Of course, I told ’em to go about their business, but they said that
they was a committee, and that if I didn’t let ’em ransack the provision
house there’d be trouble. It seems they thought that Lake was lying to
them about there being little grub left, and that they had an idea there
was plenty. Well, to make a long story short, when I refused to let ’em
have the keys they went away grumbling. Nothing happened till sundown,
when I shot down one chap I saw sneaking up to the back door of the
place.
“That was the signal for the trouble that had been smoldering. They
charged down on the place like a lot of angry wasps, and I grabbed up
the kid and ran. I saw it was no use to make a fight. I hid in a disused
hut till just now, when they routed me out. Through a crack I watched
’em loot the storehouse. All the time they was sayin’ what they’d do to
me when they catched me. Pretty soon they found kegs of rum in the
cellar, and then I knew it was about all over but the shouting.
“One feller suggests that they set the storehouse on fire when they’d
got everything out of it, and presently I seen them touch a match to a
pile of tinder and start the blaze up.
“I watched for a while and then figgered that if ever there was a chance
of my escaping with the kid it was right then. So I crept out of the hut
where I’d lain hidden. But as ill-luck would have it, just at that
instant a bunch of them ran upon me. I started off in this direction,
expecting every minute to feel a bullet in my back. The rest you know.”
All this time there had come no sign from the mutineers. Outside things
had, in fact, grown quite quiet. Ominously so. It meant, according to
Tom’s way of thinking, that they were hatching up some plan of attack on
the big shed, and—not one of its occupants had any more dangerous
weapon than a pocket knife.
Suddenly a voice outside hailed them:
“Ahoy thar! in ther shed!”
“Well, what is it?” shouted back Tom.
“Will you give us up Zeb Hunt?”
“What do you want to do with him?” asked Tom, while Hunt watched him
with an agonized look on his rough features.
“String him up!” came the savage rejoinder. “Send him out here and you
shall all get off without any bother frum us. But ef yer keep him thar
we’ll make you sorry fer it.”
“You hear what he says,” said Tom, facing round on the others, “what
shall we do?”
“We would be a fine lot of cowards to give this man up to them after he
has saved my boy at the risk of his life,” said the professor.
“That’s what I say,” chimed in Mr. Chillingworth.
“So do I,” agreed Tom, while Hunt sank back with a breathed “God bless
you!” It was the most fervent wish that had ever left those lips.
“Wall, what be you a-goin’ ter do?” came the voice. “The boys is gittin’
impatient.”
“You can’t have Hunt!” hailed back Tom in decisive tones.
“What!” roared the fellow outside, “think of what you’re a-doin’ of,
youngster. It’s his life or yours—now kin we hev him?”
“Not in the longest day you ever lived!” shouted Tom, “now be off and do
your worst.”
“No fear of that, younker,” the voice assured him; “look out fer
squalls!”
“If only we had some weapons,” exclaimed Tom. He stepped over to Hunt,
thinking that perhaps the man had a pistol on him. But Hunt, when
addressed, did not answer, and Tom soon made out that he had swooned
again. Striking a match Tom bent over him. The man’s shirt was
blood-stained, and he had, apparently, been wounded in the shoulder.
“He’s got grit, anyhow,” thought Tom. “He never said a word about his
wound.”
Tom would have liked to doctor him there and then, but that was out of
the question. Before the hastily struck match had died out there was a
wild yell from outside as the mutineers rushed upon the place. But if
they expected the stout doors to yield they were mistaken. The portals
shook and swayed under the onslaught, but they held firm.
After battering furiously upon them with blood-curdling threats as to
what would happen when they did get them open, the mutineers gave over
their fruitless task. Apparently they retired to talk over some other
plan of attack.
This looked ominous. Enraged as they were by their failure to carry the
place at the first assault, it was not likely they would risk a second
failure.
“I hope they don’t think of making a battering ram,” thought Tom,
“they’d have those doors down in a jiffy if they did.”
For some minutes thereafter they sat in silence, listening intently for
some sound which might inform them of what the mutineers intended to do
next. In the meantime, the half-famished refugees munched on some rice
and bread they had found spread out upon a rough table just as the
Chinamen had left it, apparently.
All at once Tom heard a queer sound—a sort of scratching, scraping
noise at one end of the barn. It sounded as if something were being
piled against it.
What could the mutineers be doing? Tom racked his brain in vain for a
solution of the queer sounds for some minutes. Then he hit upon an
explanation. It was such a horrifying one that every drop of blood
seemed to leave his heart at the bare idea.
It was brush that was being piled against the barn from the outside.
Such a thing could have only one meaning. The mutineers meant to set the
place on fire.
Rapidly he communicated his fears to the others. But before they had
time to formulate any way of facing this new peril there was the quick,
sharp scratch of a match outside.
At the same instant a red glow shone through the chinks of the boards.
As the flames rose higher, licking the sides of the barn, the mutineers
broke into brutal cries and taunts.
“You cowards!” shouted Tom desperately; “do you mean to burn us alive?”
“Yes; you can all shrivel up like a bunch of rats or else come out and
be shot!”
This utterance from one of the wretches outside was greeted by a chorus
of approving shouts and yells. Tom turned despairingly to the others. As
he did so the barn began to fill with smoke and hot sparks showered
them. It was evident that they must soon adopt one of the alternatives
hurled at them by the brutal mutineers.