Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 27/Number 4/Shadows Tremendous/Chapter 14

HERE was small chance for conversation between the two friends had there been anything to say. Reaching the dock, the Japs closed about them in a body and hurried them southward along the beach, evidently heading for the camp on the rocky plateau.

On arriving there, they were led to a tent that was completely surrounded by armed guards. Here Takaro tightened their bonds, added others about their ankles so that they could barely hobble, and thrust them unceremoniously through the loose, canvas flap.

As he took in the interior with one swift glance, Darrell gave a low exclamation of surprise. The place was quite bare of furniture, and was lighted by a single lantern swinging from one of the poles. Stretched out on the bare rock, their arms extended at full length above their heads, and held there by taut ropes such as were also fastened to their feet, were two men: Philip Carmen and Roaring Billy Boote.

The latter was far from living up to his name and self-imposed reputation. He lay as if in a stupor. His face was drawn and haggard; the color of his skin was a mottled gray. Now and again he rolled his head from side to side and gave a low moan. His whole appearance was, in fact, that of a man half dead with terror.

Carmen's eyes were wide open; and at the entrance of the newcomers he raised his head with a painful effort, disclosing a face which held in it no trace of the languid, lazy expression it had worn aboard ship.

“You, too!” he muttered, with an effort at nonchalance which was not altogether a success. “Well, there's some slight comfort in having company, I suppose.”

“There generally is,” commented Darrell, with a smile. “So you found your Japs, after all.”

Carmen scowled. “Found them! They found us! Look here, Archer,” he went on, after a brief pause, “we're in a mighty tight place, and there's no sense in trying to keep up that bluff. I'm no more a secret-service agent than you are. I'm down here with that scum”—he jerked his head toward the moaning Boote—“after a lot of pearls he got track of, buried here forty years or more ago by some pirates. When I ran into you aboard ship, I thought you were stalking us, and gave you that song and dance about being a secret-service agent to throw you off the track. It was the biggest bull I ever made, for that rotten little Sudo must have heard us talking, and now his Jap friends won't believe a word I say, in spite of their finding the map and everything on me.”

“Too bad,” remarked Darrell. “It must be annoying to slip up at the very last moment. The pearls would have been easier money than helping the Mexican conspirators.”

There was a gasp of startled amazement from Carmen, and for a moment he lay staring dazedly up at Darrell.

“You know?” he muttered at length. “You knew all the time?”

“Quite so. You see, I happen to be a very good friend of the real Knowlton Darrell.”

Carmen's face showed the intense chagrin which filled his soul. “Fool! Blockhead!” he muttered. Then a puzzled look leaped into his eyes. “But this Darrell never saw me,” he exclaimed. “He busted up the scheme, I admit, and nabbed some of the boys just as we were ready to cross the border, but so far as I know he never set eyes on me.”

“He had a fairly accurate description of you,” Darrell explained, “which, I am bound to say, fits you rather better now than it did on the steamer. By the way,” he went on, with a faint touch of curiosity in his voice, “if you had any idea the Japs would be here, why under the sun did you take this time for coming?”

“Because I was a jackass, I suppose,” returned Carmen bitterly. “I heard about it from a pal of mine in Mexico City two weeks ago; but it was only a rumor, and I didn't believe it for a minute. Look here, Archer. Won't you help me out? Won't you tell this head Jap devil just what I am, and what I'm here for? It wont hurt you, and it may do me a lot of good.”

His tone was pleading, and the secret-service agent, after an instant's hesitation, shrugged his shoulders.

“Why, yes, I'll tell him, if I get the chance,” he agreed; “but I don't believe it will do much good. Whether you came for that purpose or not, you've discovered them here in possession. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, they don't mean to run any risk of that knowledge traveling very far from Magdalena Bay. Our genial pirate doesn't seem quite up to the mark,” he went on, as Boote gave a groan which shook his whole frame. “Is he sick or anything?”

Carmen's face darkened, and his eyes flashed scornfully. “Pirate—him?” he sneered. “The chicken-livered dub never saw the sea before except with his feet planted safely on dry land.”

“What!” gasped Bellamy incredulously. “But his lingo—that gory song—the whole look of him!”

“All faked up,” snorted Boote's partner. “He worked in a sailor's joint on the Barbary Coast for years. That's where he got his sea talk, and also where he just happened on the information about the pearls. He never set foot on a ship in his life till he came aboard the Golden Horn. Why, he was sick—actually seasick!”

His tone was one of ineffable scorn. Bellamy glanced curiously at the grotesque figure, with its closed eye and pallid, frightened face.

“He lost an arm setting off fireworks at a kids' picnic years ago,” went on Carmen jeeringly. “His eye was gouged out on a picket fence he was trying to climb over to escape a ferocious dog. Look at him—petrified with fear! He hasn't the courage of a mouse, hang him! And he's to blame for getting me into this hole, with that detestable song he learned from some real pirate, and persisted in”

He stopped abruptly as the tent flap was pushed aside, and two Japs entered. A nervous tremor seized him, but was stilled as one of the intruders—Takaro—beckoned to Darrell. “You come!” he said peremptorily.

As the secret-service agent hobbled toward the entrance, he turned his head and looked at Bellamy. Not a word was spoken; there was only a swift, instantaneous exchange of glances. And yet the Californian seemed to read in his friend's eyes regret and farewell.

“It can't be as bad as that,” Bellamy said to himself, when Darrell had disappeared. “And, even if it is, he needn't blame himself for my being here. That's up to me.”

Outside the tent, a squad a waiting men closed around Darrell with a swift cautiousness which brought a whimsical smile to his lips.

“Very flattering,” he said to himself, “especially when I'm trussed up like a fowl. They evidently don't believe in taking chances.”

He was conducted to a large tent, standing a little apart from the others, at the farther end of the row. The guard at the entrance fell back. Takaro took the secret-service agent's arm and drew him swiftly into the lighted interior.

Darrell's first impression was of a certain ominous stillness, which was the more significant from the fact that five or six men were present. One sat at a table in the center of the tent, while the others stood behind him, their figures sharp and distinct against the white canvas. Among the latter was Sudo; and as his sweeping glance came to rest for a second on the bland, childlike face of the little Jap, the prisoner caught a faint gleam of triumph in the beady eyes.

There was no recognition in Darrell's, however, nor the least hint of surprise. With an impassiveness quite equal to that of his captors his gaze returned to the man at the table. The latter was plainly of much higher class than any of the other Japs. His hands were small and shapely yet strong; his forehead was wide, his glance keenly intelligent; his whole manner was that of a man accustomed to command. His expression was so cold, indomitable, and ruthless that the secret-service agent's heart sank within him.

“Well, sir,” the Jap said suddenly, in English which held only the faintest trace of accent, “have you anything to say in your defense?”

Darrell raised his eyebrows. “How can I, until I know of what I am accused?” he returned quietly.

The Jap's face remained absolutely impassive. “You are Knowlton Darrell, a United States secret-service agent,” he stated positively. “You are here in the capacity of a spy. Is there any reason why you should not be treated as such?”

Staggered as he was by the other's knowledge, Darrell managed to retain his coolness.

“Under conditions of actual warfare,” he returned, “a spy is usually hanged or shot.”

“Precisely,” was the brief response.

Darrell lifted his eyebrows a trifle. “Whatever may be said as to Mexico, I have yet to learn that such conditions exist between my country and yours.”

“Conditions are sometimes what we make them,” stated the Jap succinctly. “Having the power, and realizing the necessity, it happens that I choose to act as if a state of war existed.”

“And so, perhaps, merely anticipate a little,” Darrell remarked.

Inwardly he was not nearly so indifferent as he seemed. Swiftly, almost feverishly, he was shuffling over the few pitiful cards which remained in his hand. There were no trumps left. His opponent held them all. And yet, supposing it was a game of poker he was sitting in?

“I think,” he went on swiftly, “if you are seeking to bring about an open rupture between our countries, you could not find a better way.”

The keen black eyes narrowed the barest trifle. “I do not quite understand,” the Jap said briefly.

“A United States cruiser, probably the Chicago, is due here some time to-morrow morning,” the secret-service agent said quietly. “I was wondering how you would explain my disappearance to her commander. You see, it was arranged in Washington that he should come up from Panama to meet me here.”

The shot went home. A ripple of more than uneasiness quivered across the erstwhile impassive face of the Jap, and his skin seemed to turn a shade more sallow. For a second or two he sat staring fixedly at Darrell, as if trying to plumb his very soul.

“That is impossible,” he said suddenly. “The Chicago is with the squadron which left the Isthmus four days ago for the Philippines.”

“She was with that squadron,” corrected Darrell gently. “Since then her destination has been changed.”

For a moment longer the Japanese stared intently at the captive, standing there with such apparent coolness and indifference. Then he turned and spoke rapidly in his native tongue to one of the men behind him, who answered briefly. There followed some terse directions to the waiting Takaro, and finally the Jap glanced again at Darrell.

“I believe you are lying,” he said sternly, “but time will swiftly tell. We shall wait and see what to-morrow brings forth.”

Darrell bowed coolly. “You are—wise.”

He was not conducted back to the tent where the others were confined; instead, he was taken to another tent and promptly staked out on the ground, as Carmen had been. For a time he lay there, staring up at the lantern and listening to the murmur of the guards stationed all about him.

At first he was rather pleased at the success of his bluff, based solely upon the message that Bellamy had succeeded in getting off from Ives' yacht; but presently he began to wonder whether, after all, it was worth while. The Jap had been quite right in saying that the Chicago was one of the squadron scheduled to leave Panama for the Philippines four days earlier. Probably by this time she was plowing steadily through the Pacific, hundreds of miles away.

The morning would pass without incident. The afternoon would be equally devoid of happenings. By nightfall the Japs would realize that they had been fooled. And then!

What would surely follow was not pleasant to contemplate, and it kept Darrell awake for hours, in spite of his physical weariness. At length, however, he fell into a troubled sleep, from which, despite the increasing discomfort of his fixed position, he did not awake until long past daylight,

The morning dragged on leaden wings. He ached in every part of his body. Through a slit in the canvas he could see the shadow cast by the tent and make a rough guess as to the time. About eight o'clock Takaro brought him a bowl of rice and some tepid water, loosening his arms so that he could sit up to eat and drink, which was a blessed relief.

With no chance to resist, he was compelled to submit as gracefully as possible to being bound as before, and Takaro departed. Toward noon there was a rustle of the flap, and Sudo slid softly in and stood looking down on the helpless man with that same irritating gleam of triumph in his eyes.

“Honorable sir's ship delay,” he remarked, a faint touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“Oh, she'll come, all right,” Darrell answered carelessly. “Likely she stopped to coal at La Paz.”

“Should come speedy,” returned the Jap, with unmistakable significance, “else maybe not find honorable secret man.”

“In that case,” Darrell remarked, apparently unmoved, “I'd hate to be in your shoes. There won't be many whole Japs left when the commander gets through.”

Sudo wriggled his shoulders a little and lifted the tent flap. “I ask it,” he chirped skeptically. He slipped through, and an instant later thrust his head back. “Honorable gentleman's map for treasure great thing,” he said, grinning.

“The little devil!” muttered Darrell, when he was left alone. “He saw through it all along. I'd like to wring his yellow neck!”

More than once during that interminable afternoon he wished he had let things take their natural course. Yet he had the vehement dislike of every sane, healthy man to being assisted into eternity. He had found life too interesting and full of savor to care about relinquishing it just yet. His profession, however, had accustomed him to risks and chances, to peril and danger unknown to the ordinary man. It had bred in him a realization that the end might come at the most unlikely time or place, and made him ready to face it with unflinching courage.

To meet it swiftly, with head high and a smile on his lips, was one thing; to lie here, helpless, suffering a hundred dull or darting pains, counting the crawling minutes which seemed like hours, tortured by vain regrets and might-have-beens, was quite another.

To begin with, he had failed utterly in his purpose, but that had been through no fault of his, and somehow it did not trouble him nearly so much as the thought of Bellamy—the friend for whose presence here he was responsible. That haunted him ceaselessly. He meant, of course, to make a last desperate appeal in the Californian's behalf, but he had a conviction that it would be futile. Knowing quite as much as he himself, Bellamy was dangerous to the Japs' plans, and they were not likely to spare him.

And then at intervals another horror lifted the curtain of his memory and peered forth like some gruesome specter gibbering from a shadowy place. Years before, in Nagasaki, he had seen a criminal strangled, and the ghastly horror of it stayed with him for many weeks. It returned now with dreadful clearness, and, though he kept thrusting it back with every bit of will power which was in him, it was never really very far away.

The sun sank lower and lower, and finally disappeared. As the fog began to roll in, damp and clammy, Darrell shivered a little with the cold. No one had come near him all the afternoon, save one of the guards, to bring another bowl of water. Apparently they did not think it worth while to waste more rice upon him. A crooked smile twisted his lips at this realization, and he sighed deeply. He did not want the food, but he would almost have given anything for the solace of tobacco.

It looked as if they meant to come that night, and for a long time he lay waiting with tense nerves and ears strained for the slightest sound which would signal their approach. Swiftly the shadows deepened, yet nothing happened. They had brought no lantern, and at last the darkness began to press on his senses like a smothering pall.