  It was not the bullet from Nicky’s pistol that did damage—it missed the moccasin by a good foot; but the sound, pounding through the still morning air, warned and wakened the hi-jackers. Nicky did not dare risk a run past the snake which, in spite of the pistol shot, had not moved, except to lift its head angrily. From the position by the boats Mr. Neale and Brownie heard the reverberating thud of the exploding powder. “He’s in trouble,” said Mr. Neale. “But he isn’t calling for help!” answered Brownie. They listened, but no further sound came. “Guess he got it,” said Brownie. But then their ears were assailed by a triple succession of sharp explosions. This time it was the summons, without chance of mistake! Breaking through the tangle, heedless of cuts and scratches, the sailor and the young collector of relics fought their way along the faint trail. Nicky had aimed the pistol at the snake, even as he pressed the trigger in the call for aid; but his hand shook so that he made no effect on the reptile which, alarmed by the sound, slipped in a long, sinuous curve to the trunk of the tree. Nicky drew a long breath. But at the same instant that he heard the crash of bodies in the trail, he heard, behind him, feet thudding up from the waterside. Turning, he lifted the pistol desperately in the faces of the two Ortiga brothers; but they were too close. As one knocked the weapon high in the air it exploded its fifth cartridge. At the sound the men on the path beyond sight of Nicky gave a hail; at the same instant stout, powerful arms closed around Nicky, his opened lips were rudely smothered in a coarse hand and he felt himself, struggling, kicking, trying to bite, propelled toward the water. “Fling him in and let’s get away!” cried Don Ortiga. “No,” panted his brother, with a wicked word as Nicky teeth closed on his flesh and he snatched his hand free. “Make him a hostage! Hold him. Here—ahoy, the ship! Give a hand!” Nicky tore and fought but against two powerful men. His fourteen years, his athletic prowess, were little help to him. His strength was in no way equal to theirs. From the Libertad came excited voices. From the trail broke cries and the sound of Brownie’s automatic barking as he caught sight of the men; but Mr. Neale stayed his hand, catching a view of Nicky in the group. Before they could get there and intervene, Nicky had been flung to willing hands, had been thrust back into the cabin, an engineer was rocking the flywheel of El Libertad, her motor took hold with a roar and a tremble of the hull, Don Ortiga and his brother had thrown themselves onto the bow deck, clinging to the rail, and then scrambling down out of range, and, backing down stream, El Libertad was beyond the leap of Brownie which fell short and sent him plunging down onto the coral bottom. Mr. Neale shouted to Nicky; he was helpless, having no weapon. Nicky could not answer; he was surrounded, his mouth was being tied securely with a handkerchief rudely thrust between his lips. El Libertad backed slowly but surely down the stream. From the bank Brownie, sputtering and soaked, hailed. “Libertad—ahoy!” he cried. “Stop or we’ll sink you!” “With what—your fat?” cried a lusty sailor with a roar of laughter. “If you shoot you’ll hit your boy—see, here he is!” Screening behind Nicky, whose bound form they lifted into view, the evil sailors sent a defiant guffaw back to the men on the bank. “Get the rockets!” panted Mr. Neale, tearing back along the trail, “the cutter won’t know what’s happened. Send up rockets!” Brownie dashed back with him, and while Mr. Neale was fumbling to set the rockets, and dropping a packet of matches into the water in his helpless eagerness, Brownie was tugging at the light dory with all his strength, trying to shove it over the rimrock into the shoals at the head of the Shark; his idea was to row down after the vessel and so to be on hand if any help could be rendered. Mr. Neale had to ask for matches; but finally the fuses hissed and rockets roared up from the heavy roots into which their sticks had been thrust, to break into puffs of white, heavy smoke—the warning of attack! On the Libertad a hasty conference was held. Nicky was not invited to attend the conferees, but was bound quickly and thrown unceremoniously into a corner of the cabin floor, to await their further need for his protecting body. Whispers, gruff laughs, sharp negatives to suggested action, were all that Nicky could catch. Finally, however, he heard Don Ortiga order the engineer to put on full speed astern, and back went the white boat down the Shark, a man at her stem to call the channel to the tillerman. “We’ll use him as a blind, say he’s been hurt and we want to deliver him up,” Nicky overheard a man confide to the engineer who was necessarily absent from the conference. “That will hold their fire.” “Whose fire?” asked the engineer, wiping gasoline from the lower edge of the carbureter, which seemed to be leaking. “The cutter must be laying outside,” the sailor declared. “One man on the shore was in uniform. They must have tried to surround us. Lucky for us, the lad fell into our hands!” “Yes,” said the engineer coarsely laughing. “If they offer to hurt us we can shoot him—or whatever we like!” At the head of the Shark River Mr. Neale was helping with the dory; its keel grated and rubbed, offering resistance. They lifted and bumped it along until it seemed safe to leap in; but the added weight plumped it down onto the coral again and they had to tumble out and push once more. Then Mr. Neale leaped in, Brownie gave a shove and fell onto the stern on his chest, and clambered aboard. They caught the oars and gave way with insane eagerness. On the Libertad Nicky lay in his corner. “Let us go—if they don’t—we’ve got him——” “Sort of tight corner,” Nicky said to himself, and with all the cunning at his command he kept his face impassive to the chance sight of a passing sailor while, under him, cramped as they were, he tugged fiercely at the hurriedly made knots, his jaws aching from the wedge of soiled linen crushed between his teeth, his body bent toward one end—liberation! |
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