Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 57/Number 5/Hatching a Volcano/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV.
A DESPERATE EXPERIENCE.
THE Flamingo sped on across the sapphire waters of uncharted lagoons that reflected, mirrorlike, the leaning palms and the dense green tangle of jungle thicket and the flaming flowers. An occasional egret winged aloft, and great armies of fiddler crabs scuttled across the exposed sand bars.
The world about them was saturated with a deadening, oppressive beat, for no breeze from the Gulf tempered the secluded, inner recesses of that silent region bordering the Everglades.
The deck became a scorching furnace. A pitiless sun beat down upon Brant's unprotected head, adding to the misery of his cramped and aching limbs. The beat seemed to fester his open wounds; a consuming thirst blistered his parched throat. Still he did not complain, or indicate by word or look his torment.
Brant's restless eyes, shifting about, alighted suddenly upon a crumpled bit of paper that had been tossed upon the deck and lodged against a coil of rope near at hand. It recalled to mind the one bit of mystery yet unsolved.
“Look there!” he whispered. “Your message! Kerry found it when he searched my pockets.”
“Yes,” the girl answered. “I was watching when he confronted you with it.”
“The thing is bewitched,” Brant said. “It's a blank sheet of paper to-day. Two nights before, when I removed it from Dixon's table, it contained a message in your handwriting. What magic have you used?”
“The writing is still on it,” she told him; “but it can be read only under a certain light. Mr. Dixon gave me the prepared ink, which is used for official communications. He urged me to use it in case I wished to send a message.”
The phenomenon was accounted for; the mystery dispelled. “I remember that Dixon held the letter under a lamp when he read it,” Brant said, his thoughts drifting back to the house in Calle Huerjanos. “I recall now that the light was of a peculiar hue, but I attributed it at the time to the shade. Of course the envelope was addressed with ordinary ink.”
“I didn't think to explain this to you before.”
“I intended questioning you the night we fled from Dixon's house,” Brant said. “I couldn't figure out why you didn't want the police to find the message. When I looked at it after my affair with the man who tore open the envelope, the paper was blank. But when I picked it off the table I saw it was covered with writing. The thing baffled me. Now I understand. The lamp was on the table, and under its light the message was visible.”
A silence fell between the two.
Presently Brant spoke again. “What a part the message has played in our little drama,” he remarked musingly. “It brought us together; it was responsible for Dixon's passing; and it's given no end of trouble to Korry. If I shouldn't see you again”—his voice grew wistful—“I'd like to get and keep it as a dear remembrance.”
The girl did not answer him, and Brant did not trust himself to turn; but her fingers caressed his hand with a gentle tenderness that bespoke more than words and filled his comforted heart to overflowing.
Hours later, so it seemed to Brant, the Flamingo glided into a quiet, sheltered bayou. A bell sounded faintly below deck, and the throbbing engines ceased their labors. The forward anchor was cast out, splashing noisily.
It aroused Brant from his rose-tinted dreams and brought him back to earth again as his air castles tumbled softly down.
“Watch out!” he warned the girl. “Keep away from the window! They mustn't suspect!”
He twisted about, changing his position to ease his cramped limbs, moving carefully for fear of disturbing the nearly severed bonds. The unexpected awaited him, but he faced it with unfaltering courage. Whatever the end he would meet it—on his feet and fighting.
Presently Meech lurched into view from above the engine-room hatch and squinted toward the shore, mopping at his sweat-beaded face. He cast a sharp, malicious glance at the prisoner, but did not approach, probably because Korry already had started aft.
“Goin' to land the monkeys here?” Meech inquired, when the chink runner had come within earshot.
“Soon's I find Thatcher,” Korry answered curtly.
Much to Brant's surprise and relief, the men ignored him. He lay back on the hot deck, his eyes closed against the blistering sun, his arms doubled under him, a picture of abject helplessness; but his ears were alert, and they absorbed the talk that went on about him.
Korry was frankly outspoken and made no attempt to conceal the nature of his plans. The skipper knew precisely what he wanted done and had steered a course for the present rendezvous with a definite purpose in mind.
Brant gathered in the particulars. The smuggler had no desire to meet the Federal boat again. That much was certain.
Half a mile beyond where the Flamingo had anchored, Thatcher had homesteaded a key. From fragments of Korry's conversation, Brant learned that the man was an egret hunter, guide, moonshiner, and fisherman, depending upon the season, market, and inclination. He was a friend of the chink runner and often rendered valuable services when occasion required.
Back on the squatter's premises, on the mainland, a road existed that led into Caxambus. Korry intended to wade his Chinamen ashore, pilot them to Thatcher's, and keep them there until the smuggler's agent, farther up the coast, could be informed of the change in plans.
“We're not more than ten miles by land from where we anchored last night,” Korry declared. “And we ain't over two miles from the Gulf, taking a channel just above here. But we're out of sight of the cutter,” he added. “I'll have Thatcher take his boat and deliver word to my agent, who's probably wondering what's happened to us. Before night he can bring down the cars and pack off the monkeys.”
“They can't be packed off any too soon to suit me,” growled Rambo. “Some of 'em look half dead now, stuffed into that hot cabin.”
“We'll have 'em up in another hour. Better go down and give 'em some water and smokes. Let 'em know we're landing 'em. You can talk enough of their lingo, can't you?”
Rambo disappeared to carry out Korry's instructions, and the Cuban followed to stir up some grub for the cargo as well as the crew.
“What's happenin' to ourselves?” Meech asked.
“Thatcher'll carry us to Key west. We'll go on home from there,” the smuggler answered. “When he gets back he can help the girl take the yacht into outside waters. I'm not wishing her more bad luck. She's had enough.”
“What about—him?” Meech jerked a thumb toward the prisoner who, sprawled upon the deck, seemed to be in a stupor of exhaustion from the heat and his brutal treatment. “If he gets free and squeals we'll”
“Let him stay there!” Korry broke in. “Looks about finished now, don't he? Another day in this sun, and he'll be shaking hands with the angels,” the skipper added, chuckling at his own grim humor.
Once more Brant was comforted. The unpleasant sentence pronounced upon him fanned the embers of hope into a radiant flame. Surely the stars were kind to him! If the mutilated ropes were not discovered and Meech did not chose to interfere with plans of his own contriving, the prisoner had little to fear.
“Soon's I get a bite to eat,” Korry remarked presently, “we'll put over the dinghy and I'll round up Thatcher.”
“I'd appreciate a swig of somethin' stronger than Java,” Meech returned. “Seems like”
“You'll get nothing until we're finished with our job,” the smuggler broke in. “When that's done you can celebrate.”
Brant heard one of the men walk away and decided that it was Korry; he heard a cautions step approach him and concluded that Meech intended to inspect the prisoner. Yet Brant dared not risk opening his eyes to make sure. So long as he remained quiet, he trusted the engineer would not bother him, or too closely examine the frayed ropes.
The crinkle of paper and the striking of a match indicated that Meech had rolled and lighted a cigarette. Aware that the man must be standing over him, Brant lay inert—a huddled, motionless figure in which life seemed all but extinct.
Without warning, something struck his upturned face and burned into his flesh. By a superhuman effort he endured the pain and did not wince. It came to him swiftly that Meech was amusing himself by dropping the hot ashes from a cigarette upon his prisoner's cheek. Again and again the performance was repeated; still Brant gave no indication of the torment he suffered.
He heard the man laugh. The sound brought with it an all but overwhelming desire to snap the unsecure ropes that bound his wrists and ankles and leap upon his cowardly torturer.
Korry's voice, lifting abruptly in the silence, put an end to the punishment. Brant heard Meech growl an imprecation and walk away.
“Ahoy there, Thatcher!” the chink runner called loudly and repeatedly. Running feet sounded along the deck; querying voices were raised from different parts of the yacht.
Brant risked opening his eyes. The vivid sunlight dazzled him at first; but gradually, like a picture coming into focus, he made out the objects near at hand and those beyond.
His attention was held by the sight of a man who crawled along the white beach and began to wade into the shallow water. The stranger seemed to be ill or in distress, for he waved his arms and shouted feebly; and all at once he staggered, plunging headlong into the bayou.
Korry loosened the tackle that supported the dinghy, and when it was overside he dropped into the boat and rowed swiftly toward the floundering man. Reaching him, the smuggler drew the man into the boat and pulled back to the yacht again.
With the help of Rambo and Meech, the newcomer was lifted on deck and placed in a chair. Korry produced a flask, and the man partook greedily of its contents. After that he collapsed.
Although some distance from the scene, Brant readily perceived the man's deplorable condition. His ghastly, splotched face, bloodshot eyes, and an ugly, partly healed wound on the side of his head, testified to a desperate experience. Torn and soggy fragments of what had been shirt and trousers clung to his emaciated body.
“By all that's holy, Thatcher,” Korry exclaimed, shaking the man's limp arm, “what's happened to you?”
The man rolled back his head. “Been hidin'—long time—weeks,” he choked. “Too sick and hurt to get—far. They almost finished me. Got Luke. Saw him floatin' down the channel. Sharks tearin' him.”
“They?” queried the smuggler. “Who?”
“The—the pigtails.”
“You mean chinks?” Korry cried, falling back a step. “Attacked you? Where're they come from? Damnation, man, speak out!”
Thatcher shifted in the chair. Apparently the stiff drink had taken effect, for when he spoke again his voice was firmer and his words more coherent:
“I come back from Caxambus—one afternoon. There was a dozen—a dozen crazy chinks runnin' over my place. When I got ashore they—they fell on me—like devils. I couldn't drive 'em off. They beat and hacked me. All the time they was screamin' and gibberin'. Guess they thought I was dead; but in the night I crawled off. I been hidin' for days. Don't know how I done it—alone—nothin' much to eat and” Thatcher's voice trailed to a whisper and became inaudible.
It remained for Meech to grasp the significance of the harrowing adventure. “Say, them chinks!” he broke forth, whirling to confront Korry. “They must have been the cargo we dumped ashore a couple weeks ago! Near here, wasn't it?”
“You? You was it?” Thatcher lurched from his chair, a gaunt and terrible figure. “You turned loose them—them crazy monkeys?” His voice lifted to a shrill scream. “You done that when—when you knew my place was here?”
Korry brushed aside the hands that reached for his throat; gave Thatcher a shove that sent him crashing back into the chair. “What did you suppose I'd do?” he snarled. “Cut their throats and dump 'em overboard? The cutter had me trapped! It was a case of protecting my own interests first.”
Meech gazed down at the writhing, babbling fisherman; then glanced nervously toward the smuggler. “Say, I don't like this,” he began, his face drained of color. “We”
Korry silenced him with an oath. “Don't like it?” he jeered. “Well, who does? Hard luck; That's all. Never saw its equal! I've been cursed ever since you hooked up with me!”
Meech shrugged and stepped back as if in fear of violence. “Them chinks are ravin' crazy by now,” he cried. “Crazy from hunger and wanderin' about. Don't want to meet any of 'em.”
“Bah! They're like a bunch of chickens. Thatcher didn't know how to handle 'em. They'll be all right in a day or so. I'll round 'em up pretty soon and send 'em North with the cargo we got below.”
Thatcher lay limp and ominously quiet in his chair, his head bent, his arms sagging. A merciful oblivion had come to his rescue, soothing his wracked body and blotting out the terrors of the past.
Korry ordered him taken below and looked after. Meech and Rambo carried the man down the companionway and left the smuggler alone on the deck.
With passive countenance, Korry stared over the rail toward the sun-drenched beach beyond, apparently unmoved by what he had seen and heard, indifferent to the frightful revelations, untouched by misgivings. That an act of his had left death and ruin and suffering in its wake seemed to rest lightly upon his shoulders.