THE TREASURE TRAIL
[Illustration: “Suddenly Sullivan stood up jerkily on the deck.”]
The Treasure Trail
BY
FRANK L. POLLOCK
With a Frontispiece in Colour by
Louis D. Gowing
Boston L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
MDCCCCVI
Copyright, 1906
By L. C. Page & Company
(INCORPORATED)
All rights reserved
First Impression, May, 1906
COLONIAL PRESS
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, U.S.A.
CONTENTS
I. The New Leaf
II. The Open Road
III. The Adventurer
IV. The Fate of the Treasure Ship
V. The Ace of Diamonds
VI. The Mystery of the Mate
VII. The Indiscretion of Henninger
VIII. The Man from Alabama
IX. On the Trail
X. A Lost Clue
XI. Illumination
XII. Open War
XIII. First Blood
XIV. The Clue Found
XV. The Other Way Round the World
XVI. The End of the Trail
XVII. The Treasure
XVIII. The Battle on the Lagoon
XIX. The Second Wreck
XX. The Rainbow Road
THE TREASURE TRAIL
CHAPTER I. THE NEW LEAF
“Lord! what a haul!” Elliott murmured to himself, glancing over his
letter while he waited with the horses for Margaret, who had said that
she would be just twelve minutes in putting on her riding-costume. The
letter was from an old-time Colorado acquaintance who was then
superintending a Transvaal gold mine, and, probably by reason of the
exigencies of war, the epistle had taken over two months to come from
Pretoria. Elliott had been able to peruse it only by snatches, for the
pinto horse with the side-saddle was fidgety, communicating its
uneasiness to his own mount.
“And managed to loot the treasury of over a million in gold, they say,
and got away with it all. The regular members of the Treasury
Department were at the front, I suppose, with green hands in their
places,” he read.
It was a great haul, indeed. Elliott glanced absently along the muddy
street of the Nebraska capital, and his face hardened into an
expression that was not usual. It was on the whole a good-looking
face, deeply tanned, with a pleasant mouth and a small yellowish
moustache that lent a boyishness to his whole countenance, belied by
the mesh of fine lines about the eyes that come only of years upon the
great plains. The eyes were gray, keen, and alive with a spirit of
enterprise that might go the length of recklessness; and their owner
was, in fact, reflecting rather bitterly that during the past ten
years all his enterprises had been too reckless, or perhaps not
reckless enough. He had not had the convictions of his courage. The
story of the stealings of a ring of Boer ex-officials had made him
momentarily regret his own passable honesty; and it struck him that in
his present strait he would not care to meet the temptation of even
less than a million in gold, with a reasonable chance of getting away
with it.
This subjective dishonesty was cut short by Margaret, who hurried down
the veranda steps, holding up her brown riding-skirt. She surveyed the
pinto with critical consideration.
“Warranted not to pitch,” Elliott remarked. “The livery-stable man
said a child could ride him.”
“You’d better take him, then. I don’t want him,” retorted Margaret
“This one may be even more domestic. What in the world are you going
to do with that gun?”
“Don’t let Aunt Louisa see it; she’s looking out the window,” implored
Margaret, her eyes dancing. “I want to shoot when we get out of town.
Put it in your pocket, please,—that’s against the law, you know.
You’re not afraid of the law, are you?”
“I am, indeed. I’ve seen it work,” Elliott replied; but he slipped the
black, serviceable revolver into his hip pocket, and reined round to
follow her. She had scrambled into the saddle without assistance, and
was already twenty yards down the street, scampering away at a speed
unexpected from the maligned pinto, and she had crossed the Union
Pacific tracks before he overtook her. From that point it was not far
to the prairie fields and the barbed-wire fences. The brown Nebraska
plains rolled undulating in scallops against the clear horizon; in the
rear the great State House dome began to disengage itself from a mass
of bare branches. The road was of black, half-dried muck, the potent
black earth of the wheat belt, without a pebble in it, and deep ruts
showed where wagons had sunk hub-deep a few days before.
A fresh wind blew in their faces, coming strong and pure from the
leagues and leagues of moist March prairie, full of the thrill of
spring. Riding a little in the rear, Elliott watched it flutter the
brown curls under Margaret’s grey felt hat, creased in rakish
affectation of the cow-puncher’s fashion. Now that he was about to
lose her, he seemed to see her all at once with new eyes, and all at
once he realized how much her companionship had meant to him during
these past six months in Lincoln,—a half-year that had just come to so
disastrous an end.
Margaret Laurie lived with her aunt on T Street, and gave lessons in
piano and vocal music at seventy-five cents an hour. Her mother had
been dead so long that Elliott had never heard her mentioned; the
father was a Methodist missionary in foreign parts. During the whole
winter Elliott had seen her almost daily. They had walked together,
ridden together, skated together when there was ice, and had fired off
some twenty boxes of cartridges at pistol practice, for which
diversion Margaret had a pronounced aptitude as well as taste. She had
taught him something of good music, and he confided to her the
vicissitudes of the real estate business in a city where a boom is
trembling between inflation and premature extinction. It had all been
as stimulating as it had been delightful; and part of its charm lay in
the fact that there had always been the frankest camaraderie between
them, and nothing else. Elliott wished for nothing else; he told
himself that he had known enough of the love of women to value a
woman’s friendship. But on this last ride together he felt as if
saturated with failure—and it was to be the last ride.
Margaret broke in upon his meditations. “Please give me the gun,” she
commanded. “And if it’s not too much trouble, I wish you’d get one of
those empty tomato-cans by the road.”
“You can’t hit it,” ventured Elliott, as he dismounted and tossed the
can high in the air. The pistol banged, but the can fell untouched,
and the pinto pony capered at the report.
“Better let me hold your horse for you,” Elliott commented, with a
grin.
“No, thank you,” she retorted, setting her teeth. “Now,—throw it up
again.”
This time, at the crack of the revolver, the can leaped a couple of
feet higher, and as it poised she hit it again. Two more shots missed,
and the pinto, becoming uncontrollable, bolted down the road,
scattering the black earth in great flakes. Elliott galloped in
pursuit, but she was perfectly capable of reducing the animal to
submission, and she had him subjected before he overtook her.
“It’s easier than it looks,” Margaret instructed him, kindly. “You
shoot when the can poises to fall, when it’s really stationary for a
second.”
“Thank you—I’ve tried it,” Elliott responded, as they rode on side by
side, at the easy lope of the Western horse. The wind sang in their
ears, though it was warm and sunny, and it was bringing a yellowish
haze up the blue sky.
“‘Weh, weh, der Wind!’”
hummed Margaret, softly.
“‘Frisch weht der Wind der Heimath zu;
Mein Irisch Kind, wo weilest Du——?’”
“What a truly Western combination,—horses, Wagner, and gun-play!”
remarked Elliott.
“Of course it is. Where else in the world could you find anything like
it? It’s the Greek ideal—action and culture at once.”
“It may be Greek. But I know it would startle the Atlantic coast.”
“I don’t care for the Atlantic coast. Or—yes, I do. I’m going to tell
you a great secret. Do you know what I’ve wanted more than anything
else in life?”
“Your father must be coming home from the South Seas,” Elliott
hazarded.
“Dear old father! He isn’t in the South Seas now; he’s in South
Africa. No, it isn’t that. I’m going to Baltimore this fall to study
music. I’ve been arguing it for weeks with Aunt Louisa. I wanted to go
to New York or Boston, but she said the Boston winter would kill me,
and New York was too big and dangerous. So we compromised on
Baltimore.”
“Hurrah!” said Elliott, with some lack of enthusiasm. “Baltimore is a
delightful town. I used to be a newspaper man there before I came West
and became an adventurer. I wish I were going to anything half so
good.”
“You’re not leaving Lincoln, are you?” she inquired, turning quickly
to look at him.
“I’m afraid I must.”
“When are you going, and where?” she demanded, almost peremptorily.
“I don’t exactly know. I had thought of trying mining again,” with a
certain air of discouragement.
Margaret looked the other way, out across the muddy sheet of water
known locally as Salt Lake, where a flock of wild ducks was fluttering
aimlessly over the surface; and she said nothing.
“I suppose you know that the bottom’s dropped out of the land boom in
Lincoln,” Elliott pursued. “I’ve seen it dropping for a month; in
fact, there never was any real boom at all. Anyhow, the real estate
office of Wingate Elliott, Desirable City Property Bought and Sold,
closed up yesterday.”
“You don’t mean that you have—”
“Failed? Busted? I do. I’ve got exactly eighty-two dollars in the
world.”
She began to laugh, and then stopped, looking at him
half-incredulously.
“You don’t appear to mind it much, at least.”
“No? Well, you see it’s happened so often before that I’m used to it.
Good Lord! it seems to me that I’ve left a trail of ineffectual
dollars all over the West!”
“You do mind it—a great deal!” exclaimed Margaret, impulsively putting
a hand upon his bridle. “Please tell me all about it. We’re good
friends—the very best, aren’t we?—but you’ve told me hardly anything
about your life.”
“There’s nothing interesting about it; nothing but looking for easy
money and not finding it,” replied Elliott. He was scrutinizing the
sky ahead. “Don’t you think we had better turn back? Look at those
clouds.”
The firmament had darkened to the zenith with a livid purple tinge low
in the west, and the wind was blowing in jerky, powerful gusts. A
growl of thunder rumbled overhead.
“It’s too early for a twister, and I don’t mind rain. I’ve nothing on
that will spoil,” said Margaret, almost abstractedly. She had scarcely
spoken when there was a sharp patter, and then a blast of drops driven
by the wind. A vivid flash split the clouds, and with the
instantaneous thunder the patter of the rain changed to a rattle, and
the black road whitened with hail. The horses plunged as the hard
pellets rebounded from hide and saddle.
“We must get shelter. The beasts won’t stand this,” cried Elliott,
reining round. The lumps of ice drove in cutting gusts, and the
frightened horses broke into a gallop toward the city. For a few
moments the storm slackened; then a second explosion of thunder seemed
to bring a second fusilade, driving almost horizontally under the
violent wind, stinging like shot.
Across an unfenced strip of pasture Elliott’s eye fell upon the Salt
Lake spur of the Union Pacific tracks, where a mile of rails is used
for the storage of empty freight-cars. He pulled his horse round and
galloped across the intervening space, with Margaret at his heels, and
in half a minute they had reached the lee of the line of cars, where
there was shelter. He hooked the bridles over the iron handle of a
box-car door that stood open, and scrambled into the car, swinging
Margaret from her saddle to the doorway.
It was a perfect refuge. The storm rattled like buckshot on the roof
and swept in cloudy pillars across the Salt Lake, where the wild ducks
flew to and fro, quacking from sheer joy, but the car was clean and
dry, slightly dusted with flour. They sat down in the door with their
feet dangling out beside the horses, that shivered and stamped at the
stroke of chance pellets of hail.
“This is splendid!” said Margaret, looking curiously about the planked
interior of the car. “Why do you want to leave Lincoln?” she went on
in a lower tone, after a pause.
“I don’t want to leave Lincoln.”
“But you said just now—”
“It seems to me, by Jove, that I’ve done nothing but leave places ever
since I came West!” Elliott exclaimed, impatiently. “That was ten
years ago. I came out from Baltimore, you know. I was born there, and
I learned newspaper work on the _Despatch_ there, and then I came West
and got a job on the Denver _Telegraph_.”
“At a high salary, I suppose.”
“So high that it seemed a sort of gold mine, after Eastern rates. But
it didn’t last. The paper was sold and remodelled inside a year, and
most of the reporters fired. I couldn’t find another newspaper job
just then, so I went out with a survey party in Dakota for the winter
and nearly froze to death, but when I got back and drew all my
accumulated salary, I bought a half-interest in a gold claim in the
Black Hills. Mining in the Black Hills was just beginning to boom
then, and I sold my claim in a couple of months for three thousand. I
made another three thousand in freighting that summer, and if I had
stayed at it I might have got rich, but I came down to Omaha and lost
it all playing the wheat market. I had a sure tip.”
“Six thousand dollars! That’s more money than I ever saw all at once,”
Margaret commented.
“It was more money than I saw for some time after that; but that’s a
fair specimen of the way I did things. Once I walked into Seattle
broke, and came out with four thousand dollars. I cleaned up nearly
twenty thousand once on real estate in San Francisco. Afterwards I
went down to Colorado, mining. I could almost have bought up the whole
Cripple Creek district when I got there, if I had had savvy enough,
but I let the chance slip, and when I did go to speculating my capital
went off like smoke. The end of it was that I had to go into the mines
and swing a pick myself.”
“You were game, it seems, anyway,” said Margaret, who was listening
with absorbed interest. The sky was clearing a little, and the hail
had ceased, but the rain still swept in gusty clouds over the brown
prairie.
“I had to be. It did me good, and I got four dollars a day, and in six
months I was working a claim of my own. By this time I thought I was
wise, and I sold it as soon as I found a sucker. I got ten thousand
for it, and I heard afterwards that he took fifty thousand out of it.”
“What a fraud!” cried Margaret, indignantly.
“Anyhow, I bought a little newspaper in a Kansas town that was just
drawing its breath for a boom. I worked for it till I almost got to
believe in that town myself. At one time my profits in corner lots and
things—on paper, you know—were up in the hundreds of thousands. In the
end, I had to sell for less than one thousand, and then I came to
Lincoln and worked for the paper here. That was two years ago, when I
first met you. Do you remember?”
“I remember. You only stayed about four months. What did you do then?”
“Yes, it seemed too slow here, too far east. I went back to North
Dakota, mining and country journalism. I did pretty well too, but for
the life of me I don’t know what became of the money. After that I
did—oh, everything. I rode a line on a ranch in Wyoming; I worked in a
sawmill in Oregon; I made money in some places and lost it in others.
Eight months ago I had a nice little pile, and I heard that there was
a big opening in real estate here in Lincoln, so I came.”
“And wasn’t there an opening?”
“There must have been. It swallowed up all my little pile without any
perceptible effect, all but eighty-two dollars.”
“And now—?”
“And now—I don’t know. I was reading a letter just now from a man I
know in South Africa telling of a theft of a million in gold from the
Pretoria treasury during the confusion of the war. Do you know, I
half-envied those thieves; I did, honour bright. A quick million is
what I’ve always been chasing, and I’d almost steal it if I got the
chance.”
“You wouldn’t do any thing of the sort. I know you better than that.
You’re going to do something sensible and strong and brave. What is it
to be?”
“But I don’t know,” cried Elliott. “There are heaps of things that I
can do, but I tell you I feel sick of the whole game. I feel as if I’d
been wasting time and money and everything.”
“So you have, dear boy, so you have,” agreed Margaret. “And now, if
you’d let me advise you, I’d tell you to find out what you like best
and what you can do best, and settle down to that. You’ve had no
definite purpose at all.”
“I have. It was always a quick fortune,” Elliott remonstrated. “I’ve
got it yet. There are plenty of chances in the West for a man to make
a million with less capital than I’ve got now. This isn’t a country of
small change.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve heard men talk like that,” said Margaret, more
thoughtfully. “But it seems to me that you’ve been doing nothing but
gamble all your life, hoping for a big haul. Of course, I’ve no right
to advise you. Nebraska is all I know of the world, but I don’t like
to think of you going back to the ‘game,’ as you call it. Do you know
that it hurts me to think of you making money and losing it again,
year after year, and neglecting all your real chances? Too many men
have done that. A few of them won, but nobody knows where most of them
died. There are such chances to do good in the world, to be happy
ourselves and make others happy, and when I think of a man like my
father—”
“You wouldn’t want me to go to Fiji as a missionary?” Elliott
interrupted. He was shy on the subject of her father, whom Margaret
had seen scarcely a dozen times since she could remember, but who was
her constant ideal of heroism, energy, and virtue.
“Of course not. But don’t you like newspaper work?”
“I like it very much.”
“And isn’t it a good profession?”
“Very fair, if one works like a slave. That is, I might reach a salary
of five thousand dollars a year. The best way is to buy out a small
country daily and build it up as the town grows. There’s money in that
sometimes.”
“Why not do it, then? It’s not for the sake of the money. I hate
money; I’ve never had any. But I don’t believe any one can be really
happy after he’s twenty-five without a definite purpose and a kind of
settled life. Some day you’ll want to marry—”
“Don’t say that. I’ve been a free lance too long!” cried Elliott.
“I’ve always been afraid of matrimony, too,” said Margaret, with a
quick flush. “I want my own life, all my own.”
“But what you say is right, dead right,” said Elliott, after a
reflective pause that lasted for several minutes. “It’s just what my
own conscience has been telling me.” He stopped to meditate again.
“I’ll tell you what I think I’ll do,” he proceeded, at last. “I’ll go
over to Omaha and look for a job on one of the dailies there. I expect
I can get it, and it’ll give me time to think over my plans.
“You’re not going East till fall, and I can run across here often, so
that I’ll be able to see you. I may go East this fall myself. You’ve
just crystallized what I’ve been thinking. I will do something to
surprise you, and I’ll make a fortune with it. Will you shake hands on
it?”
She pulled off the riding-gauntlet and put out her hand, meeting his
eyes squarely. The deep flush still lingered in her cheeks.
“We _are_ good friends,” he exclaimed, feeling a desire to say
something, he scarcely knew what.
“The very best!” said Margaret, looking bright-eyed at him. “I hope we
always will be. Come,” she cried, pulling her hand away. “The storm’s
over. Let’s go back.”
The rain had made the road very sticky, and they rode slowly side by
side, while Margaret chattered vivaciously of her own future, of her
music, of the coming winter in the East. She was full of plans, and
Elliott sunk his own perplexities to share in her enthusiasm. He was
himself imbued with the cheerfulness that comes of good resolutions,
whose difficulties are yet untried.
“When are you going to Omaha?” she asked him, as he left her at the
gate.
“In a couple of days. I’ll see you, of course, before I go.”
He packed his two trunks that night. He did not see her again,
however, for she happened to be out when he called to make his
farewell. He was unreasonably annoyed at this disappointment, and
thought of delaying his departure another day, but he was afraid that
she would consider it weak. Anyhow, he expected to be back in Lincoln
within a fortnight, and he left that night for Omaha.
The next couple of days he spent in a round of visits to the offices
of the various Omaha newspapers. He found every staff filled to its
capacity. There was a prospect of a vacancy in about a month, but it
was too long to wait, and, happening to hear that the St. Joseph
_Post_ was looking for a new city editor, he went thither with a
letter of introduction from the manager of the Omaha _Bee_.