Owen Clancy's Happy Trail/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
TREACHERY THAT SUCCEEDED—AND FAILED.
The motor wizard congratulated himself, for a moment, that he had won Hank Burton over to his side in the argument. But only for a moment. Even as Clancy was getting ready to frame his first question, Burton took to his heels and ran like a deer toward the other side of Sugarloaf Rock.
On that side, three persons had landed in a small boat. They had secured their boat by twisting the painter around a rock, and were now climbing Old Sugarloaf.
Burton must have seen this landing party while walking back and forth and turning Clancy's proposition over in his mind. He had gained a little time by seeming to fall in with Clancy's desires, but now the mask was dropped.
"Consarn the critter!" whooped Hiram. "Stop him, Clancy, stop him!"
This is exactly what Clancy was trying to do, but the feat was physically impossible. Burton had too long a lead.
Snatching the painter from the rock, the fleeing rascal sprang into the boat, picked up the oars and was twenty feet from shore before Clancy and Hill came to the water's edge.
"Guess again!" taunted Burton, applying himself vigorously to the oars.
"This island ain't so big!" shouted Hiram furiously. "The steamer for San Pedro has gone, and there's no other boat for the mainland until to-morrow. You ain't out o' this yet, Hank Burton!"
What Burton thought regarding this did not appear. He put all his energy into his rowing and was soon halfway across the bay.
"If we'd toted a popper," bewailed Hiram, "this couldn't have happened.
"Popper?" questioned Clancy.
"Meanin' gun. With a six-shooter we could have drawn a bead on Mister Man in the bout and fetched him ashore. Blame it! I sure hate tu see him get away after bein' to so much trouble ketchin' him!"
The motor wizard felt in the same way, but there was no use crying over spilled milk. Mynie Boltwood got back from the other side of the bay with a load of clothes, and Hill removed his wet garments, wrung them out, dried them in the sun, and was soon back in his complete wardrobe, and but little the worse for his drenching.
Clancy, hoping to develop something in the nature of a clew, searched the pockets of Burton's clothes. He found nothing to repay his search.
"Now," inquired Hill gloomily, "what's the next step?"
"We came her to find your father, Hiram," Clancy answered, "and suddenly got switched off into another trail. Now we'll get back to the work that originally brought us to the island."
"And let that bunch o' grafters go?"
"I don't see what we can do at present."
"We can set the police on their trail!"
Clancy shook his head. "That won't do, Hiram," he answered. "I made a crack of that kind at Burton, but it was only a bluff. The moment we ring in the police, that moment we lift the veil on Lafe Wynn. Lafe must be protected at any cost. If we could get back the money by our own efforts, that would be all right. What we've got to avoid is making this thing too public. We'll return to the curio store and see if Lopez has got back from the other side of the island."
Mynie Boltwood displayed little curiosity regarding Burton. The five-dollar gold piece had evidently blinded him, muzzled him, and tied up his ears. He rowed Clancy and Hill back to the pier, and they left the boat and proceeded to the establishment of Jack Lopez.
Lopez looked a good deal like a man who might deal in dazzling futures, taking care that all the profit came to himself. He was swarthy and good-natured, but with a crafty eye.
"The Fortunatus Syndicate?" he said, with an airy laugh. "Gentlemen, it is gone—as you say—where the woodbine twineth. Yes, for two years past. The concession was granted by Diaz for a great 'plant' dedicated to the god of luck at Tia Juana, but—well, Diaz went out and some one else came in. Down below the border, nothing remains as it was for long. It took—what you call—too much money to grease the wheels. The Syndicate dropped one hundred thousand dollars, and thought that was plenty. No, no, you cannot invest in Fortunatus, for there is no Fortunatus."
"This is your card, isn't it?" inquired Clancy, offering for inspection the card found under the sweatband of the Stetson.
"Why, si! I used that card at the time the Tia Juana matter looked very bright and promising. Now, though, I use the card no more."
"Did you ever see a feller like this?" put in Hiram, handing over the photograph of his father.
Lopez looked at the photograph, started, took it in his hands, and gave it a more careful scrutiny.
"As I live," said he. "it is the picture of my good friend, Captain Hogan, of the steam yacht Sylvia. Look!" and Lopez lifted and leveled a forefinger.
They were standing in front of the curio store, and the stores all along that street overlooked the bay. Lopez indicated a trim-looking craft, painted white, and with the sun striking gleams from dazzling brasswork, floating at anchor far from the shore line.
"That," continued Lopez, "is my good friend's boat. Her home port is San Diego, and she can be chartered by anyone with the price. Hogan is at the island for a few days, looking for customers."
Disappointment struck heavily at Hiram Hill's heart and was reflected in his face.
"You say his name is Hogan?" he asked.
"Yes."
"What's the whole of his handle?"
"Uriah Hogan. Strange you do not know, since you have his picture."
"There's a whole lot o' things I don't know," answered Hiram, "and am just beginnin' to find out. Was Cap'n Hogan over to Los Angeles last Saturday?"
"He was. He has told me about it. He returned to the island Sunday."
"Do you happen to know where I can find him?"
"Why, yes. In the quarter of the town called Buena Vista, there is a bungalow called the Rest a While. There Captain Hogan stays whenever he is in Avalon."
This ended the talk with Señor J. Lopez. Clancy took his friend by the arm and walked with him to the restaurant where they had had their dinner.
"Ain't this the limit?" queried Hill plaintively. "Nothin' goes right for us, Clancy."
"Well, don't fret about it," returned the motor wizard. "Order up a good meal and try and be happy."
They sent in a generous order. Hill, however, could not get the hard luck out of his mind. He continued to air the state of his feelings while the order was being made ready.
"This Cap'n Hogan is a dead ringer for dad. Him and dad couldn't look more alike if they had been twins. And then, Clancy, them initials in his Stetson—'U. H.' I reckoned that made a cinch of this here trail I'm follerin'. But, no, 'stead o' standin' for 'Upton Hill,' them letters in the Stetson meant 'Uriah Hogan.' Never before has fate played it so low down on me as that."
"We have certainly blundered into some remarkable coincidences," agreed Clancy.
A man with red hair, who sat at their table, cocked up his ear as Hill shook out his opinions.
"Hogan?" said he, leaning forward; "did I hear you mention Smuggler Hogan, of the Sylvia?"
"I called him Uriah Hogan," said Hill.
"It's all one and the same. Hogan's bad medicine." The man surveyed Clancy with an approving eye. "Maybe I shouldn't say anything about this," he continued, "but your hair's the same color as mine, and I always make it a point to pass valuable information along to a fellow bricktop. Beware of Hogan! What's the fellow doing with that boat of his? Some say he's smuggling arms into Lower California, for the use of the revolutionists, and some say he's running chinks and opium—both contraband goods—into the United States. Cap'n Hogan is not in these waters for any good, take it from me."
The red-headed man finished with an ominous look, and then with great politeness requested Hill to pass the salt.
"Hogan, I hear," the loquacious stranger continued presently, "charters that boat of his to the unsuspecting. He does it for a blind—nothing else. Now, if you gents want a trip up or down the coast, as far north as San Fran, or as far down as the Horn, I've got just the thing—slickest little schooner with steam auxiliary you ever put eyes on."
A light broke over Clancy. Maybe Captain Hogan wasn't such bad medicine, after all. This rival ship owner might be giving him a bad character—for business purposes.
"We're not intending to charter any boat," said Clancy.
"No harm done, anyway," said the red-haired person. "I've given you a straight tip about Hogan, though, and you can bank on it."
"Much obliged," returned Clancy.
A little later he and Hill got up from the table, settled their bill, and left the restaurant.
"How about takin' a walk?" Hill asked. "The way that red-headed chap throwed it into the man I thought was dad, kinder made me feverish."
"All right," agreed the motor wizard cheerfully, "we'll walk. It's always a good thing to walk a mile or so after you've had your supper."
They strolled down the main street, Clancy doing his best to cheer up his melancholy companion. Presently they turned a corner and started along a thoroughfare that was bordered on both sides with eucalyptus trees. A figure stepped suddenly out of the black shadow of one of the trees and posted itself in front of Clancy, barring his path.
"Owen Clancy?" the figure asked.
"Yes," Clancy answered, thinking the voice sounded rather familiar.
"Well, I'm back again, and"
"Burton!" the motor wizard exclaimed.
"Yes, Burton," the other returned. "I've had it rubbed into me by Gerald Wynn and Bob Katz till I reckon I can't stand it no longer. I'm ready to help you, now, and this time I mean it."
"What's happened to cause this great change, Burton?" Clancy asked skeptically.
"Wynn and Katz are trying to beat me out of my share of the fifteen thousand," was the reply. "If I help you. Clancy, maybe, between us, we can beat out the pair of them. What do you say?"