CHAPTER XIV.

AT THE CHILLINGWORTH RANCH.

Mr. Dacre and Jack reached the ranch without accident or adventure. They found Mrs. Chillingworth awaiting them with a well-spread supper table ready, and the cheerful glow of lamps about the house. She was disappointed that her husband had had to go around with the sloop, but realizing that it was an unavoidable task she made no comment upon it. If they had fair wind and made a good “landfall,” the rancher’s wife said that the missing members of the party ought to arrive about midnight. That was, unless they elected to sleep on board the sloop.

Soon after Mr. Dacre and his nephew had stabled their horses and done up a few of the rougher chores for Mrs. Chillingworth, Sam Hartley and his burro were heard returning—that is, the burro was, for he gave a loud “he-haw” of anticipation as he caught a whiff of the hay. As Mr. Dacre and Jack hastened with lanterns to meet the returned Secret Service man, they noticed that the burro bore a burden of some kind across its back. As the lantern light fell on this load, they were astonished to see that it was the limp body of a man.

“I’ll explain all about this later,” said Sam, anticipating their questions. “The first thing is to get this poor fellow into the house. Jack, you take charge of the burro. This isn’t work for boys. Now, Mr. Dacre, if you’ll lay hold of his arms, I’ll take his legs and go easy for there isn’t much life left in the poor chap.”

It was characteristic of Sam that he had betrayed no astonishment on seeing Mr. Dacre. He already knew that he would, in all probability, be there that evening, and when Sam Hartley saw that a thing had fallen out as might have been expected, he made no comments. It was the unusual only that aroused him.

While Jack, consumed with curiosity, stabled the burro, Mr. Dacre and Sam Hartley bore their limp burden into the house. Mrs. Chillingworth at once made ready a spare room for him, while Mr. Dacre and Sam laid him on the lounge and set about doing what they could to revive him.

The first thing Mr. Dacre noticed was that there were red bands round the man’s wrists where the flesh had been cut deeply into. For the rest, his limited medical experience showed him that the man was suffering from exhaustion and possibly fright. What had caused the abrasions on his wrists, however, Mr. Dacre could not imagine.

The man was dressed roughly, in a faded shirt, very dirty and stained corduroy trousers, and cow-hide boots. He had no hat and his lank hair hung dankly about his bloated, red face. His nose was huge and bulbous, and his whole appearance was that of a man of dissipated habits.

Presently—while they were still trying to revive the fellow—Jack came in from the barn. As soon as his eyes fell upon the man on the lounge, he gave a cry of surprise.

“Why that’s one of the fellows who was set to guard us!” he exclaimed.

Sam Hartley looked up quickly.

“It is, eh? One of the chaps who went to sleep and gave you a chance to use that knife?”

“Yes. What is he doing here? Where did you find him? What is the matter with him?”

Jack fairly poured out the questions. Sam Hartley smiled at his impatience.

“One at a time, lad,” he said, with a deliberation that was positively irritating to Jack, who was wild with curiosity. “Now here’s Mrs. Chillingworth, and I guess she’s come to tell us that the bed is ready. We’ll get this fellow into it, and then when we’ve all had some supper I’ll tell you just how I came to find him. I reckon he’s one of Bully Banjo’s horrible examples.”

“Horrible examples?” echoed Jack. “How do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Sam Hartley slowly, as he helped Mr. Dacre lift the still senseless man, “that he’s been paying pretty dearly for his sleep.”

Led by Mrs. Chillingworth, holding the lamp high above her head, they bore him to a small room upstairs. But it was some time before they could do more than watch him anxiously and await the time for him to speak.

In the meantime, after supper, as he had promised, Sam Hartley told how he came to run across the unfortunate fellow.

“As you know,” he began, after he had lighted his pipe, and they all sat about in interested attitudes in the big, comfortable living room; “as you know, when I left here this afternoon, it was for a definite purpose—to discover if possible how Bully Banjo and his men managed to get inland from the sea without crossing any trails. Well, I found out that at the same time as I found this fellow.

“It was this way: I had an idea in my mind as to how those rascals were getting into the canyon. Well, I found out that soon enough. As I expected, they were using a tunnel made by the river under the range, between the canyon and the sea. It was the simplest thing in the world for them to land their Mongolians right on the beach and then march ’em through that hole. In some places I guess they must have had to wade up to their knees, though.”

“Oh, then you didn’t go through it?” inquired Jack.

“No indeed,” was the rejoinder. “I wasn’t going to take a chance like that. I just got close enough to see the big opening—mostly screened by brush it was—the tracks in the sand along the side of the river told me the rest. But all that isn’t telling you about that poor fellow upstairs.”

Sam Hartley paused here, looked very grave, and shoved the tobacco down in his pipe bowl. Then he resumed:

“We’ve all read of pirates and stringing up by the thumbs, and things like that, but I never thought I’d live to see the victim of such practices. But that—or something very like it—is what had been done to our red-faced friend. As I emerged from the vicinity of the tunnel I heard a groan a little way up the canyon. I followed the sound up and soon came to where they had strung that chap up in a tree by his wrists. There he was, dangling about in the hot sun, suspended by his two wrists and nothing else. His feet were a foot or more off the ground.”

His hearers uttered horrified exclamations. Then Jack asked:

“But how did they come to tie him there, and why?”

“Well, the ‘why’ part of that is soon answered,” said the Secret Service man. “It was as a punishment for letting you escape. As to why they chose just that place, I imagine it was because they had trailed you boys down the river bank. When they reached the tunnel and found no trace of you, they knew you must have got clear away, and so they proceeded to string up that chap as a horrible example.”

“But what about the Indian? He was equally guilty. Why didn’t they punish him, too?”

“Well, that I cannot answer. I guess, though, the Indian probably cleared out during the excitement following your escape. His race are pretty wise, as a rule, and he surmised there would be trouble in store for him if he stayed. I’m mighty glad I found that fellow, though, for other reasons than those of humanity.”

“What—for instance?” asked Mr. Dacre.

“Well, I think we may be able to get a lot of useful information out of him about the gang. Information that will help me to get them just where I want them. For, you see, when I do get ready to start in on them, I don’t want to run any chances of a slip up. I want to be able to bring my hand down on the whole shooting match and stamp them out for all time.”

When they retired that night the red-nosed man had so far recovered as to be able to give an account of himself. As Sam had guessed, it was Bully Banjo who had triced the unfortunate fellow up as a “lesson” for his carelessness. The man also confirmed Sam’s guess that the Indian had saved himself by running away. But he had not escaped scot-free, for before the Chinook managed to make his escape Simon Lake had ordered him tied up and several lashes administered. These had been laid on by Zeb Hunt, with a promise of more to come, but when the gang returned from the fruitless search after the boys it was found that the Indian had, in some manner best known to himself, slipped his bonds and made his way to freedom.

From the red-nosed man it was also learned that Bully Banjo intended to run the Chinamen through that day, and set sail the same night for the island where, as the rancher had suspected right along, deliveries of Chinamen were made. In answer to Jack’s questions it was explained that the Chinese were brought across the Pacific as far as Vancouver Island in an ostensible freight steamer. From this they were transferred at a lonely spot to another vessel, which brought them to the island. Here they were kept till opportunities presented themselves to get them through into the States.

No real apprehension was felt at the ranch concerning the rancher and Tom Dacre till about noon the next day, when they failed to put in an appearance. Even allowing for headwinds and other possible delays, this began to look serious.

It was about mid-afternoon that a man on horseback reached the ranch. He was a neighboring landholder, whose ranch bordered in some places on the coast of the Sound. His face was grave as he slipped from his horse in front of the ranch house, and he saw Sam Hartley and Mr. Dacre coming toward him with a good deal of relief.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to face the woman with the news I’ve got,” he said. “That there sloop of Chillingworth’s drifted ashore bottom up in my cove this morning.”

From behind the little group there came a piercing scream, and Sam Hartley turned just in time to catch Mrs. Chillingworth as she swooned.

“And there was no trace of her occupants?” asked Mr. Dacre, in a voice he strove to make steady in spite of the trembling of his lips.

The other shook his head.

“We had a tough blow last night,” he said, “and I guess that sloop went over before they could do a thing. My advice is to watch the beaches. Their bodies are likely to drift ashore sooner or later.”