CHAPTER XIX

A SPLASH OF WATER

Much to Clay's amazement, his captor kept to the east following a ridge of rocks from which both rivers might be seen in the distance whenever the foliage did not intervene. After walking half a mile or more, the fellow turned his steps into a narrow gully and soon entered a natural cavern before which a campfire had been built.

"Now, you pretty little creature," he said, addressing Clay, "you're going to be tied up here and left until you return the map which was given to you by mistake."

"A map of what?" asked Clay instantly.

"A map of this country," was the short reply.

"I'm not giving out maps at present," the boy answered.

"Perhaps you will be, after you get good and hungry," snarled the other.

"In the first place," Clay said, "I haven't got the map. I couldn't get it for you if I wanted to. The boys wouldn't give it up."

"So you admit that you've got it?"

"I did have a rough drawing of this country," was the reply, "but it didn't seem to mean much to me."

"That's the document we want," the outlaw said, "and the quicker you give it up and get out of this district, the safer your hide will be."

Before Clay could make any response the man who had set off in pursuit of Alex came wrathfully into the cave. One hand was bleeding profusely, and there was a long cut on his left cheek. His clothing was disarranged, showing every evidence of a physical struggle.

"Where's the kid, Ben?" was asked.

The man's reply was a volley of epithets and profanity.

"You never let him get away from you, did you?" asked the other angrily. "You might bring him in in your pocket."

"You couldn't bring him in in a dray," answered Ben. "You might as well try to wrestle with a bumble bee. I got a grip on the little imp's collar, but before I could do a thing, he had a knife out. And then I got this," laying a dirty finger on a dirtier hand, "and this," pointing to the bleeding cheek. "And the next I knew, he was out of sight in the jungle."

"You're the brave boy!" snarled the other.

"Look here, Steve," Ben said, "if you think it's such a fine stunt to seize a Chicago newsboy, you just go and try it yourself. I've had enough of it. And that's no fairy tale."

Ben threw himself angrily on the floor of the cave, took a bottle of liquor and a roll of white cloth from under a fur robe which lay in a corner and proceeded to cleanse and bind up his wound. Clay watched him with a smile on his face. Steve was scowling frightfully.

"You needn't look so pleased over it, young feller," the outlaw said. "We'll get that little imp, yet. And we'll get your boat and your whole crew. And if we have much more trouble, we'll start a cemetery right here."

Clay made no reply at the time. He was wondering just how much the outlaws knew of the map. It seemed to him that the person who had drawn the first one might easily draw a second upon the loss of the first. He could not understand why the outlaws were making such strenuous efforts to secure the document when they might have procured a copy.

"What was it you said about a map?" the boy finally asked of Steve who sat now scowling at Ben. "Where did the map come from?"

"It came from a blooming Indian," was the sullen reply.

The fellow answered the question so promptly that Clay decided that he was merely a cheap tool in the employ of some master mind.

"Well," the boy went on, "why are you bothering us about it? Why don't you go and get him to make another?"

Steve hesitated and Clay listened very impatiently indeed for his answer. Finally the outlaw spoke:

"Blest if I know," he said. "We were told to get the map and that's all we know about it."

"And if you can't get it?" asked Clay.

"Then all we've got to do is to start a graveyard. If we can't get it, no one else shall use it. Mind that!"

"How long have you been waiting here for the _Rambler_ to come back down the river?" asked the boy.

"Look here," replied Steve, apparently regretting his previous loquacity. "I've known a whole lot of boys to get along in the world without asking so many questions."

As he spoke he arose, went to the mouth of the cavern and glanced out. Ben followed him with the one eye which was free of the bandage, but did not arise. Directly a stone broke loose from a side of the gully and went pounding down to the rocky bottom. Then a low whistle was heard.

"Come on in," shouted Steve. "We did our part. What about you?"

The man who entered was roughly dressed. His face was covered by a week's growth of beard. His long black hair hung straggly about his ears. Yet, after all, the carriage of the head and body was not that of a riverman. Clay sat looking at him for a long time wondering where he had seen him before. He was certain that he had seen him before. Strive as he might, however, the boy could not associate the figure and pose with any scene in his past life. The man advanced into the cave and looked about.

"Where is the other boy?" he asked sharply.

Steve threw out a hand to indicate flight and snapped his fingers significantly. The newcomer frowned.

"And so you let him get away, did you?"

"Ask Ben about that," Steve replied, pointing to the bandaged face.

In spite of the newcomer's evident disappointment, a smile came to his face as he looked toward the wounded man.

"He's a bloomin' bumble bee!" growled Ben.

"And it seems that he stung you with steel," said the newcomer. "Brave men you are, to let a kindergarten kid get away with you!"

"What I say is," Ben answered, angrily, "that you can go and get him yourself. This here beauty mark I've got is enough for me."

"Don't get excited," smiled the newcomer. "It will all come out right in the wash. We'll get them all, in time."

Clay began to remember the voice.

"I have heard it before somewhere," he mused. "This man is not an outlaw in the common acceptance of the word. He is probably the man having this very delectable enterprise in charge."

Then he remembered the scene on the street in Montreal, and the story which had been told him by the campfire up the St. Lawrence came back to his mind.

This man might be the Lawyer Martin who had been referred to by the farmer. The lawyer, it had been stated, was apt in private theatricals and of pleasing personality. This man was disguised so far as clothing went, and his conversation showed that he was tactful and understood how to keep on the right side of the men with whom he mingled.

The more the boy studied over the problem, the more certain he became that the man who was handling the unlawful enterprise, designing to keep the Fontenelles out of their rights stood before him.

Presently Lawyer Martin, if it was he, turned a pair of keen yet half-humorous eyes in the direction of the boy.

"Did you have a pleasant trip up the river?" he asked.

"Fine!" replied Clay. "Plenty of good sport."

"If you had asked my advice," the other said, "you would have proceeded straight up the lakes from Ogdensburg. It would have been safer."

"If safety was the only thing we figured on when we started away," the boy answered, "we wouldn't have started at all. We would have remained at home and gone to bed."

"You seem to be quite a bright boy," the other suggested. "Why don't you give up the map turned over to you by mistake, and go on about your business? That's what you ought to do."

"Why don't you get another map?" asked Clay.

"Because," was the reply, "the old Indian who made the one you have was drowned on the night he turned it over to you."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," Clay said, "you come on board the _Rambler_ with me and we'll give the map to Captain Joe, and then we'll all go together and deliver it to Fontenelle. It seems to belong to him."

"I think you'll change your mind," replied the other.

After a short whispered conversation with Steve and Ben, the man left the cavern. Clay would have given a good deal for some knowledge as to his objective point. He believed that the outlaws had a base of supplies other than the cavern on the peninsula, and he was wondering if the boys on the _Rambler_ would be able to discover it.

After a time Ben began drinking from the bottle of liquor he had drawn from under the rug, and Steve, seeing that the fellow was drinking himself into insensibility, left the cave, first seeing that Clay was tied hand and foot and gagged with one of his own handkerchiefs.

The boy's position was an uncomfortable one. He moved restlessly about, rolling toward the entrance as if in quest of fresh air. Ben arose and stood watching him drunkenly.

"You're not so worse," the fellow cried. "If I had my way, I'd get out of this mix mighty quick. I'm a kind-hearted man, kid! The drunker I get, the kinder I am."

Clay was on the point of suggesting that he drink the remainder of the liquor in the bottle, so that he might be kind enough to untie him, but did not do so for obvious reasons.

The boy was in hopes that Ben would become too intoxicated to pay any attention to his movements, but he did not do so. Instead, he filled a cob pipe with villainous tobacco and sat down at the entrance to the cavern within a few feet of where the boy lay.

During all this time, the boy was wondering if Alex had gone back to the _Rambler_ or whether he had trailed on after the men who had attempted his capture. In the latter case, the boy was evidently not very far away. He listened intently for some indication of the boy's presence, but none came. He wondered if the boys on the _Rambler_ would make an effort to find him before night set in.

And so, gagged and bound, he spent a long, painful day. No one came to the cave, and Ben was his sole guardian. The man became talkative after a while and discussed the streets of Chicago, which he seemed to know well, but became silent whenever an incautious word regarding the present situation came to his lips.

When darkness came, Steve and two more burly ruffians made their appearance. They uncovered a box at the back of the cavern and, reaching in, drew out bread and canned fruit and vegetables. As the four sat feeding like a drove of swine, Ben observed Clay's eyes fixed hungrily on the food.

"Why don't you give the boy some of the chuck?" he asked, angrily.

"Here, kid," he added, taking the handkerchief from Clay's mouth, releasing his hands, and passing him a loaf of bread and tin of beef, "just help yourself to this table d'hôte dinner."

Steve and the others snarled out their objections to this procedure, but Clay was finally left to eat his scanty supper in peace.

After the men had finished eating, they arose and threw their cans and bottles into a shallow annex to the cave on the south.

"I'm great for keeping things in order," grinned Ben, giving a tin tomato can a particularly vigorous kick. "I always like to see things kept decent."

The can bounded against the wall, fell to the floor and rolled down a dark incline, and Clay's heart beat into his throat as he heard the splash of water.