Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 27/Number 4/Shadows Tremendous/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
A NAMELESS FEAR.
IF Harrington Ives' object was to discover Darrell's proficiency as a marksman, he certainly succeeded. At such close quarters, target practice was naturally not much of a test, but even there the host's record fell slightly behind that of his guest. When a sailor began tossing up empty bottles for them to fire at, however, the difference was much more apparent. The best Ives could do was to shatter two of them before they struck the water, while Darrell, firing as swiftly as he could pull the trigger, emptied the chamber of his revolver, and each bullet found its mark.
“You ought to be in a wild-West show,” Ives said at length, in a tone of mock petulance. “You could give the cowboys cards and spades.” He tossed his revolver on a wicker table, and dropped down in a chair. “I've learned my lesson,” he went on, his eyes twinkling. “It's a dangerous thing to brag about one's accomplishments to a stranger.”
He took his defeat in good part, swiftly turning the conversation to other things. For an hour they chatted casually on all sorts of subjects, and in spite of their peculiar situation, both men could not help being interested in their host. He was a person of affairs, a polished man of the world, who had had many unusual and interesting experiences, and told them well.
At luncheon he played the genial host to such perfection that it seemed impossible there could be any ulterior motive governing his behavior. Afterward he took them all over the yacht, even into the perfectly appointed wireless room, the operator of which, it seemed, combined with his easy duties those of second officer. That done, they settled down under the stern awning with another bottle of wine.
During all this time, though Darrell had been constantly on the watch, he had failed utterly to notice anything questionable in the man's behavior. To every outward seeming, Ives was bent on giving two marooned men a good time—nothing more. But for two or three little slips, noticed earlier in the day, Darrell's slight suspicions would long ago have been quieted. As it was, the remembrance of these kept him keyed up, hoping for something more definite to work upon. It came at last, but not until he had almost begun to despair.
“Desolate? Yes, I should say so,” Ives was saying, in answer to a remark of Bellamy's. “But there was a time, my boy, when there was something doing along this coast. Pirates,” he added, as the Californian raised his eyebrows. “This used to be a favorite gathering place for them in the old days. Surely you've heard tales of treasure buried hereabouts?”
He glanced suddenly at the secret-service agent, but, though his pulse had quickened, Darrell's face was perfectly composed.
“They say that of every lonely bit of beach,” he returned. “Buried treasure and the sea-serpent myth are stock assets of all the seashore hotel keepers on the coast.”
“But this is something more than rumor,” persisted the older man, his eyes fixed keenly on Darrell's. “A lot of gold and jewels has actually been unearthed within a few miles of this very spot, according to the Mexicans.”
“Really?” remarked Darrell, in a tone of faint skepticism, “I wish to goodness I could hit on some sudden, easy source of wealth like that. I'm afraid if I did, though, the shock would be fatal. I wonder what it would feel like to spade up a cache of gold and diamonds as one does potatoes?”
Ives' smile was just a trifle forced. “Exciting would hardly express it,” he returned, glancing at his watch. “By Jove, it's later than I thought! I'm sorry to say I've got to go ashore for a bit. You boys hang around, though, if you like, and have dinner with me.”
“You're very kind,” Darrell said, as he stood up. “But I guess we won't overdo it. If you really mean to help us away from this blooming place, you don't want to get sick of the sight of us before you weigh anchor.”
“Not much danger of that,” Ives said pleasantly. “But suit yourselves.”
Ten minutes later, at the end of the pier, they parted with an interchange of cordial good nights. Ives remained to give some instructions to the second officer, who had come ashore with them, while Darrell and Bellamy passed on to the house facing the wharf, found that supper would be ready in half an hour, and went into their room.
Bellamy was the last to enter. He closed the door and stood back against it, his eyes fixed on his companion's suddenly relaxed face.
“Well?” he questioned.
“There's something up,” Darrell said swiftly. “I'm sure of it now.” His face was alert and eager, his eyes bright. “He took us on board to sound us, but instead he gave himself away three or four times. He's seen Sudo!”
“What!”
“No doubt about it.” The secret-service agent spoke in a rapid whisper. “Sudo has put him wise to what happened on the Golden Horn. That's why he brought up the subject of buried treasure so pointedly. He wanted to find out for himself, if he could, whether there was anything in it. Moreover, he knew there was no cholera aboard. If he'd had the slightest doubt of it, do you suppose for an instant he'd have asked us to lunch? Of course not! Lastly he made no single, solitary mention of Carmen and Boote. He must have learned from the greasers, at least, that they landed yesterday. Wouldn't it have been the natural thing to ask us about them? Instead, he says nothing, because he doesn't want us speculating as to what has become of them. And now, Jack, what has become of them?”
Bellamy shook his head bewilderedly. “You've got me. I haven't the least idea.”
“Nor I; but I mean to find out.” Darrell crossed swiftly to the window. It opened at the back of the house, and looked out on a wide, desolate waste of rolling sand, over which the first faint spirals of mist were slowly gathering.
With a quick, beckoning motion of his hand, he slipped through, and dropped noiselessly to the ground. Bellamy followed without hesitation, his mind in a state of fresh disturbance. A moment before, everything had seemed quiet and peaceful. In that brief space nothing had actually happened, yet now he found himself suddenly possessed of a vivid sense of peril. Where it lay, from whence it would come, he had no real conception; but the sense of it welled up strong within him, the more gripping for its very vagueness.
Heading straight inland, Darrell swiftly reached a friendly sand dune, and they slipped behind it. Looking back, the secret-service agent could see no signs of their departure having been observed. He bent low, Bellamy following his example, and they dodged to another hummock, thence to a third, and finally, when the line of houses had disappeared, Darrell whirled straight to the south and started circling back to the beach at a rapid walk.
“They've been gone over twenty-four hours,” Darrell went on suddenly, exactly as if he had left off only an instant before. “The place is a desert, and they can't have taken much food and water. To the southward there isn't a settlement in two hundred miles. Inland, the nearest one is fully half that. Where have they been keeping themselves all day? That's what I want to know. And I have an idea, Jack, that the answer to that question means a lot more than it seems.”
Reaching the beach, they were able to make much more rapid progress on the firm, hard sand. There was scarcely any breeze, and the mist was coming in so slowly that they could still see a fair distance ahead. Half a mile farther on, the shore line curved inward in a wide, deep cove, and in the middle of the crescent, raised there by one of those odd freaks of nature, was a jutting, rocky plateau rising raggedly from the smooth sweep of yellow sand.
The sight of it made Darrell stop suddenly and stare for a second. Then he glanced swiftly back along the curving ribbon of a beach. It was very still, very desolate, and quite empty, save for the swirling mist moving slowly in uncanny shapes.
With a quick, decisive gesture, the secret-service agent started on again, headed for the nearest side of the rocky plateau, with Bellamy close at his heels. In three minutes they had reached the base and begun to climb over the scattered bowlders and débris. It was not difficult work, for the summit could have been little more than forty feet above the beach, and they were soon at the top, squirming their way forward between the rough, jagged rocks.
Darrell was ahead, and all at once he stopped with an abruptness which startled Bellamy. For a second he lay absolutely still. Then, without turning his head, he motioned the Californian to squeeze in beside him.
Filled with curiosity, the latter lost not an instant in wriggling forward into an opening between two bowlders, and there he lay, heart thumping and eyes wide with amazement at the scene spread out before him.
The plateau was fairly large, with the surface of the central part sunk slightly below the edge. A number of white tents were pitched there in regular rows, which suggested the military in their neat precision. The place fairly swarmed with Japanese. It was impossible to guess accurately their number, but there must have been several hundred of them.
Some were squatting over charcoal braziers, apparently cooking supper. Others gathered in groups, talking together in low tones. Still others were passing in and out of the tents. There was not a uniform to be seen, but from the first Bellamy felt absolutely sure that they were soldiers.
He was still staring dazedly at the animated scene when he felt Darrell plucking his arm.. “We've seen enough,” the secret-service agent whispered, as they crept back among the rocks. “You understand what it means, of course? They're waiting for something before they take possession. Very likely Carranza is holding off for further developments in the conflict. At least we've discovered what we wanted—and more.”
“And Carmen?” Bellamy questioned, as they. slid cautiously downward over the rocks.
“They've gobbled him up, of course. He must have walked right into them. We can't stop to bother with him now. Were going to have about all we can do getting out of here ourselves with whole skins.”
“But if we can reach the settlement without their finding out we've been here”
“That particular 'if' is a mighty big word just now,” Darrell said grimly. “We're not there yet, by a long shot.”
They made the remainder of the descent in silence: The mist was thickening rapidly, and by the time they reached the bottom it was hardly possible to see a dozen feet ahead.
Turning toward the beach, they took a swift step or two before Darrell stopped short and gripped his companion by the arm.
“Listen!” he whispered. “Did you hear”
The sentence was never finished. Out of the fog—out of the very ground, it seemed—a dozen shapes leaped into sight. In front, behind, on either side, they darted up in that one breathless instant and flung themselves at the two men. Darrell had barely time to throw up his clenched fists, Bellamy to whirl so that his shoulder pressed against the tense muscles of the secret-service agent's back before the ring of men closed in upon them.