  “What do you wonder?” asked Tom, when the chums were herded into the small forecastle in the bow, vacant at the moment. “The man who owned that boat, back in Jamaica—the El Libertad—was named Senor Ortiga,” Nicky answered. “I wonder if this one is the same fellow.” “But this isn’t the Libertad,” Tom objected. “It’s a bigger boat and it isn’t white.” “And that fellow called this man ‘Don’ and not ‘Senor,’” Cliff added. “They may be relatives. Mr. Neale saw the man in Jamaica—he would know. I wonder where he is!” As he expressed this wondering about their chief, the latter was holding a conference with a Government Revenue Officer in the tiny cabin of a very swift little revenue cutter which was cruising among the reefs and keys, in search of the very hi-jackers and rum-runners among whom the chums were quartered. The revenue cutter was on patrol duty, but so far its quarry had, by virtue of a system of signals from allies on shore, eluded capture; with its gray hull, its absence of lights, its quiet and speedy engines, the light-draught craft had been able to slip into hiding while its cargo was transferred to shore, whence the Indians in the extensive gang would convey it in their canoes to a northern point in Florida where trucks could receive the cases of illicit liquor. “I wish there was some way for us to capture these fellows,” said Tom. Now that he knew that there was nothing ghostly or unnatural about the band, he was his usual, cool, calm self. Nicky and Cliff echoed his wish, in low tones. But they had no time for speculation or planning. The ape-like man appeared in the forecastle companionway and beckoned abruptly. They followed him along a narrow deck to the dark cabin and went in. After passing through heavy sacking, double-thick, which served to block the passage of the least rays of light to the outer world, they found themselves in a long, quite roomy cabin, with a small electric dome light giving enough light to show the heavy black curtains tightly fastened over the circular ports, or windows. Well furnished with several easy chairs of rattan, with bunks that folded into the woodwork of the side walls and left a cushioned seat for use when they were not open, and with a veritable arsenal of automatic revolvers, rifles and knives of many shapes on the shelves of a cupboard at one end, the cabin looked both comfortable and dangerous. A tall, slender man was replacing some weapon in the cupboard. He turned as the chums entered; their guide stood blocking the doorway behind them. The occupant of the cabin was of a Spanish type, with dark skin and sharp, black eyes, as black as his smoothly brushed hair. His movements were abrupt and nervous and his voice, when he spoke was curt and rather high in pitch, though kept at a low level of volume. “Sit!” said the tall man, motioning toward the wall benches; the chums obeyed while the tall one dropped into a rattan chair and regarded them steadily. “You came here to get buried treasure,” said the man in the chair. “Who told you there was treasure here?” Nicky became the spokesman and related the story; he told how they had been cruising toward the Ten Thousand Island Archipelago. “For why?” demanded their inquisitor sharply. Nicky was about to open his lips; his eye caught a gesture of Tom’s. While leaning forward, chin on hand, elbow on knee, as if listening alertly, Tom was scratching his left ear absently. Cliff was folding his arms. It was the secret sign-manual of their order—the Mystery Boys—by which Tom signified a call for a communication by gesture and Cliff, by folding his arms, indicated his agreement. Nicky folded his arms at the same instant, and then saw Tom grasp his coat lapel in his left hand. That sign meant the third section of their secret oath—“Telling all, I tell nothing!” Nicky clasped his hands on his knees, a sign that he agreed. It all took place without apparent meaning and in a very brief time so that, although he made a sign of impatience, the tall man and his companion, leaning against the wall by the companionway, seemed to discern no hidden meaning in Nicky’s delayed answer. “Come! Answer! Why were you among the islands?” “I was trying to figure out why we were there,” Nicky replied, a candid look on his face. “You see, we had the ‘flu’ back at our school and we went to Jamaica to join this boy’s father—” he made a gesture toward Cliff and continued. “A young fellow was helping Cliff’s father collect old relics of the Indians and he brought us up to those islands in a sloop with a colored pilot—just for a lark on our part. I think he meant to get a canoe and maybe take us with him up the Harney River to the edge of the Everglades—or into them, to collect some things from the Seminoles.” That was a part of Mr. Neale’s plan, if they did not find the treasure, or, perhaps, even if they did; so Nicky told the truth, though not all of it. Cliff unclasped his hands as if signifying that Nicky had done well. “Si—yes, that is reasonable,” commented the tall man. “What then?” Tom made no gesture, which Nicky correctly judged to mean that as long as he had told the man by the companionway about the can and the parchment he might as well repeat the story. He did. “Does that agree, Tew, with what they told you?” At the name, Tew, Nicky started a little. In the early days of piracy, as his studies had told him, one of the most notorious of the old sea barons, Thomas Tew, had made piratical history; could this man be a descendant? Could he be filled with the same daring and ferocity? “It agrees, cap’n,” responded Tew. Don Ortiga leaned back, tapping the arm of his chair nervously while he thought. The chums sat in silence, their three pairs of arms folded in sign that they were still in secret communion and waiting. After a long silence during which he considered them shrewdly, the Spaniard spoke. “I do not believe it! Do you, Tew?” “Sounds ‘fishy’ to me,” answered the apelike fellow. “First of all, them three trees on that little key ain’t more’n fifty years old. And my folks, and Nelse’s folks, has lived about these waters for more time’n that and there ain’t been no treasure buried that I ever heard of—not in the last fifty years!” “So! Again, Tew,” the Don ignored his young captives in the intentness of some point he was trying to make, “again, a tin can would have rusted away and crumbled, or sank into the soil. You know that most of those islets are not really built up from the coral foundation. They are mostly thickly matted vegetation, roots and so on, with a thin covering of soil; if you stamp hard on many of them you can shake them.” “I know that,” agreed Tew. “Besides, from what these fellows claim, there was a funny light and something knocked on their boat—if you was to ask my opinion, cap’n, I’d say I think these lubbers is makin’ it up out o’ the whole cloth!” “We are not!” defended Nicky sharply. Don Ortiga regarded him steadily for a while, then nodded. “What was the message on the paper?” he asked suddenly. There was no help for it. All three chums realized that. If Nicky hesitated their captors would be certain that he was inventing a message. Then there was no telling what might happen to them! The men who had them as captives were hi-jackers, the lowest form of seafaring marauders. One of them had a name indicating descent from the old pirate stock. The truth—and the truth quickly—seemed to be the only course open to Nicky. His glance toward his friends showed them with both hands in coat pockets—“Tell the truth!” that meant. “This is the message,” Nicky declared without delay, all that swift querying and decision having occupied only the time it took for him to understand the question, a split second. “This is the message,” he declared, “‘Treasure found long ago. Dig under tallest of three trees on Crocodile Key for more.’” Tew rushed close to his captain. “Crocodile Key!” he almost shouted; then he lowered his voice. “Nobody knew that name but us—” he stopped, his face working with what the chums took to be anger and surprise. “Yes—yes—somebody did!” he gasped. “Cap’n—your brother——” Nicky exchanged glances with his comrades. In their eyes he read the same thought that was in his mind. They had given these men some clue that proved to them that the message was a false lead and—more—had told them who prepared it! Don Ortiga had a brother. That must be the Senor Ortiga—or might be, Nicky thought. If the message was a false lead, then it had been deliberately placed where they found it, to mislead them. Yes, and not only that, but deliberate methods of making it seem supernaturally discovered had been used—the light and the raps on the hull of their sloop! “Yes,” Don Ortiga was saying, “my brother—Rodriguez—these boys say they were in Jamaica—that is where he gets the rum he brings to the keys in El Libertad.” The whole mystery was beginning to become as clear to the chums as it seemed to their captors. “These fellows say they left Jamaica to go to the archipelago,” Tew took up the reasoning. “For pleasure? For relics? My eye! No! They knowed somewhat about a treasure—and so did your brother.” “But he didn’t—” Nicky cried incautiously in his excitement, and then stopped, too late. “There was a treasure!” Tew exulted, and his eyes took on a bright avaricious glitter. “Cap’n, these boys know somewhat about a treasure on them islands. Recall? Ships has been wrecked there—in the old days there was a story about a Spanish——” “I know,” broke in the Don, bending forward, making jerky, excited movements of his fingers and with snapping eyes. “A ship laden with gold bars! It was never discovered—the gold! The ship broke up, and parts of it were picked up in the Gulf of Mexico.” In spite of themselves, at this verification of the old map and message of Captain Kidd, the chums took fire from their companions. “Senor Ortiga must have knowed about it—or learned that these lads did,” Tew went on, never questioning the chums, taking it for granted that his logic was sound. “He must of saw them sail in a slow sloop—he had a fast cruiser. He beat them to the islands and took a chance he could send them somewhere else while he searched. He picked our place—But why? They’d discover us. He’d know that!” Don Ortiga sprang from his chair; his hands were clenched, his eyes sparkled with an angry light. “He sent them here because he has a grudge for us ever since we bought a faster boat and a bigger one and took his trade away from him!” he cried in a fury, but remembering to keep his tones fairly low. “Well,” began Tew, after a moment, “here’s how I tote it up! We can get more out of a chest of treasure than we can from a hold full of rum, and with no fightin’. These lads must know where the gold is—we don’t! So we can use them! At the same time we can get revenge on your brother for sendin’ them where they might of found out about our racket and told the revenue men——” The chums saw what was coming; their arms were folded again and they were waiting, trembling a little with the excitement. What decision must they make? What decision could they make? Was there any way out? They could see none! “Put it up to ’em!” urged Tew. “Will you ‘throw in’ with us, takin’ a small share, or will we put them in the hold till we get what they know—we have ways!” he added with a meaning glare, “and when we get the treasure we’ll—well, whatever you decide, Cap’n—I know you can think up some pretty interestin’ ways to get rid of folks we don’t need——” Nicky made a gesture; his right hand rubbed his nose, from his eye to his lips, as if removing a smudge; Cliff and Tom answered his sign, “Shall we say ‘yes’?” by nodding. “What’s your say?” demanded Ortiga. “Tell all or——” Nicky stood up. “Share-and-share-alike!” he demanded with a defiant effort that seemed to please Tew. Don Ortiga nodded, “Share-and-share!” “Deal out our cutlasses an’ bandanas,” said Nicky with affected ferocity. “We’re with you till the last man walks the plank!” |
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