Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 57/Number 5/Hatching a Volcano/Chapter 13

AZED by the cowardly attack and unable to protect himself, Brant lay outstretched upon the deck, his eyes closed against the hot, brilliant sunlight. When he had in a measure regained his senses and found strength to look about him again, it was to note that the Flamingo had changed its course and seemed to be heading toward the maze of islands off her port bows.

The thought reached his benumbed mind that Captain Korry did not propose to outrun the cutter, but intended to seek protection among the mangrove keys. The shallow draft of the yacht made it easy for the skipper to navigate through the tide run and over shoals where the Federal boat dared not follow.

Still in contemplation of Korry's able strategy, and wondering what the end would be—for the situation loomed favorable for the chink runner—Brant was startled at hearing his name called. The low-pitched voice belonged to Miss Newberry; yet it seemed to issue from the deck itself.

Guardedly he turned his head to survey his immediate surroundings. Korry was engaged at the wheel. Meech had gone below. Rambo and the Cuban were standing at the rail near the bridge, their attention centered on the approaching vessel. Temporarily, at least, the prisoner was neglected.

Again the voice sounded—louder and more insistent. Brant's roving eyes promptly traced the familiar voice to its source. The roof of the cabin amidships projected a foot or more above the level of the deck; and in that narrow space were small, hinged windows of wire glass, to afford added ventilation.

It was at one of those open windows, surprisingly close at hand, that Brant discovered Miss Newberry. By standing on the edge of her bunk below, the girl's eyes were slightly above the line of the deck.

“Are you all right?” he inquired eagerly, worming his way toward the narrow window and thrilled at the nearness of his companion.

“Perfectly!” she answered. “I've been watching you for some time, but dared not call to you in order to attract your attention.”

“Then you heard?”

“Yes.” Her voice quivered. “It was Meech—not Korry—who murdered Dixon. I'm glad we know now.”

Brant nodded. “He practically confessed.”

“I saw him strike you,” the girl went on quickly. “Oh, it was revolting! If I could only get out! They've locked me in here—took away my revolver. We must do something.”

“We must!” Brant echoed. “It's our last hope. I may be rolled overboard any minute. Meech won't take chances of my escaping him now. Korry and his crew are desperate. They'll never let us stand in their way if the remotest danger threatens them.”

“The cutter! Is it in sight?”

“Has been for some time. Coming up from the south.”

“What will Korry do?” she asked.

“Escape this time,” he answered. “He'll run no more chances. Perhaps the cutter's received your message; but at any rate, when they see we're trying to avoid them, they'll give pursuit.”

“Barring accidents, the cutter'll never overtake us,” the girl declared. “What can we do?” she entreated.

“Have you a knife in the stateroom?” Brant asked quickly.

“I believe so. Wait!” Her face vanished. When she again appeared her eyes were shining. “I've a small knife; but it's sharp!” She held it up for his inspection.

“That'll answer,” he said, explaining what was to be done.

After a look about him to make certain he was not being watched, Brant wormed himself into a sitting position, his back against the low cabin roof, his bound wrists suspended in front of the window.

“Don't cut clear through the rope,” he warned. “Leave a few strands intact. Just enough that a jerk will break them.”

The girl worked swiftly at her task. “It's done,” she whispered at length.

The knotted rope about his ankles presented a new difficulty; but after maneuvering patiently, his eyes ever alert to avoid attracting attention, Brant got his legs under him.

Screened by his body, and stretching her arms to the utmost, the girl managed to reach out and all but sever the cords. She was compelled to work slowly and with infinite caution owing to the awkwardness of her position and the fear of discovery; but in less than a quarter of an hour the thing was finished.

The task never could have been done had the Flamingo crew been alert, had they given the slightest attention to their bound prisoner. Their interest and concern, however, were directed solely upon the menacing cutter that threatened their safety. To a man they sensed what capture meant and wasted no time in watching a presumably bound and disheartened prisoner.

Breathing easier now, his mind occupied with a host of rash plans, Brant saw that the Federal cutter had gained on its quarry. It had altered its course in an endeavor to head off the Flamingo; but the situation was still in Korry's favor.

Brant realized that at once. He could depend upon no help from the authorities. The yacht was too swift and its skipper too adroit. Once beyond the dead line of islands the chink runner could laugh impudently at Federal pursuit.

Presently, when the cutter was still far off their starboard, the Flamingo slipped like a frightened hare between the emerald keys, following an unmarked channel that must have been familiar to the skipper at the wheel.

Around them now reared countless islands, whose shores presented impenetrable thickets of mangrove roots that twisted snakelike into the water. The Gulf was lost behind them. After the yacht had swung through narrow, crooked channels, avoided sand bars and reefs, threaded silent and mystic coves, Brant lost all sense of direction.

At times the trees met overhead, and the boat swept through cool, leafy tunnels where birds screeched complainingly; again the yacht emerged abruptly into wide lagoons where the sun glare was blinding and the water lay like a mirror.

“What are you going to do?” the girl asked at length. “You've no weapon—nothing with which to defend yourself.”

“I've a likely pair of arms,” Brant said. “That's more than I had a few minutes ago,” he added thankfully.

He glanced about him for a possible weapon, but saw nothing that could be used except a fire extinguisher suspended near by. He resolved to make use of it in case of emergency. The thick, brass tube might be wielded to advantage at close quarters. Yet he realized that his enemies were armed and would not hesitate to shoot at the first sign of trouble.

Now that the Flamingo had gained a refuge, thanks to a resourceful skipper, and the fear of pursuit was lessened, the engines were throttled down, and the tense excitement that had prevailed among the crew abated.

It was a danger signal for Brant, however, for he realized that with comparative safety assured them, Korry and his malevolent followers would sit in judgment of their superfluous passengers. That prospect was far from comforting.

“Can't you get out of your stateroom?” he asked presently.

“I've tried desperately hard,” the girl answered. “The door is locked on the outside, and I haven't strength enough to break it down. I'm afraid to make too much noise. It might put me in greater danger.”

“Yes; that's right. So long as you're quiet, you'll probably be safe. Bolt the door on the inside.”

“But you?” she protested. “You're still in great danger! It's maddening to think of staying here—helpless—while you”

She left the rest unsaid, but her fingers stole out and found his hand. He thrilled under their warm, grateful touch.

“Never mind,” he returned quickly. “Everything will work out all right in the end. It's bound to!”

Miraculously, Brant forgot that he was battered and tired and weak from hunger; that every muscle in his body ached and every joint creaked alarmingly when he moved it; he forgot his swollen, half-closed eye, his bruised lips, and disfigured countenance. Sustained by a look and touch and knowledge of solicitous concern for his welfare—anger, peril, and even lingering death itself lost their terrors.

“It's all my fault!” the girl wavered, her eyes abrim with unashamed tears. “I brought you into this.”

“I wouldn't have had it otherwise,” he assured her earnestly. “And it couldn't have been otherwise,” he went on, stirred by a cheering recollection. “It's written in the stars. Robust adventure! That's what they predicted. That's what has come to pass. And I was to reach a wintry old age! That's in prospect. So you see?”

Miss Newberry made an effort to smile at his gay chatter, and her fingers tightened upon his hand.

Although Brant maintained an optimistic spirit and spoke reassuringly of the future, he did not underestimate the precariousness of the situation confronting him. Once more the odds were overwhelmingly against him, yet at the moment he would not have changed places with any of his acquaintances along New York's Broadway, or crawled out of his predicament in exchange for a big contract and his name in incandescent splendor above Forty-second street.

Strategy and an abundance of good luck had helped him to victory in the past; but circumstances were different now. Still that did not dim his shining assurance.