CHAPTER XIII.

A NOTE OF WARNING.

A comical expression came over Sam Hartley’s face. He saw at once that the woman mistook them for enemies—possibly allies of the Chinaman whom, for some good reason apparently, she had just chased off the place.

“Hold on there, madam,” he cried, “we’re not here on any harm. The lads have a message to you from your husband.”

“Yes, our names are Dacre——”

“For gracious sakes, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” demanded the woman, putting down her rifle and smiling pleasantly.

“Well, you see,” spoke Sam, with a whimsical intonation, “you didn’t give us a chance.”

Whereat they all had to break into a laugh, the situation seemed so ridiculous.

“As I suppose you have guessed,” said the woman, “I am Mrs. Chillingworth. That Chinaman you just saw heading off the place I caught hanging round the barn a few moments ago. He was nailing a paper up there. Here it is. Look at it and tell me what you make of it.”

She drew from her apron pocket a bit of paper on which the following was scrawled in a straggly hand:

“Chillingworth: You se what thee byes got. That waz onli a sampil. A Word to the Wize is Enuff. Live and Let Live.”

Sam Hartley’s face grew grave as he read, with the boys peering over his elbow.

“I suspected something like this,” he said, “but I thought we would have reached here ahead of them. I reckon that Chinaman must have known the country hereabouts as well as I did, or better.”

“Well, I allow he ought to,” said Mrs. Chillingworth. “His name is Fu. He worked for my husband, and you can imagine how mystified I was when I came out a short while ago and found him sneaking round the house like a criminal. I asked him what he was doing and he only answered by snarling like a nasty wild cat, and going ahead nailing up his paper. It was then I got the rifle and ordered him off the place.”

The boys explained as rapidly as possible such parts of their adventures as they thought would not alarm Mrs. Chillingworth too much, although it appeared to them that she was a very self-reliant woman—the kind that a rancher in that wild country must have found invaluable. The narration was made in the house, into which Mrs. Chillingworth had invited them. She set out glasses of buttermilk, cool from the cellar, and also produced a dish of fresh fruit, all of which was very inviting to the dusty travelers. In the meantime, Sam had stabled his burro in the corral, and the long-eared little animal was already pitching into the hay stack to the great disgust of the ranch horses.

As soon as she heard the boys’ story, Mrs. Chillingworth set about getting the various medicines for which her husband’s note called. This done, the boys and Sam sat down to a bountiful meal. It was shortly before two that, mounted on two good horses, they set out once more for the cove. Sam Hartley and his burro went off in another direction. The nemesis of the Chinese smugglers said he had a clew he wished to look up in the canyon.

There was little danger of Bully Banjo or his gang harassing the ranch before the boys returned with the two men, so that Mrs. Chillingworth felt no nervousness over being left alone. The boys had at first found it hard to account for the behavior of Fu, but Sam, after he had heard the details of the fellow’s fright at witnessing the burials and the awe in which he stood of the tall Chinaman, decided that by working on his superstitious fears the gang had pressed him into their service. Undoubtedly he had been selected to bear the warning paper, both because he knew the trail and also to test him.

“But suppose he had weakened at the last minute and told Mrs. Chillingworth everything?” Tom had asked.

“In that case, Fu’s career might have reached a sudden termination,” said Sam Hartley grimly. “I don’t doubt that Fu was accompanied by other members of that outfit to see that he did not play them false.”

“But we only saw one man,” objected Jack.

“That was because the rest were hiding in that wood yonder,” exclaimed Sam. “From what I know of Bully Banjo he is not the man to allow one of his untried men to go alone on an errand. Too much depends on it.”

With the explicit directions they had received, the boys arrived at the cove without missing the trail once, or encountering any adventures. They found the sloop anchored there still. As they rode down the hill, they were delighted to see another figure at Mr. Chillingworth’s side as the ranch owner stood upright in the cockpit of the little vessel. It was Mr. Dacre, apparently as well almost as ever, for as he went forward to hoist the anchor while the rancher took the sculling oar, the boys could only detect a slight limp.

It had been only a sprain after all, as they learned presently. But, naturally, the first thing to be done after the sloop had been sculled alongside the rock was to explain the cause of their delay, and the subsequent happenings.

“Good heavens!” grated out Mr. Chillingworth, as they related the incident of the warning paper and Mrs. Chillingworth’s brave behavior. “If the ranchers round here all had the courage of that woman, Bully Banjo’s days would soon be numbered.”

He was delighted, though, to hear that Sam Hartley was on the scene. During the boys’ absence Mr. Dacre had related to him in detail the boys’ adventures in the Saw Mill Valley and the part which Sam Hartley had played in them. The rancher therefore felt that the Secret Service man was one to be relied on.

In view of Mr. Dacre’s condition, it was decided to let him ride home on one of the horses, accompanied by Jack, while Mr. Chillingworth and Tom remained behind to navigate the sloop around the point and bring her to her anchorage in a small bay not far from the ranch house. The sea had by this time moderated, so that they anticipated no difficulty in doing this.

As progress would be slow up the trail and Mr. Dacre’s limb was still too painful to permit him to ride fast, no time was wasted after this, and ten minutes after they had received final instructions, Mr. Dacre and his younger nephew rode off. This time, however, the riders carried weapons. Mr. Chillingworth would have liked to go with them, but he was compelled to take the sloop around to her home anchorage, not liking to leave her alone in the cove. If the schooner, for instance, had dropped in there, her crew were quite capable of scuttling the little craft, just to show that they were men to be reckoned with.

Shortly after they had waved farewells to the horsemen, who speedily vanished into the curtain of pine woods and brush, the sloop set sail. Out past the point she beat, with a fair wind swelling her sails. Tom, who was quite handy about a boat, acted as “sheet tender,” while Mr. Chillingworth minded the helm. Before long they were outside the cove and plunging along through the big swells that the brisk wind had heaped up in the open water outside.

It was exhilarating sailing. The handy little craft fairly flew along, every now and then bucking a big sea and drenching herself with glittering spray.

But all this, pleasant as it was, held her back a good deal, so that when darkness fell it still found them some little distance from the anchorage they had hoped to reach by sundown.

“Never mind,” said Mr. Chillingworth. “I know this coast like a book. Tom, keep a good look out forward, my boy, and when you see a big, lone pine standing up against the sky on top of that range of hills yonder, let me know. That pine is a landmark for my harbor.”

But supper—a sandwich and a cup of coffee—grabbed in the intervals of working the boat, was eaten, and still no sign of the lone pine could be made out.

“I’ll beat out a bit and come in again on another tack,” decided Mr. Chillingworth finally. “We’re getting too close in shore for my liking. There are a great many rocks and shoals running out from land hereabouts.”

Accordingly, the sloop was put about and headed out into the open Sound. The wind had by this time freshened considerably. So much so, in fact, that before long it became necessary to take in the jib they were carrying and set a smaller one—a storm-sail. As this was an operation requiring some knowledge of boat handling, the helm was given to Tom, while Mr. Chillingworth himself went forward, dragging a big bundle of sailcloth.

As he left the cockpit, Tom noticed—or thought he noticed—some dark object coming up astern of them. Before long all doubt was removed. It was a dark spire of canvas, the sails of a vessel of some kind that he had espied. She seemed to be coming up at a tremendous rate, too. Even in the darkness he noted the white water as it frothed under her forefoot. To his surprise, the boy noticed, too, that she carried no lights. This, however, did not bother him as the sloop’s lights had been placed into the forestays some time before, and shone out brightly.

However, he called Mr. Chillingworth’s attention to the approaching vessel. The rancher eyed her keenly, pausing in his work on the wet, pitching foredeck to do so.

“Queer she carries no lights,” he commented, “however, our port light is toward them. They must have seen the red gleam by this time. It’s their place to go about and get out of our way.”

“But suppose they don’t?”

“Oh, they will. They wouldn’t deliberately run us down. Now watch your helm close, for I’m going to lower the jib, and without any headsail she’ll be hard to handle.”

Tom did his best to do as he was told, but just as the jib came down a sudden puff of wind came roaring across the water. With it came a huge wave that curved its crest menacingly above the tiny sloop. Tom, in his excitement, gave the tiller a quick shove over to meet the wave quartering. But as he altered his helm, there came a terrific crash above his head. The sloop’s boom swung over and she “jibed” sharply. Had the maneuver been deliberately made in such a wind and sea it would have been dangerous. As it was, however, it caught them utterly unprepared. There was a quick shout from Mr. Chillingworth, a cry of alarm from Tom, and the lad found himself suddenly struggling in the water.

The sloop had capsized in an instant, and now lay, bottom up, on the heaving sea. Mustering all his strength, Tom struck out for her and succeeded in reaching the hull. It was a hard task to clamber up the slippery, wet sides, but finally he managed it and succeeded in perching himself on the keel.

To his great delight, Mr. Chillingworth presently joined him there. He had had a narrow escape of being caught in the tangle of rigging, but had kicked himself free and was unhurt. He had no word of blame for Tom, although the lad took himself to task bitterly for being the cause of the accident.

During these tense moments, when it was a toss-up between life and death, they had both forgotten the near proximity of the sailing craft they had noticed a few minutes previously. Mr. Chillingworth, however, placed his hands to his mouth and hailed the craft, which was not more than a few score of feet away from the capsized sloop.

“Ahoy! Ship ahoy!” he yelled.

Tom joined him in his cries for help. At first it seemed that the crew of the sailing vessel had not noticed them, for the big craft was keeping right on. But just when it looked as if she was going to slip by, leaving them there on their perilous perches, there was a sudden stir noticeable on her decks. A light flashed near her stern, and sharp voices were heard calling commands.

Presently she was hove to, her sails shivering and slapping, and her blocks rattling with an infernal din. A voice hailed them, seemingly through a megaphone:

“Ahoy thar, what’s the trouble?”

“We’re capsized. Throw us a line!” shouted Mr. Chillingworth.

To his astonishment, instead of his appeal being complied with, an argument seemed to ensue on the deck of the vessel. Some man appeared, so far as they could judge, to be urging their rescue, while others contended against it. “Let ’em rot there,” they heard, as one of the voices rose louder than the others, and the wind bore it down to them. “We ain’t in any business where we wants strangers aboard.”

But the objectors, it seemed, had the worst of the argument, for the next minute the sailing vessel began to drift down on them.

“Get ready to catch a line,” came a shout, and presently a rope came hissing through the air. Mr. Chillingworth hauled on it, drawing the sloop in under the lee of the high side of the sailing vessel. The castaways could now see that she was a schooner and a good-sized one, too.

“Hurry up, and git aboard thar,” bellowed a rough voice, from above, as they made fast. “We don’t want ter lose any more uv this slant uv wind than we has to, by Chowder!”

Something in the voice rang in a strangely familiar way in Tom’s ears. Why this was so, he was to know in a few minutes.

A Jacob’s ladder was cast to them and they clambered up it over the schooner’s rail, and presently were standing on the stern in the lee of a low deck-house. As they reached the deck, a figure stepped forward from the group which had aided in their rescue, and thrust a lantern into their faces.

As the light fell on them, this figure stepped back with a quick exclamation of astonishment.

“Chillingworth, by Chowder, and”—once more the lantern was swung forward—“one of them young varmints thet got away this morning. Wall, by Juniper, ef this ain’t Yankee luck.”

Tom knew the voice well enough now. It was Simon Lake who spoke. And it was his notorious schooner upon whose deck they stood. Small wonder is it that the boy’s heart beat chokingly, and his pulses throbbed as he realized their situation.