Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 27/Number 4/Shadows Tremendous/Chapter 13

ARRELL'S right shot out and reached the point of a shadowy chin with a crack which lifted the Jap off his feet and sent him whirling backward out of the circle. Almost with the same movement, it seemed, he planted his left between a pair of blinking eyes, and another man plowed a furrow in the sand with his head and shoulders. This brought no respite; instantly the gaps were filled, and the circle closed in.

A slight, muscular figure flung itself forward like a diver taking the surf, and Darrell felt two arms gripping his right leg tenaciously, while eager hands clutched him on every side. A fierce kick ended in the crunch of leather against flesh. There was a gasping grunt, and the clinging hold relaxed. The secret-service agent grasped a wrist, and, with a practiced twist, a heave of his splendid shoulder muscles and taut biceps, he sent another little man spinning through the air to land a dozen feet away with a dull, bone-cracking thud.

Still those who were left persisted doggedly in the effort to overpower him, and the almost utter silence with which they fought was awesome. There were no shouts or yells or shrill cries. The silence was broken only by the thud of pounding feet, the hissing intake of swift-drawn breaths, the smothered gasps which followed a blow striking home.

A fierce, joyous lust of battle was throbbing in Darrell's veins, gleaming in his eyes, and adding strength to every well-directed blow. His knuckles were raw and bleeding, his face and neck were torn by clutching hands, his breath began to come in uneven gasps; but the smarting pain and weariness were swallowed up in the savage thrill of combat.

Suddenly from behind Bellamy's panting changed to a stifled gasp of dismay, and Darrell knew intuitively that his friend was being dragged down. A swift, heavy body blow sent the sole remaining Jap who faced the secret-service agent toppling back into the mist, and, whirling, he saw Bellamy prone on the ground, struggling desperately against the weight and clutching hold of four wiry brown men.

Two of these instantly relinquished the fallen man and sprang up to face the government agent. As they leaped forward, Darrell met them halfway, and for the fraction of a second the three seemed closed in an indistinguishable embrace. Then, one after another, the Japs, beaten at their own favorite jujutsu, whirled through the air, struck the sand heavily, rolled over for a turn or two, and lay temporarily stunned.

The two remaining assailants, seeing that they had no chance, started to run, but they were too late. Bellamy had the presence of mind to grip one by the ankle, while Darrell caught the other by the neck, and in an instant both were hors de combat.

Even now there was no time to pause for breath. From the plateau had come the sound of shouts, and a clatter of rolling stones told Darrell that a fresh squad of Japanese were swarming to the scene. With a swift, swooping motion, he caught Bellamy under the arms and dragged him to his feet. Supporting the dazed and panting Californian, he whirled toward the beach at a staggering run.

“Don't bother—with me, Jack,” Bellamy gasped presently. “I'm—all—in.”

“Only winded, aren't you?”

“Yes; but—you'd better”

“Shut up, and save your breath!”

Bellamy relapsed into silence, because of something in his friend's voice which dominated him. The mist was very thick, and they ran blindly, sometimes on hard sand, sometimes splashing through the frothy, lapping water they could not even see. Gradually the Californian got his second wind, and, with the dragging handicap of his weight removed from Darrell's shoulders, they made slightly better speed. Behind them the sounds of pursuit seemed to increase with every stride they took.

“Where” gasped Bellamy at last.

“The yacht,” panted his companion. “It's a slim chance, but—the only one. The wireless. If I can only get in touch—with La Paz—put them wise and”

They stumbled on. Presently they realized, with an odd sort of shock, that they were passing the row of houses which formed the little settlement. Only the vaguest outlines showed through the mist, with here and there the dim, diffused glow of a lighted window. As they padded silently along the beach, they heard the drawling murmur of voices, punctuated by the intermittent tinkle of a mandolin. Evidently their absence, which must have been discovered by this time, was causing the Mexicans no uneasiness. Doubtless they had known from the beginning, Darrell thought grimly, that the two gringos would not be allowed to go far.

“How are we going to get aboard?” Bellamy asked, as they felt the planking of the dock under their feet, and hurried out upon it.

“Swim, if we can find no other way,” Darrell answered crisply. “It's too much to hope for”

He stopped abruptly, his eyes lighting with a swift gleam of surprised delight as they fell upon a painter half hitched around one of the piles. A second later, he was looking down through the mist into the empty launch that bobbed gently against the wharf.

Ives and the second officer—the wireless man—were still ashore. The two sailors had probably grown tired of waiting in the damp mist, and gone to find what diversion they could in one of the near-by Mexican houses. Luck seemed playing into Darrell's hands.

“Cast off, Jack—quick!” he whispered, swinging himself down into the boat. “This is almost too good to be true.”

Like a flash he switched on the juice and, turned the engine over, and the sharp pop-pop that broke the silence was sweet music to his ears. Bellamy hastily tore the painter loose, flung it aboard, and scrambled after it. An instant later, Darrell jammed forward the control lever, dragging hard on the tiller rope, and the launch swept out from the: dock in a wide, graceful circle, and slid away into the mist just as a babel of excited talk came from the direction of the settlement.

“You look after the engine,” directed Darrell, springing forward to the wheel. “The Japs have struck the settlement, and things will boil in half a jiffy.”

Having the location of the yacht well in mind, there was no time lost in circling around to find her. In a scant three minutes her lights began to shine through the fog on the starboard side, and Darrell promptly threw the wheel over, bringing the launch deftly to the foot of the gangway, where a sailor stood waiting.

The man's jaw dropped when he saw the occupants of the tender, but Darrell gave him no time to ask questions.

“Had a little mix-up with the greasers,” he explained crisply, “and we had to take the launch and come on board. Mr. Ives wants one of the men to bring her back at once, though. Can you run her?”

“Why—er—yes, sir,” the fellow faltered.

Followed close by Bellamy, the secret-service agent sprang up on the gangway and pushed the gaping sailor toward the tender.

“Hustle, then!” he said swiftly. “He won't want to be kept waiting. If he's not on the dock, make fast and wait. Better leave the engine running. Understand?”

Stirred by Darrell's crisp hint of peril, the man dropped into the launch, leaped to the engine, and in a moment the tender shot away into the fog.

Darrell and Bellamy did not pause to see it fade. They slid into the shadow of the bridge just as the figure of the captain appeared by the rail. A moment later the two men crept through the door of the darkened wireless room, closing it behind them.

“You do the sending,” snapped Darrell, as he switched on. the light.

Bringing out his code book, he flicked over the pages with steady fingers. Bellamy flung himself into the chair and hurriedly adjusted the double receiver. His hand shot forward to a switch. There was a click as the starting lever crossed the contact points, a glaring flash of green light, which lit up the tiny room, and in an instant the place resounded with the familiar crescendo drone as the current from the engine room was thrown into the dynamo beneath the table.

Tersely Darrell gave the call for the government station at La Paz, and the key beneath Bellamy's pliant fingers began to snap and snarl. At the masthead above them the spark crackled and spat.

“Keep calling,” Darrell urged. “Keep it up a minute or two without stopping. Add the distress signal—anything to raise them.”

The operator's vibrant fingers kept the key clicking continuously. Over and over he repeated the call, adding the ominous “S. O. S.” signal which stirs the blood and sets thudding the heart of every wireless man. Urgently, insistently the vibrating appeal flashed out over wastes of desert and ocean alike.

“La Paz! La Paz! La Paz!” it begged. “Answer! Answer! Hurry—hurry—hurry!”

Darrell, his face tense and drawn, little beads of perspiration dotting his forehead under the tumbled hair, stared desperately at the silent receiving apparatus. Much more than his own safety depended on that bit of mechanism leaping into responsive life.

“They must answer,” he muttered, through clenched teeth. “They must!”

Suddenly he whirled around, leaped across the room, and turned the key. A second later a hand gripped the knob and rattled it violently.

“Is that you, Horton?” inquired a voice.

It was the captain! Silently Darrell slipped back to the table and motioned Bellamy to cease for an instant.

“Its me. What's up?” mumbled the secret-service agent, in a marvelous imitation of the second officer's harsh tones.

“What are you locked in for?” the man outside asked suspiciously. “Where's Mr. Ives?”

“Ashore. I've come aboard to get off a message, and it's mighty important.”

There was an inarticulate growl, audible even above the renewed crackling at the masthead, a momentary pause, and then the sound of retreating footsteps.

Darrell gave a faint sigh of relief. “Keep on calling, Jack,” he urged. “We've got to raise them.”

As the compelling entreaty for recognition began again to clamor, Darrell stood listening for a moment, and then tiptoed softly to the door. For a second he stood there, rigid. Then, cautiously turning the key, he drew the door slowly toward him.

From across the water came a sound which turned his set face a shade less brown. It was the barking of the launch engine, growing rapidly louder and more distinct. In a few minutes Ives would be on board—Ives, who now knew everything, and against whose fury a locked door would be no barrier at all.

“Don't they answer?” he called back over his shoulder, his voice quivering a little under the tension which was gripping him. “Haven't you got a thing?”

“Not a word!” was the despairing reply. “I can't understand it. The fellow should be”

“Call! Call! Keep calling. Don't stop for a second.” Darrell's voice was dogged. “We've got to raise them, I tell you! We've got to let them know what's going on here.”

His heart was like lead within him. Outside, the sputter of the launch engine had given place to a turmoil of excited voices, amid which the angry bellow of Ives rose loud and clear.

“In the wireless room!” it roared. “You fool! Break in the door! Stop him at any cost!”

The rush of many hurrying feet was broken by a cry from Bellamy, “I've got Saltus!” he shouted. “I've got him at last! What shall I”

Darrell slammed the door and turned the key. Through his mind flashed the promise made to him one time by the secretary of the navy that if ever he needed his help, even to the sending of a warship, it would be given at his request. In another instant Darrell was standing behind the operator's chair, automatic leveled at the white-and-gold panels of the frail door.

“Tell him the Japs are here in possession,” he snapped. “Tell him to relay this instantly to Washington.”

Bellamy managed to get off that much of the message. Then the crack of a pistol shot sounded high above the drone of the dynamo and the other noises of the wireless room. It was followed by a sharp exclamation of wonder from Bellamy, as he pounded the sending key frantically.

“It's dead!” he cried. “I can't get any response. Something has happened.”

Already Darrell knew. The sudden cessation of the spitting crackle at the masthead told him beyond a doubt that the wire above had been severed, and that they were checkmated so far as getting any response was concerned. He dropped both hands to his sides in a gesture of despair, and for a second he stood there heedless of the clamor of harsh voices without, and the crash of something heavy against the door. Then, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he slid the automatic into his pocket. and glanced down at his friend's pale, upturned face.

“Nothing doing, old man,” he said quietly. “We're blocked. We can only hope that they got”

As Bellamy ripped off the encumbering receivers and sprang to his feet, Darrell crossed the room, a smile on his face. “No need to make them spoil a perfectly good door,” he said.

He turned the key, and, flinging the door open, stood calmly facing the group of sailors, amid whom stood Harrington Ives, his face coldly furious, in his hand a pistol. As the door opened, he raised the weapon to cover Darrell.

“Horton,” he snapped, “disarm them!”

The second officer stepped warily forward, but the secret-service agent forestalled him. Knowing the utter futility of resistance, he produced his automatic and handed it over politely.

“The fortunes of war,” he remarked, taking out a tobacco sack and papers.

“Bah!” grated Ives harshly. “Search him thoroughly; he may have other weapons. Now the other one,” he went on, as Darrell submitted to the operation with an air of bored weariness. “Nothing more? Good! Tie their hands behind their backs—tight, now.”

The secret-service agent touched a match to the end of the neatly rolled tube of tobacco and took a deep inhalation.

“Is that quite necessary?” he drawled,

Ives turned on him and stared for an instant out of eyes which were hard as flint and utterly implacable. Of the genial good-fellowship he had shown that morning there remained not a single trace.

“I find it so,” he said, in a grating tone. “I think, my versatile friend, you'll find, before many hours have passed, that I'm not the sort of man it's healthy to play tricks on.'

With no further words, and with not the faintest change of expression, he waited till the operation of binding the two prisoners was complete. Then he stepped to the rail.

“All right, Takaro,” he called. “Your men are ready.”

A sudden shiver flickered along Darrell's spine. A moment later, as they were being led toward the gangway, he caught a brief glimpse of the launch filled with silent, waiting brown men. Their upturned faces were as expressionless as so many masks, but Darrell knew that beneath the surface lay no touch of pity or mercy or even justice. Theirs was the most hopeless sort of cruelty—the impassive cruelty of a patriotism which let no human emotion interfere with the accomplishment of a purpose that would benefit their country.

It was to such as these that Harrington Ives, a man of birth and breeding, was surrendering them without a qualm!

It was monstrous, and for a single instant Darrell's lips parted for indignant protest. Immediately, however, he realized the utter futility of it, and closed them again. It would be a useless humiliation. Better to play the game to the finish in silence.

Reaching the gangway, he paused for an instant and spat out the cigarette. His glance sought out Ives, and there was an expression in his eyes which sent the older man's lids fluttering and brought a touch of color to his cheeks.

“Good night, Mr. Ives,” he said. “It's odd, but do you know I have a fancy I'd rather be in our place than yours.” An instant later he was descending quietly to the waiting launch.