Part 10

“Not at all, cappy. We leave you now. Sorry, cappy; enjoyed your society immensely, but, really, you know, this sort of thing can’t be done.”

To my great surprise the captain stood where he was, smiling tolerantly, while George and Betty moved toward the door.

“Miss Baldwin,” he said suddenly.

Betty stopped in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“It was a very funny joke—whatever it was?”

“It was rude of me to laugh, I know,” said Betty. “But I really couldn’t help it.”

“‘Really couldn’t help it,’” repeated Brack mockingly. “A matter of temperament. Typical of the American young woman—to giggle at big moments. I shall cure you of giggling. You may go now.”

“‘May go!’” stormed George. “That’s insolent, cappy. What do you mean?”

“I give you permission to go.”

“Well, hang you for your impudence!”

“Careful, Chanler. I might change my mind.”

“Let me assure you, captain, that that would make no difference,” I interposed. The pistol inside my shirt was pressing my ribs and I smiled with the confidence it gave me. “We will go when we wish, no matter what your mind on the subject may be.”

For the second time in a few minutes his eyes bored into mine, seeking to read my thoughts.

“So you have a hidden ace somewhere, somehow, eh, Pitt?” he laughed. “I see that plainly; but I can’t quite see what it is. You’re growing, Pitt. One of your ancestors must have been a man. Ah! Barry’s rifle—what did you do with it?”

“Wrong, captain, absolutely wrong!” I replied. “Barry’s rifle isn’t a factor in the present situation.”

He studied me for fully a minute in silence and gave up, baffled.

“I have said you may go,” he said curtly. “Go away. All things in their order; gold first, then woman.” He seated himself at the table and resumed his eating. “Go as quickly, as swiftly as you please. But,” he called as we went out, “I beg of you—as my guests, you understand—do not, please do not, go too far!”

Behind us as we hurried into the night we heard him laughing, his laughter some what smothered by mouthfuls of food and drink.

XXVI

“Hang him! What does he mean?” broke out Chanler querulously, as soon as we were out of hearing. “What does he mean, Gardy? What’s he got up his sleeve? He means something. Probably got some of the crew waiting to waylay us, steal our canoe, or something like that. Hang it!”

“I don’t think so, George,” said Betty. “There haven’t been any of the men about since we got here. They went straight on into the woods, and Dr. Olson and the captain went with them. The captain came back alone, something over an hour ago. He said the rest were hunting gold up in the hills and wouldn’t be back for some time.”

“Well, hang it! He’s got something,” began George again, but I managed to catch him by the arm and draw him back out of Betty’s hearing.

“Forget yourself for the present,” I whispered. “Think of Miss Baldwin a little.”

“I think he’s bluffing,” I said aloud. “As Miss Baldwin says, there can’t be any of the men around here. He was talking to frighten us. We’ll go straight down to the canoe.”

“Surely, surely!” said George, with an assumed laugh. “I see now he was bluffing. It’s all right, Betty. Jolly, little evening party, I call it.”

I dropped behind, letting them go on ahead, and I heard the rumble of George’s voice without hearing what he was saying. But from its tone I knew what it was: he was apologizing, explaining, promising.

“I’m sorry I said what I did when I first saw you, George,” Betty was saying as we neared the place where our canoe was tied.

“What was that? ’Bout my being sober? Ha! I deserved that, Betty; don’t let that trouble you. It’s all over now. Every thing’s turning out fine now, and—there’s our canoe. Nothing to that bluff of cappy’s, Gardy,” he called back to me.

“Of course not,” I said. “Now we’ll just paddle home and——”

“And live happy ever afterward,” he laughed.

Betty seated herself in the middle of the little craft without a word, and we remained silent while we shot down the river, into the bay, and turned our bow toward the yacht.

“Tell us all about it, Betty,” said George, at last. “By Jove! You made cappy look foolish.”

Betty waited several minutes before replying:

“Well, when Captain Brack came back the first time, in the morning, he said that you, Mr. Pitt, had decided to go with them when they left the yacht at daylight, and that you had remained up at the mine with the men. Then he went away again and returned about noon. He said that you were still up there, and that you’d suggested it would be a pleasant thing for me to come up when they returned. I don’t suppose I should have gone, really, but there wasn’t anything about that to keep me from going, was there?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “On the contrary it was quite natural that you should go.”

“I know it. But at the same time I had a feeling—a tiny, tiny feeling—that everything wasn’t quite right. There wasn’t any reason why I should, unless possibly it was the way he looked at me. I can’t explain what it was, but I had that feeling. I wanted to ask somebody, but—but——”

“Rub it into me, Betty,” laughed George. “I deserve it: I wasn’t fit to be asked anything.”

“I didn’t know then, George,” she said gently. “You’ll forgive me?”

“All my fault; make it up, though,” he said. “Go on.”

“Then I saw Dr. Olson getting into the boat, but still I didn’t feel quite right about going. Then the captain—” she hesitated a moment—“Captain Brack said: ‘Get in; you know you are coming with us. Don’t delay.’ And before I knew it I was in the boat and we were rowing away.

“There was a man waiting for us when we got up at the mine—that big, rough man.”

“Garvin.”

“And he spoke something to Captain Brack, and the captain and the doctor and the man hurried away into the hills on the other side of the lake. The captain said that you were out there with the men, Mr. Pitt, and that he’d tell you that I was there and you’d be back soon. Well, that’s about all. I had a lovely time roaming around that lake by myself for hours. And every minute I was getting more and more convinced that the captain had lied. When he came back alone I knew that he had.”

“Because he was alone?”

“No-o-o! Not only that. It was the way he looked at me. On the yacht I’d often wondered if he really was nice, or if he was just pretending. Now he’d quit pretending, and he—he wasn’t nice at all. You can’t guess what he did?”

I held my breath; I felt sure that George did likewise.

“He—he made me—cook that—dinner! He did. He said that he wanted to see me in the rôle of a real woman. I thought I’d better do it, to keep the peace. He sat and watched me and talked. He said that that was as things should be; said I’d be a real woman in time. I wasn’t frightened, but it was—oh, thrilling, you know. Funny, too. I laughed a little at myself, because I’d always fancied I’d like to live the adventurous life, and here I had, and it wasn’t nice at all.”

“How come you weren’t frightened?” interrupted George.

“I don’t know; I wasn’t, though. Well, maybe I was once, when I asked him when we were going back to the yacht and he said for me to put the yacht out of my thoughts. Then I had a wild idea of making a sprint for the boat and getting away, but I remembered they’d pulled it up in the brush. Then I thought of running down the bay and swimming out to the yacht, but I knew I couldn’t outrun him and outswim him. It was dark then, too, and I knew some of you would soon be up looking for me.”

“You knew? How? You didn’t know that Gardy,” began George, but I cut him short.

“Of course,” I said. “It was certain that somebody would be up soon after dark since you didn’t return. Then what?”

“Then we sat down to eat. With tears and woe in my tones I must admit it, I wouldn’t like to subsist on my own cooking. But Captain Brack has a better appetite. He fairly reveled in the fruits of my labors. Then he become personal, and then—then you came in and everything was lovely.”

We paddled in silence for awhile.

“And so you were rather disappointed in cappy, Betty?” said George slowly.

“Yes. He wasn’t nice at all, he was common, when he stopped acting.”

“Wonderful chap, though,” mused George. “Must say I enjoyed his company. Couldn’t put up with him any more, however. Well, we won’t have to. We’ll leave him here—we’ll sail tonight. Wilson can be captain. We’ll have to go some place and get a new crew, I suppose. Then we’ll go on to Petroff Sound. I—I’m really much better, Betty,” he added softly.

“Of course you are, George. You don’t know how glad I am to see you yourself again.”

“Really, Betty?”

“Of course.”

“It’s going to be all right now, Betty. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“Of course you will, George,” she said, and I splashed my paddle in the water so I might not hear.

I was an outsider, an incident. My mission had been to help straighten out a tangle for which George’s condition had been responsible. I had succeeded. Good and well. Now Betty would have George’s attention. She would see him as she had seen him when first she had learned to care for him; she would care for him again. She would forget Brack. She would forget this adventure. In her proper sphere back home it would become an incident; it would be something to laugh over—with George.

So I reasoned as we paddled down Kalmut Fiord, our eyes confidently searching the darkness ahead for the first flash of the _Wanderer’s_ welcoming lights. So little did I know about women, and especially about Miss Beatrice Baldwin.

Presently George stopped paddling.

“Gardy,” he said in a strange tone.

“Yes?”

“Doesn’t it seem to you we’re pretty near there?”

I looked around. So absorbed had I been in my thoughts that I had not paid any attention to the distance we had traveled. Now I saw by the hills about us that we were nearing the foot of the bay.

“It’s funny we don’t see any lights,” said George. “Let’s sprint a little, Gardy.”

We paddled at top speed for several minutes, but we fell back to our former stroke. No lights were in sight.

A sinister silence fell upon us. Our paddles rose and fell methodically, but in spite of the exercise I felt cold and faint.

“Here we are,” said George anxiously. “Here’s the point just above where the yacht’s anchored. Soon’s we get around this point we’ll see her lights, sure.”

Our strokes increased in speed and power. Once around the promontory which loomed ahead in the darkness and the lights of the _Wanderer_ would gleam out to us a hearty welcome.

“Got to get there soon; got to!” muttered George. “I’m all in. Need some of the dope the doctor left for me. Need it badly.”

We rounded the promontory. The mouth of the bay, down to the island which shut it in from the sea, was before us. And it was all dark, as dark as the bay behind us, with not a pin-prick of light disturbing the primitive night.

George stopped paddling.

“What—what?” he gasped. “Oh, oh, my God!”

I did not speak. I continued to paddle like an automaton. In five minutes we were floating over the spot where the _Wanderer_ had lain. The yacht was gone.

XXVII

We had little time to speculate on the problem of the _Wanderer’s_ disappearance. After the first moment of stunned silence Chanler broke down, promptly and completely.

“Hang it, hang it!” he cried, striking the bow of the canoe with his paddle. “This is too much. Your fault, too, Gardy. Now find the yacht.”

“Steady, George!” I warned, as the light craft rocked dangerously. “You’re in a canoe, remember. Keep still.”

“Keep still, keep still! How d’you expect me to keep still? Isn’t this enough to make a man nervous. Hang it! I can’t keep still, I tell you. This is too much.”

“It nearly was,” I agreed. “A little more that time and we’d have been in the water.”

“Then do something! Say something!” he commanded. “Where’s the yacht? What are we going to do?”

“First of all, if you’ll please sit still for a minute or two, we’re going to get to land without tipping over. Will you sit still that long?”

“Go ahead! You’ve got me into this mess; now get me out.”

“Only sit still,” I pleaded and carefully guided the canoe towards the nearest land. This was the little out-jutting point of the island from which I had swum to the _Wanderer_ that afternoon, and I did not breathe fully until I had beached the canoe solidly and the danger of capsizing from George’s jerky movements was over. He stepped out hurriedly.

“My God! This is awful, awful!” he said hoarsely, looking around in the dark. “This is terrible! A fine mess you’ve got me into, Gardy.”

“Why, George, it can’t be so bad,” said Betty cheerily, stepping out beside him. “The yacht’s been moved that’s all. We’ll only have to find her new anchorage. It will be all right.”

“All right? All right! Hang it, Betty; I’m in no shape to stand this sort of thing. It’s Gardy’s fault. He got me into it. Now what are you going to do, Gardy? Eh?”

“Look around for the yacht’s new anchorage, as Miss Baldwin says,” I replied. “She can’t be far off.”

“Can’t be far off! Can you see her? Is she anywhere around? Don’t you suppose we’d see the lights if she was near?”

“Not if they had no outside lights and the curtains in the cabin were down,” said Betty soothingly.

“Rot, rot, rot! Didn’t they know I was coming back? Weren’t they expecting me? Wouldn’t they have the lights out so we could see’em? Rot! They’ve gone. The yacht’s gone. What are we going to do?”

“If you will just sit here quietly with Miss Baldwin,” I said, “I’ll take a look around. The yacht must be near, of course, and we can’t help finding it.”

The first part of this statement I felt to be true: the yacht must be near, for no stretch of imagination could picture Riordan putting to sea. On the other hand I recalled the countless crooked indentations of the fiord and knew there were a score of places where the _Wanderer_, with lights out, might be hidden. We might even have passed it without being aware of its nearness.

I pulled the canoe safely from the water and made my way in the darkness around the island to the open sea. But the sea was only a noisy waste with no light upon it. I went around the island, returning to my starting point, and no glimpse of the yacht or her lights did I have.

Betty now was sitting beside George, who had slumped down against a boulder, and was patting his hand and talking to him assuringly.

“I told you so,” he whined when I made my report. “Nothing doing. She’s gone. Now what in the world are we going to do? Eh?”

“The yacht must be somewhere in the bay. You mustn’t worry so, George; it will all come out all right.” Betty was speaking to him as one might to a frightened child. “Mr. Pitt has only started on his hunt, haven’t you, Mr. Pitt?”

“Of course,” I said, “I’ll take the canoe and run up some of these inlets. She’ll probably be there.”

I paddled away from the island with an appearance of confidence that I did not feel. By this time I had begun to appreciate the ironic humor with which Brack had warned us not to go too far. This was his work, and as I recalled the sly certainty of his smile, such hope as I had of finding the yacht dwindled to a minimum. Nevertheless I searched the inlets on both sides of the bay for the matter of half a mile before I returned to the island with my admission of failure.

Chanler by this time had passed into the furious stage of nervousness. He was pacing swiftly up and down the beach, clenching and unclenching his hands and breathing heavily.

“I don’t care—I don’t care where you did look and where you didn’t look!” he burst out as I stepped from the canoe. “You didn’t find the yacht, and you’ve got me into this, and I can’t stand it much longer; that’s all.”

He swung away and I followed and caught his arm savagely.

“If you would think of Miss Baldwin a little you might forget your nerves,” I whispered.

I found myself repeating Wilson’s words—

“These things aren’t so bad for men, but there’s the girl.”

“I know, I know, Gardy,” he replied hoarsely. “I—I can’t help it. Don’t throw me down, Gardy; don’t ball me out. I’m shaky. I can’t help anything else. You’ve got to get me to that yacht where my dope is, or—or you’ve got to get me back to Doc’ Olson.”

“What!”

“You have. I can’t stand it much longer.” His voice was raised, regardless of Betty. “I won’t, you hear? I won’t stand it any longer.”

He turned and rushed back to Betty, holding out his hands.

“You know how I feel, don’t you Betty? You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, George,” she said, taking his hands in hers, “I understand. But can’t you sit down and quiet yourself a little?”

“No, no, no! I can’t. Gardy, you’ve got to get me to the doctor at once. You understand, don’t you, Betty?”

“Yes, George. You shall go to the doctor at once.”

“What!” I cried. “Go back there now, when we’re so well rid of Brack?”

“What else is there to do?” she said. “Can we do anything but help him? Please don’t think of me. There isn’t the least bit of need of that.”

“I will do as you say,” I said. “Is it your wish we go back there?”

“We must. You can see there’s nothing else to do.

“You’ll stay here——”

“Certainly not!” cried George. “Takes two to paddle; I’m in no shape am I, Betty?”

I could have struck him for that, but Betty said soothingly—

“No, George, you’re not.”

She was right. Chanler was in no shape to paddle any more, so Betty took his place in the bow, and, with George crouched in the middle, the journey up the fiord began. Save for an occasional groan or exclamation from George and a soothing response from Betty, we spoke but little.

I was lost in admiration of the manner in which Betty tackled the task before us. She sat up, slim and straight, bending but little to her paddle, but by our progress I knew the force which her young arms placed behind each stroke. There was no hesitation, no faltering, though I knew that she, too, dreaded returning to Brack in this fashion. She seemed to have forgotten herself in the need to help George; and the Spring-like youth of her reached back to me, putting new life into my tiring arms, new confidence in my troubled thoughts. I had for the moment almost fallen into despair, accepting Brack’s will with us as invincible. Without Betty I would have felt that we were beaten. But there was the indomitable confidence of youth in the poise of her little head, there was inspiration in the swing of her young-woman body, and as we paddled on into the darkness my heart cried out:

“Bravo, Betty! Bravo, brave girl! We’ll beat him yet.”

XXVIII

The problem of the _Wanderer’s_ whereabouts was one which offered no clue for its solution. One thing I felt certain: the yacht had not gone to sea. Whatever Riordan’s wishes in that matter might be—and I knew such a move would have pleased him as revenge upon Betty and me—Pierce and Wilson would never have permitted it.

True, Wilson was crippled, but if I had gaged the man’s character rightly it would have required more than a wounded leg to prevent his intervention in so colossal a piece of treachery. As for Pierce, with his terrible neckties and soul of gold, he would have died rather than allow Miss Baldwin to be treated in such fashion. More, he would be too clever to die; he would at least have escaped to join us.

The yacht must be somewhere in the fiord. Riordan would not have moved her without Brack’s orders. These orders probably had been given at noon, and Riordan had waited until George and I were out of sight before obeying them. With the yacht hidden we would be at Brack’s mercy in that wilderness, the only shelter and food being at the mine. The pistol in my shirt grated against my ribs as I dug viciously at the water.

Had Captain Brack been present when we reached the mine I am quite certain that we would have clashed.

The light was still burning in the cabin as we reached the mine-clearing, and with the pistol in my hand I walked straight up to the cabin door, leaving Betty to guide George, who now was staggering and groaning constantly. Brack was not there. In his place Dr. Olson was sitting, refreshing himself from the remnants of a meal and a bottle of whisky.

The sight of me brought a sudden end to his meal, for he promptly threw up his hands, crying:

“Don’t shoot, Pitt! Great Scott! What’s the matter?”

“Where’s Brack?” I demanded.

“Put that gun away!” he stammered. “Man, you’ve got murder in your face.”

I lowered the weapon and the doctor dropped his hands with a sigh of relief.

“Whew! I’m glad you aren’t after me. You certainly can look fierce, Pitt. What’s up?”

“Brack?” I repeated, but before he could reply Chanler lurched wildly past me into the room. His eyes fell on the doctor’s bottle and he rushed for it like a madman. The professional instinct rose in Olson at the sight of him and he whisked the bottle out of reach. In the end Olson resorted to a hypodermic injection, and presently George was dozing on a bunk in the corner.

“Whew! Close call,” said the doctor looking down at his patient. “You got him here just about in time.”

“Where is Brack?” I demanded. “And where’s the yacht?”

“The yacht?” repeated Olson staring stupidly. “Our yacht? Isn’t it——”

“No,” I interrupted, “it isn’t where it ought to be. It’s gone. Do you know where it is?”

He shook his head.

“How should I know? I just got back here with my patients about fifteen minutes ago. The captain went up with the men then——”

“Patients?” said Betty. “Are some of the men ill, doctor?”

Olson grew confused.

“Well, well, yes. That is, they had a little—a little accident up in the hills. Two of them got hurt.”

“Oh! Badly? Can I do anything?”

“Oh, no. No, no,” he replied quickly. “No, you couldn’t do anything for them, Miss Baldwin. It wouldn’t do any good for you to see them. I’ve got them all fixed up in the other cabin. They’re all right, I assure you.”

“And the captain?” I reminded him.

“Why, when I got down here with those two men the captain was sitting here eating and drinking. He went up into the hills afterwards.”

“And he didn’t say anything about the yacht?”

“Not a thing.”

I informed him of the evening’s happenings, and of the _Wanderer’s_ disappearance. At that he gasped, and a look of comprehension came slowly into his eyes.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, so that’s it, eh?”

“What’s it?” I demanded.

He glanced at Betty, dropped his eyes to the floor, and looked at me significantly.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Aren’t you starving, Pitt? You look it. As a physician I suggest you get some nourishment into your system at once, before you begin to suffer.”

The unexpected quickness of wit on his part took me slightly aback, but I responded promptly.

“I’m fairly famished,” I agreed, grasping at the remnants of food on the table. “You’re right, doctor; I must eat at once.”

It worked excellently. Betty, instantly solicitous, flew about to prepare a meal for me, and under the pretense of gathering fire-wood Dr. Olson beckoned me outside.

“Those men—my patients—were shot,” he said swiftly. “And two others, Madigan and a seaman, were killed.”

A day before such news would have shocked me inexpressibly. Now it seemed only a normal result of the circumstances which Brack had woven about us all.

“And Slade and Harris? Did they get away?” I asked eagerly.

“I don’t know anything about anybody by those names,” he replied. “All I know is what Brack told me: that our men were attacked by a couple of outlaws while hunting in the hills, with the results that I’ve told you. These outlaws shot our men.”

“And did those other fellows—the outlaws—get away?”

“For the present, yes. But Brack’s men are guarding the only pass by which they can get out of this valley, so they can’t get away. The captain says he’ll get them if he has to hunt all Summer. He’s managed to get roaring drunk.”

“And he said something about Miss Baldwin, too, didn’t he? What was it?”

“Well, he was drunk, you know. It makes him look and act and talk like a devil.”

“Go on.”